2020-10-10

4 AM

Someone told me I am too hard to love. Flat out. Finally.

After spending most of 38 years in some sort of therapy trying to put together pieces that were handed to me shattered (thanks genetics) trying to patch enough holes to hold a water, I can't deny that is the plain, simple truth anymore.

I used to think my disconnected circuits and crossed wires were situational. The effects of being the poster child for arrested development while diagnoses and weird meds were being pushed on me in adolescence. The damage caused by other people's untreated mental health. As a kid, my grandmother would do things like tell people I was agoraphobic, that I didn't get off the couch, but do things like call the cops and report me as a violent runaway if I left the house or spent time with anyone.

It was weird, whatever. But it was the beginning of a legacy of mental illness and loss I didn't know enough to anticipate as being permanent.

There were a couple of years in my early 20s that I left hopeful. I'd done a lot of work, and that feeling of maybe finally catching up to the world made me think there were possibilities that I could be okay, after all.

That's it, ya know? I've only ever just wanted to Be Okay. I didn't want anything crazy out of life. I just wanted to not be scared all the time.

But that was fleeting. Life was like, LOL, NOPE, and here I am, an adult orphan. A tired one. My quality of life is shot. My body is broken and worn.

There are so many things you can't come back from. So many things in life that don't replenish when they're taken away.

Anyway.

The common denominator was always me. That's the point. Not some comically unbelievable bad luck handed down to me that I can't shirk. It's just me.

I am not meant to be a happy person. I don't think I was meant to be anything at all.

Earlier I had the thought, "I'm too depressed to write a suicide note" and laughed at myself.

I've got nothing left to lose.