Life has been...difficult...lately.

Not in the normal (normal for me, that is) sense.
But just, different challenges that I perhaps might otherwise not normally face.
Or at least, face alone.

(But really, I'm alone even when I'm not, so who's to actually say?)

First I started with unknown body issues that I still don't have an answer for.  Just some temporary meds and appointment in July that will hopefully bring some answers (I'm not holding my breath, though).

Then there was new medication my neurologist had me try.
Let's just say, unintended side affects occurred, and it was like a living nightmare, and I hope to never experience that again.

And then there was a simple medical procedure done that took all of 10 or so minutes, but my body apparently wasn't having it, so after taking up a room for hours at the medical office, they sent me to the ER, because I couldn't drive myself home, and I had no one at home to go to, and it would have been a liability and blah blah blah...so ER it was, for a few hours, until they gave me some meds that helped me enough to where I could drive home.

And now it's wondering if I've fucked up the part of my body this aforementioned procedure was done on, and not wanting to call the office to be a bother YET AGAIN, but also not wanting to fuck my body even more, but also just not having any fucks to give, so in all likelihood, I'm not going to call them.

Also this tooth pain I've been feeling for months now, unable to get it looked at because it's not an "emergency" and it's getting worse.  So bad to where I can't fall asleep easily at night because it hurts enough to keep me awake.  And I have a pretty fucking high pain tolerance, so if something is keeping me up, you KNOW it's bad.


And the icing on the cake is dealing with this all on my own.
Not having anyone to ask for help, for grounding me and making me see if I'm overreacting or if I'm not giving myself enough attention as I should (I usually fall into that latter category, because why on earth would I matter enough to pay attention to myself?), if I should actually call the office, etc. etc. etc.

It's one thing to be single and be alone and dealing with shit with no one else.  That, while I've had to do to some extent in my life (I had people around, at least, but not people who would offer up help or guidance), I have not experienced it to the extent I am now.

It's an entirely different matter to be joined in a union, in a commitment, with someone, and to be completely and utterly alone.
To face life and the unknowns and the unwanted complications all by yourself.
Having no one to help.  Having no one to go home to.  Having no one to comfort you when you cry over heartbreaking news, because they're either not around, or they simply just don't understand.

This is a loneliness I wouldn't wish on anyone.


But it's out of my control.
Having someone or not, I would still be facing these things on my own, without the support I wish I had.
And I don't feel bad for myself.  I'm not holding a pity party.  I don't like dealing with this shit on my own, having no one near, but I'd be dealing with it on my own either way, so I'm just sucking it up.
Besides, there are who knows how many people out there who are completely alone, having to live through things like this as well, and if they have to deal with it, then I have to deal with it, too.


But it's tiring, at times.
I'm not worth anything.
So it takes a lot of effort and energy to think about whether or not I truly need to bother someone by picking up the phone and asking a question. 
Or do I just ignore myself, let things get possibly infected and not pretty, and then finally make the call?

A few weeks ago something happened where I was wondering if I actually needed to go to the ER or not (spoiler: I didn't need to).  But in questioning if I really needed to, I realised that if I was told "you need to take yourself to the ER" I absolutely would not have done it.  I even sat on the couch, trying to imagine myself getting up, getting in my car, driving myself, and...nope.

I'm not worth it.

That's not being said to gain pity or have people try to affirm to me "you are worth it!" (I wouldn't believe them, anyway).
That's being said because it's absolutely what I believe.

It's why back in November of 2019, when I legitimately thought I was having a stroke, I drove home from the gym, rather than go to the hospital.  I called my husband and left him a voicemail (he was at work) and when he finally called me back, I failed at keeping my tears in while letting him know what was happening to me, and he told me he was coming home right then to take me to the ER.
But if he wouldn't have been around to take me, I would not have taken myself.


I realised over a year ago I hate myself.
Legitimately.
I have no fondness for myself.  It's why I can't comprehend why people like me (much less love me), or why people want to be friends with me.
Who knows how I came to feel this way.  What happened in my childhood environment that made me have this opinion of myself.  But here we are, anyway.

I am suffering the consequences for things I could not control.

So apart from feeling like the mere question of "should I contact the doctor's office?" is overreacting and asking for attention, I do not think I'm worth the bother.


All of this is tiring and I don't like being in pain because it's distracting but I will sit here in silence and suffer anyway, because it's what I've trained myself to do.
I will not be a burden to anyone.
And I will most definitely not be accused of "seeking attention."

So fuck you all.

I get so caught up in the books I read,
in the traits of the characters they portray,
that I tend to take on some of those traits myself.

Not for forever.
But usually lasting for a few weeks,
sometimes even up to a few months,
after I read a book.


When I was little,
I devoured books like I was a starving child on the streets.

As I became an adult,
I thought this was because I just loved to read.

Which, I guess,
is partially true.

But I've begun to realise,
that it was also because
I was lonely.

I never thought
I was lonely.

After all,
how could a child
who grew up
in a large family
be lonely?

I had no reason to be...
right?

But it makes sense.

My temperament didn't match the others.
I was always sent to grandma's house
and everyone else got to stay together
when my parents had to travel for work.

"Family" means together?
Family means they love you?
Family means that they'll
work hard to help you
fight whatever demons
you face,
help you fight the
darkness that threatens
to swallow you
whole,
help you to not feel
lonely...

...family doesn't mean anything.

Family means giving up.

Family means telling me
to shape up
or to pick going
into foster care.
Family means being
sent to grandma's house
because you're too
much for all your siblings
combined
to handle.
Family means talking about
my issues to extended family
whom you would otherwise
never even give the light of day
instead of trying to help me
figure out what's wrong.


Even to this day,
I get lost in the books I read.

My imagination runs wild.

And I still take on character traits.

Am I still running from something?
Am I still lonely?
Am I still trying to figure out who I am?


The one thing
that I can say for sure
is that I know
that I hate myself.

And that's not said
to seek pity.

It's said as a
matter of fact.

It's my reality.
And it's something
I live with.

It's neither here
nor there.

It just...is.

Just like me.