The Awkward In-Between

Writer by day. Secret agent by night.

I have this really bad habit, guys.

It isn't biting my fingernails, though I definitely do that. Is it really a "bad" thing, anyway?

Nor is it leaving the toilet seat up after I use the restroom. Because I love my wife like that.

And in case the thought crossed your mind, I don't live a double-life as a secret agent. Well, there was that one time...

No, my bad habit is far beyond any of these ridiculous things. It's not something I'm proud of, either, which I suppose is why I haven't shared it yet. It's one of those things that I keep tucked away in my mind, for nobody else to see. It's like a club that only me, myself, and I have a membership to, and we haven't been accepting new members since... forever.

And at this point, you can probably see that I'm stalling.

So, at the risk of losing every friend I've ever had, I'll spill. But you have to pinky-promise not to judge me too much.

Here it is:

A lot of times, I don't believe my friends when they tell me things.

Okay, so that doesn't sound so awful. But let me give you an example.

Let's say a good friend of mine told me that he hasn't been feeling well. Unless he shows me the thermometer that read his fever, as well as a second one verifying the first, I struggle to empathize. Especially if he's good at hiding it, in which case I usually tend to believe he's trying to get "out" of something.

Now it still may not sound that awful, but it gets worse (in my mind, at least).

You see, I suffer from chronic illness. I sleep with oxygen at night and do breathing treatments and chest physiotherapy every day. But frankly, I don't want my disease to define who I am, so I try my best to hide it. Now, mind you, my rolling backpack does make people wonder why I don't carry a bag like everyone else, but I don't typically draw attention to myself when I don't feel well.

Like this past week or two. I've been so tired. All. The. Time. And I want people to believe me so badly. But they don't seem to have any sympathy, because I'm still going to school and I'm still working on this huge paper we have due in two weeks. By all accounts, I'm normal. And hey, who isn't tired in college?

But I want people to know it's different for me. It's the worst kind of double-standard. I expect people to believe me and to sympathize with me, but I have the hardest time giving people I love the benefit of the doubt.

Somewhere alone the line, I fed into the lie that I matter more than they do. 

And maybe that's the real confession here. 

I know it seems like I have it all together when I write, and that may be true. Writing is a place of solace and serenity for me. I can shed my suckiness and dress myself in a facade of words. And that's nice, for a moment or two. Until I realize that my writing can't heal me from who I am.

But when the words are stripped away, and it's me and you, the truth is, I'm not any better than you are. You and I, we both have our struggles. We both have our successes. We both have our ups, downs, and awkward in-betweens.

And right now, I find myself in that awkward in-between. I don't feel well, but I'm still healthy enough to live somewhat normally (besides being a 22 year old on oxygen). So I ask you to accept me where I am, even if you don't totally understand it. And I pinky-promise you that I'll try to understand when you're there too.

... ... ...

Questions: Do you have any bad habits? How do they affect your daily life? Can you sympathize with my struggle here? Why do you think we often set double-standards for those we love the most?

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photo credit: mzacha - sxc.hu