Am I The Only One Who Gets Depressed In Wealthy Neighborhoods?

Does anyone else experience this?

I was sitting at a coffee shop in North Berkeley with a good friend of mine sipping on a cappuccino trying to enjoy myself, and as I looked around, I noticed how calm, put together and otherwise worldly everyone was.

As we walked around the neighborhoods, we saw several beautiful, old homes with character. There were well-maintained Tudor, Victorian and Craftsman homes on every block. Most had beautiful gardens, and as me and my friend conversed, I started to feel an extreme sense of self hate. I thought of my mom, and the nursing home she currently sits in, knowing she will die before ever learning how to read. I thought of my father’s shame in marrying my mother, and it sat with me. I thought of meth smoke, every single gunshot I’ve heard in Oakland, and the smokestacks of the refinery that hover over Martinez, California.

There’s a certain pain in acknowledging that despite us all existing on the same planet, we often aren’t allowed to exist in the same world. There’s sections of society for everyone. And I didn’t really want to exist in any of them. Some parts of the world remind me of what I am, while others, like North Berkeley, remind me of what I’m not.

But I’ve always longed for something beautiful to be mine. I just haven’t figured out how to achieve it, and often freeze up in its presence. Many people consider me to be charismatic upon first interaction. I’m silly, sarcastic and absurd. But after a while, I can’t keep up the absurdity, I get nervous, and the jokes begin to fall flat. My mask falls off, and the more desperate I am to put it on my face, the harder it is to make it fit.

So, I eventually quit trying. And then they begin to see me for what I am: Nothing.

I try to confide in others, but they tell me I’m wrong. That I’m loved. That I’m smart and talented, and that anyone would be lucky to place their feet into my shoes. But these people have never worn or walked in them. I do and I don’t like the way they feel on my feet. No matter how numb from surgery they may be, I still feel all the things I wish I didn’t.

I don’t hate the people in the beautiful homes, and despite some of the jokes I say, I wish them no ill will. I just want to sit in the garden with them one day, drink tea, look out at the water and know what it’s like to feel truly accepted for who I am. I want to know what it's like to graduate high school at 17 or 18, finish college by 23, and have my mom and dad in the crowd, proud of me.

But I’ll never know those feelings. And when I’m surrounded by people that do, it hurts. It hurts more than I’d ever like to admit.

At least I have writing, right?