Why am I so unlucky? I can comprehend, readily, all of the many glorious ways in which I have been incredibly fortunate, but the suffering still stands no matter how happy I am for the things that I now know matter very little.
Why do I not deserve love? Why does no one love me? Why did, and do, my parents have to be so horrible and perpetually indecent? Why has my family abandoned me? Why did I have to be born with a genetic disease, progressing towards varying degrees of disability and toxic, intractable pain (physical, mental and existential)? And why did my family have to abandon me the most when I need them the most?
All I want in life is to love. All I want is to be good, with others. All I want is friendship, kinship, companionship. All I want is to be loyal, and to help others see things as I do, and have them help me see them as they do. I’ve lived an extraordinarily odd life, and I now know that the only thing powerful enough to treat raw fundamental existential suffering is the love of a friend.
I’m not even demanding that these friends I want spend all their time with me. I’m not upset that my parents don’t cater to my needs, call me all day, and spend all their energy on me. What I lament is that it is not even a thought. Because I would do that for them in a heartbeat, if they would have me. That’s the only thing that can really matter. Work, laurels, pride, fame are all transitory.
Jesus fucking Christ why am I destined to be alone forever? I can’t keep going. I’m becoming more and more ill and more and more sick. I’m changing too rapidly; isolation changes you quickly, without the mediation of social contact. I miss people.
I miss love. I miss women. I miss friendship. I miss hugs. I miss laughter. I miss connection. And I’m very afraid and very alone. And it’s all so avoidable and pointless. God I miss people so much. No matter what I try, and how hard I try, I can’t find anyone to love me; or even give me a chance. People abandon me. And I know the first assumption is that perhaps the problem lies with me. I’d love that to be true; I want it to be true. Tell me it’s true. Then I can change. But it’s not.
I want to spend all day watching bad movies with someone. I want to have Lord of the Rings marathons. I want to have Game of Thrones and Star Wars marathons. I want to read comics and take my dog for walks where we’ll laugh or perhaps wax philosophical. I want to talk until the morning and sleep comfortably knowing that I have a purpose in the connections I have with others. I want to play board games and maybe even get drunk. I want to go to the movies. Fuck, I just want to go out. I’m a prisoner in my apartment. I’m too ill to travel on my own and thus contractually tied to my living room. I want to have a friend, who has a house, that I can visit. I haven’t been to a ‘friends’ house in at least two fucking years. How sad is that. It’s been two years since I’ve had a friend. It’s been two years since I was twenty-two years old, and had a friend. I’m almost twenty-four, I’m sick, and I have no friends. My life is meaningless, and although I want to die, I desperately, more than any comparison I could ever draw would show, more than any superlative or hyperbole, want to be happy. And that happiness doesn’t have a price tag, or a fate tag. It has a friend tag. I want friends. Is that so fucking much to ask?
I finally get what life’s all about and it’s like this big fucking joke. The thing everyone has is the thing that can give us meaning, and happiness – or at the very least, it is the basic starting point for all the other iterations of life, done right. And that thing I don’t have, and can’t manage to get or create. Or, I don’t know.
It’s like this horribly sadistic solipsism: that I’m the only mind and someone up there is playing some fucked up game.