I Hate It Here

“I hate it here.” I have uttered these fateful words at least once a day since July. I picked up the phrase from a colleague, who picked it up from a tweet or a meme. Thus, confirming that I am nothing but an amalgamation of things I’ve seen or heard. That doesn’t make this statement less true. I hate it here.

“Here” is all encompassing. It describes every part of my being. I go to sleep, struggling to quiet the racing thoughts. I have vivid dreams - my brain attempting to process the stress. I wake up with a knot in the pit of my stomach, feeling the weight of the anxiety. I sit in silence, hoping it will subside. When it doesn’t, I carry it with me, until it’s time to sleep again.

My cycle of subtle agony is punctuated by attempts to be social. I go on social media, hoping to find community - to see someone else like me. I hope to gather some insight, some understanding of how others are dealing with any of it. I see nothing but the trappings of my echo chamber. Maybe I can find a clever phrase or meme to garnish my struggle with humor.

You know what I hate? It here.

Every foray into social media leaves me with a sense of doom - another thing to be angry about, another knot in my stomach, another reason to hate it here. I attempt to compile my thoughts into an aesthetic post, arranging words with a superficial font, convincing myself that I have something to say that others haven’t already said. Upon posting, I convince myself that I do not care what others think. I delete the app.

I download the app again.

I could delete my accounts. I could delete my social presence. But, how will people know what I have to say? Why should people care? Why do I want people to care? What has convinced me to believe that I have enough social clout to garner any interest? How did I become so dependent?

Social media has convinced me that my words have no meaning if they aren’t shared. I feel like I’ve been manipulated into thinking I need something I don’t. It’s a toxic cycle.

I hate it here.