Is monachopsis a disorder or a feeling?

Is monachopsis a disorder or a feeling?

Sometimes words are not enough to describe the chaos going on in mind. Sooner or later, I will choose exulansis - the resignation of talking about things that no one can understand or is willing to listen to. There is a constant sense of monachopsis - the feeling that I'm unfit for this world, for this place. I don't belong to anyone, nor do I belong anywhere.

I fear that I am slipping into nodus tollens a state where nothing makes sense anymore, not even the plot of life itself. Absurd life. There are moments I meet people who show care, yet I shrink away, terrified. Terrified that they will soon feel the adronitis of trying to know me? I am a riddle and they will never find the answer. This frustration will mark the end of their care and put a question mark on this disorder. Still, an escapee into eccedentesiast will definitely understand this riddle.

I am a perfect host for insecurities. They barge into my mind without permission and I feed them willingly, allowing them to feast on my self-doubt, to drink from the cup of comparisons I so foolishly serve. They know me all too well. They have taught me to feel unfit as if my existence doesn't matter in this so-called narrative of normalcy.

The feeling of being unworthy unworthy of the world, unworthy of love, unworthy of belonging - is like a rejected narrative of normalcy.

I am tired. Tired of explaining my quirks, my weirdness, my uniqueness... things others may never see as anything but flaws. This subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place has turned me into a nomad, searching for a latibule where I can exist free from the burden of these terms, these feelings, these disorders. A place where I no longer have to be defined by my insecurities, my morality, my weirdness.