The Last Song

Applause lights the room up as I stand solitary in the spotlight behind the lectern. Every single audience member grinning. Happy to see me. How odd.

Thank you, thank you…

It’s strange, actually. That you’re all smiling and happy for me… and it’ll be stranger still when you laugh at my poor jokes, purely because that’s the energy of the night. Tonight is the night. My night. My night to formally announce that I’m done. I quit.

That’s gottem.

When they asked me to write a speech for tonight, thanking you all for coming, I wondered why. I’m boring. I’m not fun. I’m a very useful person when you need something from me. When you need a bit of cash, or some information found online, or some advice for something you don’t know about but you know I went through… then you want me. But when I want to talk about what I’m interested in? Different story entirely, isn’t it?

How many of you reasonably want to listen to me? How many of you will zone out in about two minutes because I am boring? How many of you have been so polite to me and quote unquote ‘engaged’ in a conversation with me, only to snark about me behind my back later on? I get it. None of you give a shit about movies, or books, or TV shows. Art, stories. Writing. Random space facts… none of you. So why would you want me to give a speech for my anniversary here?

See, I was going to keep it short and simple. A nice ‘thanks’ and then duck out. But it’s the 30 years, and I’ve got time. So I’m choosing to be fucking done with pretending like I don’t sit there and wonder after every single conversation if you’ve actually been engaged and you actually do care, or if you’re just too polite to say ‘shut UP!’ and walk away. And believe me, it would be far nicer if you did do that. At least then I’d know where I fucking stand.

It bothers me so much because I grew up shaping myself into whatever other people needed. And I still haven’t had the credit for being the person I became. I never got the credit for learning the shit I learned so that I could be helpful, rather than a hinderance. I never got the credit for making myself useful, rather than being surly. I had my flaws, sure – still very much do – but I shouldn’t have felt so useless and so worthless at the age of 14 that I thought my only option out was 30 little pills. But that’s how I felt. Because no matter how good I was, I still wasn’t good enough. I still didn’t come first. Only when I left, did people realise how good I was.

I have my quirks. I’m a member of so many diverse groups, because I’ve clung obsessively to the things you guys didn’t tell me I couldn’t like. And when I did like something you guys didn’t want me to like, I hid it shamefully. I guess that’s why I literally can’t speak out when I have a crush on someone, because woe betide me if I ever were to like something with a pulse.

I look at the ones who came after me, and I don’t begrudge any of you the life I didn’t get to have. But I want the credit for allowing you to have the life I didn’t get to have. To have the freedom to go to friends’ houses, or stay out late, or test the rules and the boundaries and understand that ‘sorry’ is enough. To not need to know how to do things, or even need to do things at all. To be able to get up and do nothing and have no repercussions. I envy the life you lead now because I never got to have that life, to be that person. To be comfortable hosting, or being hosted. I never got to expect that I could have a boy over, nor that I could stay home without needing to clean, nor that I could have alone time without needing to compensate something, somewhere. Despite the fact that it’s all been forgotten, and gets mocked when I bring it up, there’s a fucking clear-cut reason why I was good at cooking full meals for more than one person before I left for university.

“But it’s a life skill!” SURE. I get that. But it’s a life skill I learned only because I wanted to be useful to others. And now, I never learned it when I said I did, because that means… well, it means you’re horrible people, doesn’t it? It means you did it wrong. But you didn’t do it wrong, you just needed help, and I stepped up to be that help, and I still AM stepping up to be that help.

I also wonder why you made such a huge deal over me defending you and your viewpoints to someone I loved. I’ve always been an ally, and yet you treated me like the enemy and disrespected me, and then acted like I was the villain when I told you my truth. But you’ve always been shit. I won’t bring up the shit you gatekept and then mocked me for not knowing about it. There’s so much to unpack there, I can’t actually decide where I’d even begin.

And then, of course, there’s all the times I was ‘truly deluded’, direct quote, for the coping mechanisms your behaviour forced me to have. Of course I don’t truly believe I’m going to end up with Hollywood’s hottest, but what the fuck do you expect when you always told me real people were out of my league, but actors and fictional characters were perfectly acceptable?! You cannot tell me for years that I’m unlikeable and unlovable, and then be a cunt and laugh that I’m deluded when I feel comfortable enough to show you the world I’ve created for myself to cope with the shit people put me through. Shit I’m still going through.

Not forgetting the group back there. Yeah, you lot. Old ass women acting like I’m the fucking enemy because every single day you wake up and choose to play the victim. I know people who’ve been through eons worse than the bullshit you make up daily, and yet they don’t complain at all. Do not make me feel like shit because you can’t figure your own feelings out. And please, quit your job. You should not be working around children, especially not as a school psychotherapist, if your own reaction to something which isn’t blowing smoke up your arse is to treat it like a vicious attack and then become truly narcissistic and fucking lie about things to garner sympathy. Leave your job and leave kids alone. You are absolutely the worst thing, and I have done nothing to deserve the way you’ve spoken to me.

And all that being said, I think the least you could have done is be in love with the fact that I’m in love with things. Be grateful that I’m here to speak with you about the shit I love. Revel as I do in the things I revel in. Because I’ve revelled in your stuff over the years. But look at what I’ve become. A tumour in the background, sucking resources when I’m around, but actually being kind of useful when I’m not here. A cash flow, an advice bureau, someone to talk your problems through. But my stories aren’t worth listening to, even if that would be the nice thing to do.

So, I’m sorry I’m excited about movies that bore the shit out of you. I’m sorry I love TV shows that make you want to pull your eyes out, and I’m sorry I asked more than once for you to enjoy them with me. I wasn’t trying to make you suffer, I just wanted to share an experience with you. I’m sorry I get excited after training when it’s a sport you hate. I’m sorry I want to share parts of myself, my joy, my likes and dislikes with you. I’m sorry you had to suffer the thing I’ve finally been able to become.

I’m done. I quit. It’s over, now. Sometimes I wish the paracetamol had worked, because then I’d be peaceful and wouldn’t constantly be wondering if I’m too much a burden, or if I’m actually a reasonable person who deserves to take the space I take. Sometimes, I’m grateful that the pills didn’t work, especially when someone enjoys a TV show that I recommend. It’s a strange place to be, but you’ve all done it to me. Every single one of you has shaped the person I am today. Every single one of you is responsible for me keeping quiet about who the fuck I am, and every single one of you is responsible for me not thinking I have the right to be anywhere I don’t pay for. Be it physical cash payment, or services, or whatever else you can think of.

You’re all responsible for me being in the rut I’m in, unable to believe I’ll ever be with someone, living an experience that not a single person around me has lived. Except for the three babies I know, but let’s face it, you have to be completely sick and fucked in the head if you’d want a romantic relationship with a kid. None of you will take that responsibility, though, because that’s the hard part, isn’t it? Realising that you’re the reason someone is miserable and hides the things that you wouldn’t care to hide. Must be nice, being able to show your whole self without feeling like you’re both too much and not enough.

I’ve decided that you don’t get my energy or my space if you don’t respect it. And I determine what’s respect, and what isn’t. And if that’s something that offends you, then there’s online therapy and meditation that can help you figure it out, but please do so far away from me.

I’ll leave you to stress over whether this is a suicide note or not. Regardless of if it is or isn’t, you’ll never hear from or see me again. Not if I can help it.