I Don't Belong

In response to the prompt, "Write about a place that's special to you."

I don’t belong anywhere.

I am always too loud, too quiet, too big, too small, too smart, too dumb, too pretty, too ugly, too confident, too awkward, too weird, too boring, too sad, too happy to fit in wherever I try.

I don’t even belong in my own skin. My face in the mirror is that of a stranger. I study the offensive red of my cheeks, the brows and lashes that refuse to align, and the blemishes feel at once foreign and all too familiar. My mind lays out perfect lines to follow, but my heart has never been skilled at squeezing in between them. Dissonance is my permanent state. Who I am has never been who I want to be.

In fourth grade, my best friend explained popularity to me. She laid out the hierarchy of our school’s little society and pointed out the golden girls we would never be. Beneath her disappointment in my obliviousness, I detected a shred of resentment that I was not one of those girls. She was too good to leave me, but as long as we stayed friends she would be uncool by association. Shame enveloped me at the realization I was falling behind in this race I hadn’t known about. I would never catch up.

I am always training, but it’s never enough. I’ve learned to make friends, to charm people; my smile “brightens the room”. My laugh is “contagious”. My outfits dazzle and my intelligence stuns. Then I say the wrong thing. Then I laugh too loud, or I can’t seem to make myself laugh hard enough. Then the conversation peters out and I am exposed. I am uninteresting to my core. I am the little girl watching other kids on the playground with no idea how to apologize for not being like them. I am reminded that the only place I belong is somewhere I despise: the spot firmly at the bottom of the ranking.

My favorite genre is romance because novels are a form of escapism. I covet the idea of love. I was never pretty enough for boys to like me; then when I was, they still avoided me and I never figured out why. I chalked it up to high standards. The boys knew I would never give them a second glance, so they didn’t bother sparing me one first. I absorbed the gentle confessions of the handsome love interests and ignored the fact that the main character attracts so much poesy because she is special. I dreamed up a man who was good enough to belong in my heart. No one self-exculpates like a writer.

My own room is more a prison than a retreat. The cluttered surfaces and overflowing drawers are too close an extension of my mind. I don’t know how to exist outside myself and I don’t know how to love the mess inside. I shut myself within the four walls so no one can tell that even here I don’t belong, even in this fortress I built I am still out of place, even where I’m safe I’m still desperate for escape. I don’t know who I am. Or maybe I do, and I just don’t like it.

I don’t belong anywhere.

I don’t belong anywhere.

Then one day there was you.

You materialized at once like a shooting star but promise not to disappear as quickly. You promise to stick around and I believe you. You say you can see me and I know you’re telling the truth. I’m surprised you don’t run screaming. But you never would. You can see me, and you still want me. That’s a feat even I have yet to accomplish. You belong to me as much as my own limbs, and never in my life did I think I’d be the person giving someone a place to belong. You drew us our own foundation and I don’t think I need those other structures anymore. I don’t even think I want them.

Other people look at you and see your defined frame, your curly hair, your sweet smile, your bright blue eyes. They see your humor and your smarts and your strength and your creativity.

Other people look at your arms and see their sculpted elegance, their impressive build. They see your hard work and your discipline.

I look at you and see a home.

I look at your arms and see the one place I belong.