Now where was I?

Oh right. There is something terribly, terribly wrong with me and there always has been.

And it makes me socially weird. People can sense my wrongness and it creates this distance between me and them because it makes me seem like something strange and gross that they probably don’t want to touch for fear of getting it on them.

I am so very, very broken. Like I said yesterday. I can feel all the places where things are missing in me that are present in others. Parts of me are dead and other parts are absurdly latent given my age. Huge parts of my psyche are nothing but tiny strips of frozen gristle to mark where pieces of my heart should be.

Instead, there’s just a big sign that says, “This space intentionally left blank”.

I feel like I have been very sick for a very long time. And that’s not wrong. When I got raped, many things inside my mind got broken, and because nobody knew and I was far too broken and timid to tell anyone, those severe psychological injuries have remained untreated for 41 years and counting.

And it’s made me a cripple. Psychologically speaking. There is so much I can’t do and can’t explain why. How do you explain to people that you are all shriveled up and dead inside? That your heart and soul are twisted and atrophied like a crippled limb, and that makes simple things impossible for me to do?

It’s not like it shows. There’s no such thing as a wheelchair for the soul. I can’t go around on crutches for the heart. I look like a zillion other big fat hairy dudes. Generic Nerd Type Three : Big n’ Fat.

So I limp painfully through life, bewildered and wondering why the hell the world is so much harder for me than for others. And thinking that means I am something horrible. ?Unlovable and unworthy, a strange and unwholesome lizard, malodourus and slimy, who darts about its tiny dark cave because it’s better than dealing with the Warm Ones.

I wish I could cleanse this tainted flesh from my dank and rotting soul. I wish doctors with lasers could open up my skull and blast all the bad stuff out. I wish I could take a pill to make me vomit it all up in one enormous act of emotional emesis.

I wish I could find waters so pure that to drown myself in them would make me clean.

But life is not that kind, at least not to me. Life saw fit to make me “special’ and stick me with this bizarrely polarized life where I am both mentally astounding and pathetically weak and helpless. Amazing potential without the wherewithal to use it. A vault full of treasures and no key.

And seeing as I am 45, a man, and enormous. it’s not like anybody is ever going to swoop in and give this little hothouse flower the structure and nourishment it needs in order to thrive and bloom.

Like my therapist said, I have to do it myself.

And I can’t. So I’m fucked.

I am just plain not strong enough. Strangely enough, being psychologically crippled makes pulling yourself up by your bootstraps rather hard. My only realistic hope is to find someone who can help me keep it together enough to function, and that is just plain not going to happen.

For one thing, it’s clear to me now that I am just plain too heavy a burden for anyone to lift, let alone carry. My therapist has been in practices for decades and he can’t handle it. And if he can’t, who can?

Like I said before, people take a look at the real me and all my needs and back the fuck off as fast as they can because all they can see is a burden so great it would crush them and they don’t want it to grab on to them like a drowning man and end up killing us both in the process.

And I don’t know what I can do about that. I try so hard to be easy, you know? Easy to love, easy to like, easy to be around, easy to get love from.

But deep down, I am not easy at all. I am intense, and dark, and complicated, and incredibly dangerous to touch. People correctly sense that underneath all my charm and wit and charisma lies the blackest of black holes and the only hope they have for survival is to stay as far away from my event horizon as possible.

And that’s been true all my life. Since the day I was raped, everyone in my life who might have helped me wanted as little to do with me as possible instead. My parents treated me like I wasn’t even supposed to be here and my siblings formed a world of their own before I was born and had no interest in letting me in or giving me a share.

My teachers found me as repulsive and pathetic as my felllow students did. I was too much of a mental mutant to be able to connect to people my age. And adults sure as fuck wanted nothing to do with me.

And now I know why. I was the only person who couldn’t see just how fucked up I was and how my attempts to be friendly to people only made them flee me all the harder, or worse, abuse me to make me go away.

But of course, nobody would tell me these things to my face. That would be work and I clearly did not warrant anything but the absolute minimum of effort.

So here I sit, looking down the barrel of a meaningless life where the deck was stacked against me from the start.

Need a lot of help.

Nobody will help me.

Can’t help myself.

So I am completely and totally fucked.

It’s going to be the exact same bullshit life till the day I die. No career, no husband, no sex, no life. Just more video games.

And it’s just not fucking worth it.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.