Ungrateful

I’ve been thinking for days about what comes next.  That last post was kind of a show stopper.  Where does one go from there?

I didn’t look at WordPress again for a bit after writing that post.  I couldn’t really see any point.  I couldn’t bear to see how many, if any, people actually read those words; and I knew that some would.

I had intended to close comments on that post, but I apparently forgot, so when I did log back in and saw the responses I got I was surprised.  And then I needed time to mull it over.  I don’t really know how to respond, how to react.

You see, while the words of encouragement are appreciated, I can’t help not believing them.  There are only four people who have ever breathed the same air as I have and know this blog even exists.  Two of them can’t be bothered to read it.  One of them claims she doesn’t read it anymore since having a falling out a while back, and the fourth person has the attention span of a gnat.  If she does click the link she won’t see it through to its end.

I put a lot of myself into this blog and so I believe that those of you who do read, feel that you have some insight into me and that on some level you care…

Two people told me that I was wrong when I said I was “unloved”.  Given the context of the post and the tone of the comments, a person is left with an unspoken conclusion; the mind fills in the blanks:

 “I can only tell you that you are wrong about at least one thing and that is the fact that you are unloved. You’re wrong about that. You are loved.

The implied sentiment is that I am loved by the commenter and by the following commenter who stated in reply:

I second this…

When I said that I was unloved, I was really talking about my childhood, not that things feel much different now.

It is not my intention to sound ungrateful, though I am sure I do, but simply that I can not understand how people I’ve never met face to face can love me.  Care about me?  Sure.  Feel sorry sympathy for me?  Fine.  “Love” your fellow human being?  OK.  But love me?  I just don’t see it.

And if that isn’t what was intended, then what is?  Because otherwise it just sounds empty and meaningless.  I know that wasn’t the intent, and I’m sorry…

I think this is not going where it was supposed to.  I’m not even sure I know where it was supposed to.  This doesn’t make any sense…

…But someone once told me, “never delete”.

So there you go.

Broken

I’m broken.

That’s the only explanation.  There’s something inside of me that doesn’t work.  Substandard parts.  Shoddy workmanship.  Poor maintenance and upkeep.  Sand in the gears.  I don’t know.  I just know I don’t work…

[Stares blankly at the screen not knowing where to go next]

I already started this post once.  It didn’t work either.  I scrapped it.

There is nothing good about my existence.  Nothing to make me want to get out of bed in the morning.  The few things that used to give me joy, they don’t.  Not anymore.

~

I’ve had conversations with Deb, lately, about the idea of me coming in to see her more often.  Right now I go every other week and I honestly can’t afford to go more often than that, but she wants me to.

She talks about me needing to “be with” my feelings but I feel like I’ve done that.

I know who I am.  I know what I’ve been through and how it’s affected me.  I thought about making a list and then I happened across this post from last July.  My parents, my brother, my sister, the people I went to school with; it’s all there.

I know what’s been done to me.  I think about it all the time.  What’s the point in rehashing it any more?

When I started therapy I was clueless.  I didn’t understand what these experiences did to me.  I didn’t get how they shaped my personality, my existence.  I didn’t get how the experiences of my childhood affected the adult I am today.  Seven years of therapy later, I know those things now.  I know just enough to be dangerous.  I know how the abuse and the lack I endured as a child molded me into the crap adult I am now.  I know enough to recognize behaviors and attitudes in others and have an idea where those things are coming from.  Seven years of therapy later, I still don’t know how to affect a change.  I still don’t know how to deal with assholes.  I still don’t know how to not be miserable myself.  I can act a part, to an extent, but I don’t know how to be different

~

When I was a kid, I used to go to bed at night and pray for a “miracle”.  I would beg God to make me someone else.  I would beg and plead to wake up the next morning in a different bed, in a different family, with a different face and a different body and a different name and a different life.  I wanted to retain some sense of who I had been so I would know that this miracle had been performed and I would know how much better off I was.  I wanted to be happy and feel loved and wanted.  I wanted to feel love; to be able to love myself.

Every morning I woke up in the same bed, in the same body, in the same family with the same shitty life.  I got up, got dressed, got in the way, got yelled at, got pushed around, bullied and abused…  And then I went to school.  It only got worse from there.

When I was a teenager, I prayed everyday that somehow, someway, God would work a “miracle” and I would become something more, something better than what I was.  I wanted there to be a reason why I had to, why I was enduring all the pain and torment that I experienced.  I had no choice but to believe that it was all serving a purpose and when I was an adult and on my own, out in the real world, I would somehow transcend and no longer would I be this awkward, unloved, unloving, miserably unhappy person.  I would be something more.  Something better.  I would be happy, just to be.

I am an adult, on my own, out in the real world.  These days, when I lay my head down at night, I utter one simple prayer.  I don’t pray that I’ll wake up and be someone else.  I don’t pray that I’ll wake up and be someTHING else.

I pray that I won’t wake up.

I can’t continue this fight.  The struggle is more than I can bear.

I don’t want to be someone else.

I don’t want to be something else.

I just don’t want to be.