Chapter 5 Sloane
SLOANE
~MAY~
Istare at my meal prep plan for the week, wondering how I got to this point. How did my life get to this very moment?
I often ask myself if I had found this version of myself earlier in life, would I have ended up being the person I am today?
Did I need to experience the bullying?
Was I meant to never be loved by anyone?
Did I need to learn how to thrive alone, because there would never be anyone there to hold me when it really mattered?
I’ll never know.
Maybe if I had just heeded the advice of those around me when I was younger, I wouldn’t be so alone. Maybe my parents would care about my existence. Maybe I wouldn’t seek the validation of those on the internet. Maybe I’d love myself without the expectation of a certain number of likes behind it.
I look down at the app on my phone and wonder what it would be like to go back to a time when I didn’t have to count my calories. If I ever just trust myself to eat what I want.
I know that right now, that’s not an option for me, so I cut up some more veggies and add them to the chicken and rice bowls that I’m prepping for this week’s lunches.
I love the dopamine hit after a video gets lots of likes, but that fades fast because I then have to analyze it, making sure I keep the momentum going for every video after.
It’s stupid as hell, and I know this. I’m self-aware about how fucking stupid it is for me to let something like this dictate my happiness. But when you go from getting no attention at all to receiving hundreds of affirmations in every single video, it’s hard not to take all of them to heart.
I’ve always been a people pleaser. I know it stems from the need to make my parents happy, to make them proud of me, like they are of Kaden and Lottie.
I don’t know what I ever did to make them hate me so much, but I know I will never make my kids feel that way, no matter who they are as individuals, what they like, or who they become. Because no one deserves to feel the way I do inside.
After meal prep, I grab my notebook and do an analysis of last month’s content.
It’s the beginning of May now, and I’ve been here for almost two weeks, which is crazy.
Since I feel like I’m doing nothing, I’ve been posting a lot more this month. Instead of once a day, I have been posting two, sometimes even three or four times a day. People seem to be loving it, but I’m not sure how sustainable this is. Burnout could be a problem.
While I go through my analytics, I take some time to reflect on this month as a whole, especially the last two weeks being back here in Timberline.
I thought that I’d be able to stay the confident person that I was back in Athens, but it’s like being here has reversed some of the things I’ve tried so hard to stop making a habit.
I stay inside almost all day, avoiding the people of this fucking town like the plague.
I don’t want to make small talk or listen to people compliment me when those very same people were the reason I once wanted to cut my skin off.
I can’t handle it right now. So I sit inside, I make my cute little meals, eat my cute little snacks, and post all day long so that I don’t go fucking crazy.
The good thing is that when Beckett and I happen to be in the same room, we don’t talk about my family. I appreciate it because I don’t want to talk about them, or to them.
I like that I don’t have to force the conversation with Beckett. If it doesn’t come, then it’s not awkward. We just fall into silence and continue on with whatever we were doing.
I do think that my tiny, little crush on him is growing just slightly every time I see him, though. I can’t control it; I like the way he makes me feel. He makes me feel heard, like my opinions are actually worth listening to.
I sit on the floor of my room, my ring light set up in front of me as I talk to my camera. Another media day. I have a huge stash of drafts and a long list of video ideas.
It’s nice; I don’t really have to stress about what to post since I have most of my content scheduled in the app for a week out, with next week’s planned out, as well. All I need to do is hit post.
I start to get hungry around eight, so I go downstairs to make dinner. I’m surprised to see Beckett sitting on the couch watching TV.
“I didn’t know you were home. I was just gonna start dinner. Do you want anything in particular?” I ask. He takes a moment to respond, and I can’t tell if he didn’t hear me or if he’s just thinking.
“No, whatever is fine with me,” he responds, and I nod, taking the last few steps into the kitchen.
I riffle through the items in the pantry, trying to figure out what sounds best for dinner.
I grab a box of protein pasta, setting it on the counter before going to the fridge and grabbing some peppers, onions, a lemon, garlic, chicken, some spices, parmesan cheese, and olive oil.
While the pasta is boiling, I cook the chicken and sauté the veggies with the seasonings.
Once the veggies are done, I toss them in the blender with some pasta water and a little more seasoning to make a sauce.
I strain the noodles, cut up the chicken, and plate everything before taking a quick picture and telling Beckett that it’s ready.
He sits with me at the counter. The first few minutes of the meal are silent, minus the scraping of the forks against plates and the noise from the news on the TV in the background.
“Do you think I’m being immature for not talking to my parents?” I ask, looking down at my plate.
I’m not sure where the question comes from, and I think that it surprises me as much as it surprises him.
His hand momentarily pauses before he continues twirling some pasta onto his fork.
He chews slowly like he’s processing, looking for the right words before speaking.
“No, I don’t think so. If they aren’t reaching out to you, then there is no reason for you to initiate the contact. Phones work both ways.”
“You really think so?”
“Why? Do you feel like you’re being immature?”
I pull my bottom lip into my teeth as I think over my answer.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, pushing my food around my plate.
“I’ve always been the one to keep in contact.
Now that I’m not and they don’t seem to notice…
I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I should keep pushing for something, and maybe at some point it’ll stick. ”
He stays quiet for a few moments, letting me get lost in my thoughts, which is a dangerous place to be.
“You shouldn’t. You’re a good kid, Sloane. They are missing out on what you have to offer. Your dad is my best friend, but even I can admit that he’s sometimes a major douche. You haven’t always been treated the way that you deserve.”
I nod my head. It feels nice to be noticed, for Beckett to have realized that I often received the short end of the stick when it came to my dad. But it still hurts. I’m not sure if it hurts because it’s so bad that someone else noticed, or if it hurts more because I feel like a failure.
I could have tried harder to be normal growing up, to do what they wanted, to lose weight, to try some kind of extracurricular in school, to pick a career path that would make them proud.
What if.
What if.
What if.
That stupid phrase bounces around my head as it has every day since I was in my senior year.
Nothing changes. Not even now that I’m easier to look at. Not even now that I’m making really good money. Not even now that I’m back in town, just a few minutes away from them and their pristine lifestyle.
Why does it still fucking hurt?
Why does my chest ache at the thought that I haven’t been home to a family dinner in ages?
Why does the pressure build behind my eyes every time I think about the family pictures I see them post on social media? You know, the ones that I’m not in. The ones they took at events without even thinking to invite me.
I would have gone.
“The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to just not be so alone,” I whisper the words as I stand, no longer hungry or wanting to be around him since I’m afraid I’m about three words shy of bursting into tears, spilling every dark thought I’ve ever had.
“I’ll come clean up later.”
I place my plate in the sink and disappear up the stairs before he can stop me. Closing my bedroom door behind me, I let myself sink to the floor. I pull my knees up into my chest, crying tears for a family that doesn’t deserve my pain.
You’d think that I’d have moved on and forgotten about this pain, but around every corner I’m constantly reminded of what I don’t have. What I will probably never have.
It hurts.
I don’t want much; just a phone call, a text even, just asking how I’m doing. Some kind of request to see if I’m settling in ok.
But no, that’s too much to ask.
So instead, I’ll just sit here and cry. I’ll just hate myself a little more, wondering what it would be like to have parents who actually care to notice you.
I used to daydream a lot. No, not about boys, or first dates, or prom, or anything like that.
I used to pretend that I was the center of their world.
That the whole ‘youngest child’ stereotype was a reality that I got to live.
I used to dream about being praised and loved simply because I was doing my best. That I was enough for them.
I used to long for anyone to just want me for me.
But I guess that’s a lot to ask for when you don’t have any kind of value to offer to anyone.
When you’re just a boring rock mixed in with a family of shiny diamonds.
I look down at my hands and try to wonder if maybe I could have done anything different, if I really fucked up so bad that I’ll never be loved by anyone.
At a certain point, you start believing that voice in your head.
I mean, if it wasn’t true, someone somewhere would love me, right?
Like anyone, even if it was just someone who truly wanted to be my friend.
Maybe, just like I’ve always heard, I am the problem.