I Am Me: Everything and Nothing

I Am Me: Everything and Nothing 

By: Mackenzie M. Hebner

You don’t know me. And you never will. My name is of no consequence: only my words. The world won’t ever know my name, or see my face, or hear my story, or give me a second look. It will only ever, God willing, hear my words. I may never amount to anything. I may be alone forever, but I hope and pray my words live on past my inconsequential existence. Not so inconsequential, now that I’ve finally taken the leap to write things down. 

Now, I said the world would never hear my story, but that doesn’t mean I’m not about to tell it. You know, sometimes I sit in bed, and I cry. I feel like my hands aren’t connected to my body, my eyes see from some detached cloud they float on as if they belong to nothing else. As if they are unlimited. My mind is its own entity. It lives as I do not. For, to stand is not my place. To breathe is not an option. To feel my feet pressed against the ground I hear them talking about is but a life I live vicariously through the scene of a screen—as I do all things. As I feel love, as I feel someone’s touch, as I watch someone see and want me for the first time, as I myself fall in love, and I dance and I fly and I move and I breathe and I kiss and I feel and I live. None of it is real, but it’s all mine. All mine tucked safely in the existence of my solidarity. For in the presence of no one, I am everything. And in the presence of others, I am nothing. I am but a figment of their imagination, an adaptive particle, a flicker of light that goes out as soon as you leave the room. Because without someone there, it no longer has reason to force a shimmer. 

I can feel myself: my skin, my tears, my stomach, the weight in my chest, the pain in my lungs, the lump in my throat, but it disturbs me. My own existence. It’s disturbing. As am I: disturbed. So I live, and I breathe, and I make friends, and I tell stories, and I cook myself dinner on occasion because people tell me it’s important, and I workout because sometimes I hate myself a little less, and I pretend because that’s all I am: pretend. A light switch that only lives when someone walks in the room to turn it on. And until then, it lives dormant, once again: inconsequential. I can feel my teeth press against my lower lip or my nails slip into my skull. I can see my body, half bare, but it is not me. Because like I said, I am detached. I am whatever the world chooses to see, a figment best lit by whoever is around me. They tell me to be like myself, but the world would never accept me. Because I write dark truths, and I cry almost every night, and I only make dinner when people really tell me to, and I only get out of bed because I have words, and those words are dark truths, and the cycle continues. 

My therapist told me things, about if I felt like I wanted to die, I would tell her. That was the deal we came to because I was open about my history. That I’ve felt that way, that I’ve acted on it, that I’ve lived controlled by it. But the truth is, I don’t want that anymore. Because that means that everyone else wins. That they control me. Because it’s not that I don’t want to live this life, it’s that no one knows how to live it with me. So I will not let them be at fault for my own death, because I do not want it. I want to live secretly, invisibility, and infect the world with my stories, and live without ever making dinner again, and not need the energy to get out of bed because my feet aren’t connected to my mind, so therefore they will never touch the floor. In fact, I don’t need a body at all. It does me no good beyond the fingers that tangibilize the stories in my head. So, no, I do not want to die. I just want to live alone, unseen, unheard, unwanted. Because that’s the only way I feel me. When no one wants me. When no one sees me. When no one hears me. When all they do is read, and learn, and sit back astonished as if I’ve impacted the trajectory of their whole lives and they will never once need to know the story behind my name, a name which they will never really know in the first place.

The truth is, I don’t exist. I am a figment of one’s imagination. Perhaps even of my own. I am the reflection in a mirror that will never haunt you because it will never dare to stare back. I am the story on your bookshelf, the abstract thought that crossed your mind the other night. The silence in your bedroom, the conscience in your presence. I am everything, and nothing. I am dead, and alive. I am alone and unheard, but never silent. I am unwanted, but necessary. I am hidden, but useful. I am unknown, but outspoken. I am breathless, but every once in a while, I inhale. I am me. And that’s all I need to be. Alone, unseen, unwanted, unheard, me. So goodnight, to everyone who thinks they know me. Because they don’t. In fact, no one does. Inconsequential, the time you spend trying to unfold me. Get close to me. When all you should be doing is learning and moving on like everyone else. And forget about me like everyone else. And I will be okay, like I always am. Because regardless of popular belief, it’s not about you. It’s about me. And I am alone. And I always will be.