HAPPILY EVER AFTER IS JUST ME, ALONE, AND FREE

Now playing: Bounce by Calvin Harris feat. Kelis (Radio Edit)
Captured by Mitchell Royel in Malibu, California in 2013

You know what’s fucked up?
I cried today.
Like, really cried.

For the first time in I don’t even know how long. Not those pathetic little tears you get when you’re trying to feel something—I mean the kind that rips through your chest like you’re finally letting something out that’s been rotting inside you for years. The kind that makes your whole body shake, makes you pull over to the side of the road because you can’t see through the windshield anymore.

I’m driving down PCH right now, windows down, salt air mixing with my tears, and I’m screaming. I’m screaming to this pop-punk shit I would’ve been mortified to admit I listened to back when I was trying to be whoever the fuck they wanted me to be. Back when I was performing for an audience of people who didn’t even like me, they just liked the version of me that made them feel better about themselves. The version that laughed at their jokes, that stayed small, that never outshined anyone, that played the supporting role in everyone else’s story.

God, I fucking hate them. Is that allowed? Am I allowed to say that? Because I do. I hate every single person who made me feel like I had to shrink. Every friend who wasn’t really a friend, just someone keeping tabs, collecting ammunition, waiting for me to slip so they could feel superior. That whole suffocating bubble we called a life—it was a cage. A pretty, Instagram-worthy, aesthetically pleasing cage with the right lighting and the right people and the right fucking brunch spots, but a cage nonetheless.

And the rage—Jesus Christ, the rage I feel when I look back. Not sadness. Not nostalgia. Not even disappointment. Pure, white-hot fury at the time I wasted, the person I pretended to be, the dreams I put on hold because they didn’t fit the aesthetic of our little manufactured reality. I was so busy being palatable, being acceptable, being the person who didn’t make waves or ask for too much or want things that made other people uncomfortable, that I forgot I was supposed to be alive.

You know what the worst part is? I can pinpoint the exact moments I betrayed myself. Every time I laughed when I wanted to scream. Every time I said “I’m fine” when I was drowning. Every time I pretended to care about their drama, their petty bullshit, their manufactured problems that only existed because they had nothing real to worry about. I became an expert at reading the room, at shapeshifting, at being whatever they needed me to be in that moment.

And they used me. They fucking used me. I was the therapist, the cheerleader, the yes-man, the emotional dumping ground, the one who always showed up, always forgave, always understood. And what did I get? Breadcrumbs. Conditional love. Friendship with an asterisk. “We love you, but…” “You’re great, except…” “We’d invite you, but you wouldn’t really fit in with…”

I remember being embarrassed by the music I actually liked. Can you believe that? I would delete songs from my Spotify before anyone could see them. I’d pretend to be into whatever indie bullshit they were obsessed with that week, nodding along like I gave a shit about some band’s “raw authenticity” when all I wanted was to blast the cheesy, emotional, unironic music that actually made me feel something.

But here’s the thing—I’m done. I’m so fucking done. Clean slate. Blank canvas. Scorched earth. Whatever cliché you want to use, I don’t care anymore because I’m not performing for anyone. I’m not looking back. Not at them, not at who I was, not at any of it. The rearview mirror is dead to me. That person I was? They’re gone. They had to die so I could finally start living.

The ocean’s on both sides of me right now, and I’ve got this song cranked so loud my throat’s raw from singing, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I can breathe. Like I’m not performing. Like I’m not apologizing for taking up space. Like I’m not waiting for permission to exist the way I want to exist.

My hair’s whipping in the wind, and I probably look insane—crying and screaming and laughing all at once—but I don’t care. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t care what they’d think. That’s the whole fucking point. I spent years caring what they thought, and it nearly killed me. It killed the real me, anyway. The me that had opinions and desires and a personality that didn’t revolve around making other people comfortable.

They can keep their bubble. They can keep their group chats and their inside jokes and their little kingdom of judgment and superficiality. They can keep pretending that their lives are perfect, that their friendships are real, that they’re happy in their matching outfits and coordinated Instagram posts. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be in their photos. I don’t want to be at their parties. I don’t want to hear about their lives or pretend to care about their problems.

I want to be free. And for the first time, I am.

The sun’s setting over the water, painting everything gold and pink, and it feels like a sign. Like the universe is saying, “This is your moment. This is your clean slate. This is where your life actually begins.”

I’m never going back. Never. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who make me feel empty. I’d rather scream in my car by myself than sit in silence with people who never really heard me anyway.

They’re in the past. And I’m driving away from it as fast as this shitty Honda will take me.

Gone. Finally, fucking gone.

-Deck