Undeserving of what's been given

   All my life I had been told to not trust others, for I could never know what their true intentions may be. My mom had always told me to not talk to strangers when I was little; a fairly normal suggestion for a parent to tell. I never really cared about protecting my peace when I was a kid, though, as there was nothing to really 'protect'. If I talked to someone, I would talk to them; nothing needed to be hidden as I would probably never get the chance to see them again, anyway. If they talked to me, it was a bonus. If they didn't, then it wasn't a big deal. I trusted people until there was a reason not to.

   As I got older, she started getting paranoid for me, in a way. I had gotten involved with this person who I had met a subpar time in my life, mentally. We shared a connection in the unorthodox: philosophy, existential topics, conspiracies, the taboo. I had never met someone whom I had thought was so similar to me in that aspect, before. 

   I got carried away. I talked, too much. About myself, relationships with my friends, parents, school, and the like. I talked about what kinds of music I loved to listen to, and whats kind I hated. I talked about my views on life, people, politics, nature. I talked about all of the things I wanted to do and never gotten the chance to. All I wanted was someone to listen to that wouldn't judge me; that couldn't judge me, for I knew no matter what I would tell them, at least they were in a worser spot than I was. It made me feel good, airing out my grievances about my life to someone who also aired theirs. It made me feel less alone. 

   I remember the sense of betrayal I felt when, after being released from a psychiatric institution, I checked my phone and looked through their contact; no messages. Not even one. I felt conflicted feelings of sadness, confusion, and frustration. Not with them, but with myself for feeling like I deserved some sort of longing from this person. I didn't even truly know them, but yet I knew about their home life. Their nihilistic philosophy. Their conspiracy theories. The weird habits they would do when nobody would look. Their history with self-loathing. Their sense of humor. Their taste in food, music, and art. Their schedule. I knew all of these things; did they even know what happened to me?

   But I had no right to feel angry. There was no commitment to connection in the first place.

   She said she told me so, and that I should have listened. I should have never been so careless about myself. It was a mistake that I couldn't fix, because the problem was no longer in my life. 

   It was after that day I realized that nobody would be truly there for you. Not in the overtly pessimistic sense of 'nobody cares for me; connection is meaningless' way, but in the factual sense that, when the lights go out and when we all go to sleep, there is nothing left but you and your own consciousness at the end of it all. You could sleep in the same bed with someone and still feel your body against the sheets. You could hug someone and still feel your skin pressing against theirs. You could love someone and still feel your own heart beat every time you see them pass by. You could do all of these things, but at the end of the day, it'll all just be you who will have to feel and face the outcomes of it all. 

   "What are you afraid of losing, when nothing in this world belongs to you." -Marcus Aurelius

   I don't talk to strangers. If they talk to me, I tell them what I tell everyone; maybe make up a story. It isn't anything special. If they don't talk to me, then it's an escape from a potential waste of time. I don't trust people, and I don't like it when I do. Because then that would mean I would be willing to tell them things about myself that I would never want anyone else to know; things I couldn't face. 

   Then they'll leave, because they all do; they have to. Now there is another person on the planet that knows too much about me. Then I will lose control over that information, as it is no longer mine to keep, but instead theirs to tell. This is why I hate it when people try to "get to know" me, because that isn't what they're doing at all. They're making you expose yourself; become vulnerable. Just for them to feel special, like they're getting in on a secret, or looking at the behind-the-scene footage of a film in the making. I hate it. 

   The regret and indignation I feel when I sacrifice pieces of myself to another person makes me seethe.