My heads in a rough place.
A really…really rough place.
So, maybe we’re done. Maybe we give up.
Maybe I’m done being hurt.
And feeling alone.
Going through things that no one else can understand. But even more than that? More than they care, or try to understand.
People don’t know how to relate to me.
Because my life is fucking WEIRD. I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.
If you can think of it, I’ve been though it.
And it’s the most honest thought I have about my life.
I can relate to you. I can relate to your experiences. Good, bad, indifferent…I can relate. And if for some reason I can’t? I can at least empathize.
Most people are afraid of…being real. Or honest. Or feeling real feelings.
I can’t talk to you about my life if you are afraid of getting real with some hard shit. And some uncomfortable feelings.
I deal with the hardest parts of my life alone. Simply because I feel forced to.
Sometimes, yeah, I do try to open up. Or reach out. Or explain the really weird realness of my life.
Let’s talk about the most “normal” weirdness of my life. That I placed a son for adoption 9, almost 10 years ago. Yeah, that’s the part most people probably have heard of. Or, possibly, know someone else who is adopted. Or someone who has adopted a child. Less likely, a birth parent. But, it’s heard of. It exists.
And the most obscure part?
That I’m now parenting 3 kids, and also living this life myself, with a severe and rare genetic disorder. To the point where we have to now travel to the National Institutes of Health to be tested and studied and documented.
Because we’re that weird. And that unheard of.
You want to talk about not relatable? Yeah. I’d say that’s it right there.
So, sometimes, things get overwhelming. Sometimes all of the parts, all at once. The adoption parts. And the genetic disorder parts. And the past trauma and abuse parts. Sometimes, all of the parts hurt all at once.
And I don’t know where to go with that.
Other than to the bottom of the bottle.
Hey, person reading this?
Even if you don’t understand, even if you can’t specifically relate….can it please be okay and safe to talk about anyway?
Please?
No, my life isn’t normal.
But the result of the pain is. The result of the loneliness is.
Not all parts of me are understandable or relatable.
But perhaps you might better understand to my headspace.
The end result that makes me want drink myself to death. Or swallow 26 bottles of pills. Or cause more superficial pain that ends with the more visible kinds of scars. Maybe that’s more relatable or understandable.
Or also, maybe not.
Maybe none of it is.
And maybe, I am alone.
And maybe you don’t care.
Maybe no one ever will.
And I’m meant to fight through this life alone.
Maybe, just maybe…I’m not meant for life at all.
And I should really just fucking stop trying.