I don't care if anyone likes me, but I want people to love me
At 15 years old I discovered punk rock, probably the most important breakthrough humanity experienced since the invention of the wheel and the theatrical release of the movie Brokeback Mountain.
At the beginning of that year I was more depressed than I'd ever been before, and that's a hard bar to reach considering how awful my middle school days were. I was hurting myself, getting panic attacks almost daily in the school bathroom. I judged and hated everything about me and all I wanted was to disappear completely.
To the tune of Bikini Kill and Dead Kennedys a new me was born, step by careful step. I stopped trying to be nice to people so they care about me. I wore the masculine fashion I like, even if it meant less girls liked me. I spent my breaks alone, listening to the same angry music while sketching or writing. I stopped wondering who I was supposed to be and started asking myself who I am.
I ended up discovering I'm a pretty cool person, when I'm not trying to be anyone else. I have hard principles I stand by, I'm smart and tenacious, and I'm really good at not giving a fuck when I don't have to. Sometimes when I have to, as well.
From there I progressed into the local scene, attending concerts in sketchy bars, bumming cigarettes off strangers, moshing with people three times my size. I hung out with rockers and freaks and prostitutes and I had the time of my fucking life.
And I liked myself. Genuinely, truly, wholly liked who I was. Not because anyone else liked me, but because for the first time I knew myself. That allowed me to be somewhat happy, which hadn't happened in a long time.
All of this propelled me into not giving a shit what other people thought about me. I got bullied and teased and ignored and I didn't care. I was a straight A student yet my teachers thought I was lazy, and I didn't pay mind to them either. I was all-consumed by a version of myself I could love, a music scene of weirdos and freaks like me, and a budding notion that I am not doomed to a life of misery as I previously thought.
I spent a few wonderful years like this. People could judge me all they want, but I knew who I was under what I seem and that's all that mattered. Everyone else can fuck off.
Last August I moved out of my parents home for the first time. I lived in an apartment with too many roommates, most of whom I at least tolerated. Some of them did not like me, but I didn't let it get to me. They weren't all that great either.
That is until I realized I wanted something far worse than for them to like me. I didn't care if we didn't get along as long as we could be cordial. But the way I heard them speak of me (it was a very small apartment, the walls weren't too thick either) boiled my blood. I had done all this work to love who I am, to understand me and embrace the person I found underneath the layers of self pity and societal pressure.
And I succeeded tremendously, I gained the audacity to do things I'd never imagined to be possible and opened new avenues for myself in my personal and professional life. I was fucking great and they had the gall to think my confidence was unwarranted. They didn't know anything about me! I fought my way out of hell to get to where I was, they had no right to judge me. I peeled away years of bullying and ostracization, mental illness that almost led to my hospitalization multiple times. These people—who were bullied as well, mind you—didn't get to tell me that I took care of my struggles wrong. Especially considering how insecure they themselves were.
And so, very slowly, my dislike of them became something deeper, ugly and unpalatable. I hated them. I hated them for how they saw me, themselves, the world around us. And all I wanted was for them to love me.
I didn't want their love for friendship or to fix any insecurity. But I wondered to myself, their way of thinking is pitiful. I don't think anyone deserves to think that way, and figured something. I am a difficult person. I'm complicated about simple things, I'm not scared to confront others, I bare my teeth far too easily, I like to challenge and be challenged. Maybe I'm hard to love and understand, but I've never enjoyed anything that comes easy. And maybe if they loved me, they'd learn to love other things.
I became obsessed, almost desperate. In retrospect I'm not proud of my way of thinking. I can't fix other people, the same way they can't fix me. Still, I could try. I feigned interest in things I couldn't care less about and bit my tongue in order for us to get along. I did everything right and nothing changed. I lost the little respect I had for these people. When someone is trying to extend an olive branch you don't spit on their hand and turn away. How petty can a person be?
I decided if they wanted to go low, I could go lower. I used what I knew they were sensitive to against them. One of them loved to write as well, but was insecure about the quality of her work and wouldn't show it to people. So I marched into the kitchen to loudly brag about and celebrate my achievements. When I reached certain milestones, got positive feedback, you should've seen the party I threw myself when I got my first print publication. And maybe it's rude and vindictive but I don't regret a single second of it. Maybe that's bad, too, maybe I shouldn't post it publicly on my blog. But that girl can't read anything in English anyway, so fuck it. This is my life and I can do whatever I want.
I still love myself, although I'm feeling far more lost than I did a year ago. A lot has changed in my life way too quickly. But I hope I never want anyone to love me ever again. As much as I hate to admit it, I tore myself apart for it to happen. I thought maybe loving me would equivocate to loving the world, eventually. I just wanted to help.
It still didn't work. Maybe it never will.