Estranged by Design

There is something profoundly isolating about individualism. Not the celebratory, Instagrammable kind that claims independence as an aspirational ideal, but the raw, unadorned truth of it. To consistently hold a view different from the group, to see the world in a way that seems unexplainable to others, is to exist in a state of perpetual estrangement. It leads to the inescapable sense that you are an alien, misplaced among humans, destined to never truly blend in no matter how adeptly you try to mimic their behaviors or absorb their customs.

I have lived my life under this shadow. I am a depressive. A melancholic. It is my baseline. The idea of caring about what others think or what they care about feels foreign to me, almost incomprehensible. Maybe that makes me selfish. Not that I particularly care if it does. I do not give a shit, or at least I tell myself I do not.

But perhaps I do. There are moments where this isolating feeling cuts deep. Moments when I think, am I really that different? Even framing it like this makes me sound like a some self-absorbed adolescent sulking over their misunderstood genius. A pathetic caricature. And yet, there is a truth here that is impossible for me to ignore.

Immanuel Kant described this “melancholy man” as someone burdened with the weight of their own introspection, a person who cannot help but see the world through a lens of seriousness and gravity. For Kant, the melancholic man is not defined by mere sadness but by a relentless engagement with deeper truths. He questions everything, doubts everything, and in doing so, isolates himself from the superficial pleasures and camaraderie of others. It is not a choice; it is a condition, an unshakeable state of being.

Reading Kant’s description, I feel both seen and condemned. This melancholic disposition sharpens the mind but leaves me stranded, and that paradox feels inescapably familiar.

There are advantages to this disposition. I am not easily impressed. I see through the hype, the empty signals people send to bolster their own sense of importance. I do not worship at the altar of career, status, or money, which ironically opens the door to success precisely because I do not chase it. I have mastered the art of wearing the mask, of humoring people, of playing the part. And because my filter for bullshit is so finely tuned, I know when I encounter something or someone genuinely special. It is rare, but unmistakable when it happens.

But the flip side is brutal. My inability to fully participate in normal social bonding rituals leaves me stranded. The laughter, the shared interests, the communal moments that bind people together all feel like something I am watching through soundproof glass. I am there, but not really. And the further you drift from these things, the harder it becomes to bridge the gap. It leaves you feeling defective, like some kind of social malfunction that others instinctively avoid even if they cannot articulate why.

And yet, I’d rather bear this burden alone than compromise myself. I’d rather remain unblended, unvarnished, unfiltered. I can’t play nice, not in the way that matters. This isn’t some rebellious credo or a cheap claim to authenticity. It’s simply the reality of the situation.

It is what it is. And I am who I am.

As always, I trust myself, regardless.

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