Wasted Youth

I gave the best years of my life to myself, and now I am sitting here, wondering, “Was I worth it?” As I look around at where I am, and I realize: I have no one else to blame for the mess I’m in. Although, is this a mess, or is it a paradise in another hue of blue? I can’t figure out if this is what happiness looks like, or if I am just another victim of the human condition, which I have inflicted on myself through my own decisions and my own choices. I sit here and shudder, because I made all my decisions on my own, as a so-called free woman, untethered to people or places that I can claim, “Held me back!” I hate to even ponder – is the best that freedom has done for us? As I repose in my kingdom of shit – all those years of fighting, all that feminism, every war that we have ever won, and this is the best we can do? Me, in my four inch heels and bright red lipstick, looking pretty and pretty despondent as I face the rest of the world by myself, as myself. I gave the best years of my life to myself, and I don’t even know if I was worth it. Then again, I doubt anybody would have been worth it, but being a victim of anyone other than myself would feel pretty fucking good right now.

I turn away. I do not look in the mirror for the next 72 hours. I drown myself in anything other than right here, right now. I am a victim of society. Me, all of who I am, is not a statement about my own shortcomings, but, rather, a symptom of the failings of the world around me. And I am okay with that.

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