I’m 29 years old. In these 29 years, I’ve experienced more than my share of misfortunes.
I was born with anatomy in which I don’t identify. I was raised as the wrong gender, and forced to go through the wrong puberty. I was physically, mentally and emotionally abused for years while growing up. I was forced under duress to get an unneeded surgery on my achilles tendons, which has left me in chronic pain and partially disabled. I have discovered substantial evidence that I have an undiagnosed Autism/Aspergers that I’ve had to learn to manage all by myself. Because of this, I was often bullied in school. I suffer from PTSD after being sexually assaulted by two police officers, and never received justice. I’ve been homeless three times. I have way too often had trouble finding work that pays a living wage. There’s also other issues that I won’t discuss here.
But the above doesn’t bother me too much. Yes, it’s inconvenient, but I manage. But the one thing that troubles me the most is my desire for a companion. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I was a toddler. Back then, I wanted someone to cuddle and play with. As I got older, it became a longing for someone to cuddle and see the world with. But barring a couple of relationships, that collectively lasted only a few years of my life, I have spent the majority of it with no companion. This has been the most devastating thing for me to deal with.
I’ve been told by counselors and my former partner that I need to live for myself. They say I need to find what makes me happy. Relying on someone else to make me happy will end badly, because sooner or later, they’re bound to let me down. It’s human nature. And they’re right. Every time I have put my happiness in the hands of someone else, I would always eventually be let down.
So what do I do? There’s nothing in my life that truly makes me happy. Do you have hobbies, things you’d like to do? No, my hobby is cuddling, and sharing affection. Everything else I do is just there to pass the time or make money for survival. Sure, I have brief moments of joy, like when watching a movie or playing video games, but overall, I’m pretty fucking miserable.
“It’ll get better,” they say. Or there’s this condescending line: “Maybe if you work harder, you’ll get what you want.”
Fuck You!
You expect your cliché response to somehow make me feel better? It doesn’t. You think that by invalidating the effort I put into bettering myself, that I deserve this or brought the troubles upon myself? No. Fuck you.
I’ve been miserable for most of my 29 years. It’ll get better. When? When is it gonna get better? I’ve been waiting. No no no, actually, I’ve been trying to make it better. But it’s not getting better. There’s nothing that truly makes me happy in this world. The only thing that has the potential to make me happy is an unobtainable romanticized companion that doesn’t exist.
So why do I continue this miserable existence? When the elderly are terminally ill, we find some comfort that they will no longer suffer when they die. Unfortunately, that’s a double standard. It only applies to physical suffering, and not mental and emotional. We’re selfishly expected by our families and friends to remain with them, because dying would make them sad. Where’s the line that my misery and their sadness no longer balances? I’d like to know.
Disclaimer: Yes, this is a blog post about suicidal ideation. No, it doesn’t mean I’m actually going to do it.