Going Away to College

I roll over in bed and hit my knee on the wall. I turn off my alarm. I sit up in the morning and hit my head on the ceiling. Children mimic sirens as they play at the daycare down the street, completely unaware of the fact that people were shot here just last week. I skip breakfast. I put a little too much effort into my appearance to be met with zero acknowledgement. I listen to music that makes me feel seen, and I dream of a day when I am no longer alone. At ten-thirty, I go to a class. I zone out as I daydream about the life that I romanticized here: the friends I thought I would make, the parties I thought I would go to, the boyfriend I thought I would finally have. Instead, weekends are spent alone in my room rewatching shows I've already finished as my roommates go home to see their families. I skip dinner. I call my parents and the distance feels wider, somehow. I try not to cry as they tell me about my best friend's condition. He skips breakfast. He skips dinner. He refuses to eat because I am not there to give him the nose kisses he hates or the belly rubs he loves. I am not there to sit on the floor and keep him company while he eats, so he doesn't. I am not there to cover his ears during the thunder and fireworks. I am not there to give him cheese after his bath. I am not there.
Instead, I am here, pretending that this is everything I always imagined it would be. I am here, watching all of my high school friends do all the things I thought I was going to do. I am here, keeping myself busy so that my restless mind does not have time to think too much. I am here, forcing myself to write something so that I do not go crazy. I am here, wishing that I was there. But I am not there.
I obsess over my rejected stories. I forget to do my reading. I stare at my blank computer screen, the cursor blinking and blinking, waiting for me to type something. Anything. Where did the day go? Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; they all bleed together like diluted ink washing over the pages of a book with no cover, no title, author anonymous. I prick myself to see if I still bleed, so make sure I have not became the paper thing image of a girl that I feel like. All the fucking time. Sometimes I feel like I don't really exist. Sometimes I feel like it doesn't matter what I do or what I say or where I go, I will always be the anonymous author of a book that no one wants to read. Too lengthy are the chapters, too whiney is this main character, too dense, too much fluff--too much bullshit. But I couldn't possibly write the truth.
The truth is that I'm disappointed with my life. The truth is I don't really like myself. The truth is that I wish I was someone else. The truth is that I am not living, I am simply existing, and I am existing for the mere sake of my dear family. And I will continue to exist and hold onto the hope that, someday, I will feel alive again.