For as long as I can remember, I felt responsible for keeping everyone happy. I chased approval like it was oxygen, desperate for people to like me. Maybe it came from growing up without real love from my parents; maybe the reason doesn’t matter. It was simply who I became.
I thought making people happy was a virtue—biblical, universal, cosmic. In school they taught us that you reap what you sow, that what goes around comes around. I believed it. I lived by it. What I didn’t understand yet was that happiness is a choice made by the person, not something I could hand out like cupcakes. And being liked? You can’t force that either. People either do or they don’t.
Those two words—happy and liked—caused me more harm than good. In school it meant I was used. “Ask K, she’ll do it.” Homework, favors, money—whatever they wanted, I said yes. I thought if I made them happy, they’d like me. I didn’t learn until much too late that people worth having in your life can’t be bought.
I wish I’d learned that before Alex. I was the perfect target for a con artist, and she played me like a violin. I handed her everything—my trust, my finances, my choices, even what I wore. I gave her the keys to my life and called it friendship. It took two years and her discarding me like trash before I realized the damage she’d done. I wasn’t just used; I was erased.
That part of me imploded the day I finally opened my eyes. Not all people are good. Not everyone deserves my trust. And no one—absolutely no one—will ever get the chance to take advantage of me again.
Most importantly? I don’t care if people don’t like me.
Standing on my own terms,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 