• Only the lesser of a matching set

    by  • February 25, 2012 • * Safe for Work *, Depression • 0 Comments

    Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a twin?
    To have people rarely ever call you by your real name?
    “The twins” “hey twins” “hey twin” “which one are you again?” and these are only a few.
    It’s gotten to the point were I yell at people to use my name. Please people I have my own name. I have my own identity! I’m not the same person as her!

    All my life I’ve heard “It’s good.”
    I suppose you think thats better than “it’s bad”
    It’s not.
    It’s good is a complete and utter lie. I’m so sick of hearing “It’s good.”
    It’s good is something that people tell you when they don’t really like it or they are thinking of ways you could have been better. “She should have written it like this.” “She should have drawn it like this.”
    I know. I’ve been on both ends of the phrase.

    All my life the only thing I’ve ever wanted is for someone to read my writing and say “Wow.” Specifically my parents. That has never happened.
    My twin sister outshines me in everything.
    She draws better, she’s more outgoing, she gets better grades.
    Writing was the one thing I thought I was better than her at.
    I told myself everyday “You’re better at writing. You’re better at writing.” Just to keep myself from caving in.
    Yet she stole that from me to.

    Short story time came in English class.
    I work my ass of for an entire week to write my three page short story like I always do.
    Just to get the reaction I need.
    I didn’t.
    My sister wrote a 16 page paper that I thought was good but again I told myself, “Mines better. Mines better.”
    She gave it to our parents and our grandma to read.
    She got reactions like, “Wow, this is so great!” “You have a great vocabulary!” “I really liked this part!” “You can tell you really love writing!”
    She took my “Wow.”
    Still I told myself, “If this is the reaction she got, imagine what I will get.”
    I showed it to the same people. You know what I got. “It’s good.” and “Good?” My mom didn’t even complement me she told me she didn’t understand it. And my dad didn’t even try to give a convincing good. He told me it was depressing. Of course it’s depressing! I’m depressed! Tragedy and angst are my genres. I’m good at writing intense things. Why does no one understand that!

    She stole my writing too.
    Now I have nothing.

    It hurts.
    It hurts to have nothing left and no one to comfort me.

    I’ve given up on the world.
    I wont let anyone get close to me anymore.
    They’ll just end up hurting me more.

    Nobody look at me…

    Nobody touch me…

    Nobody talk to me…

    Nobody can ever touch my heart again.
    Not that anyone will care.
    After all…

    I’m only the lesser, of a matching set…

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