I wish so much that I were someone else. Anyone else. So that I wouldn’t have to cringe in fear every time I look in a mirror. So that I would never have to be reminded of how ugly I am. How disgusting women surely think I am. How worthless. Not good enough. Never good enough.
I am stupid enough to dream and suffer the biggest, grandest, most catestrophic heartbreak of my life and now I hate every bit of me. Clearly everyone else does. Why shouldn’t I?
I used to have hope. I would daydream of a nice life with someone, a warm, friendly home somewhere quiet and peaceful, a happy and beautiful family to take of, a dog or two, maybe a cat, a big yard with lots of shade trees, dinners and outings with the neighbors, golf with the guys while she’d adventure with her girl troop, and probably come home with lots of new shoes, bridge night together with with the Joneses, walks on the beach with her, hand in hand, tenderly, dancing under a David Bowie moon with her until the break of Dawn, raising our children with pride.
But dreams like these are for people far more beautiful, far more successful, far more intelligent, far wealthier, far more charming, far more…everything…than me. It is a cruel and bitter irony that my dreams are in technicolor when I cannot escape living in monochrome. I’m caught in a nightmare, no hope, dreams forever dashed.
I wish I could be someone else. My life might have been so much different. Better.