It is a very difficult day today for me, emotionally. Nothing outside so much has changed, it’s inside. Once more the identity of who I am screams at me, and points out that I am a fat, hairy, chronically ill person who is already halfway (or greater) through life with no signs of any part of their dreams coming true, and sometimes I’ll say those dreams are dead anyway, why try to reanimate them? While there are other moments where they’ll come to life for a moment, so it’s possible that perhaps they’re just in a coma?

I don’t know.

Right now, though, the notion that someone sees me as anything appealing is ludicrous. I have friends who are fat, and they look amazing. I have friends with body hair, and they look so comfortable and safe. I have lots of friends who have chronic illnesses and it takes not one priceless part of them away, and I love them dearly, but upon myself all of these sins are eating away at me, because they represent that which I am in no position and have so little power to change.

They are a mark of inevitability, a sign of the future and the past, unchanged, as I trudge through the present, and the only reason I talk about it here is because I am filled to bursting with the grief, and frustration from all of this, and I have nowhere else I can go. I dare not go to my friends (though a few might read this), because I do not want to be yet one more burden they have to deal with, because I don’t want my friends to ever think I use them, how horrible to feel that someone only approaches you to use you, and I could never do that to them, not with any kind of awareness.

I don’t know, my emotions are just a wreck today. I feel I’ll never be beautiful, I’ll never get to be my true self, and there is this deep, resonant fear that even were I to finally start to change, my life will be over in almost every aspect anyway due to old age or infirmity, and there will be no point. A life wasted in transition to what? What good is a caterpillar who dies while still in the cocoon, having been trapped there past its prime to where it will never truly experience life as the butterfly it so wanted to become? What is gained from it? From all of this? This sadness, and pain, heartache, why do I have to have feelings like this? Why couldn’t I just be born how I was supposed to be? Why am I so disgusting in my physicality, in my poverty, in my lack of achievement?

Why can’t I be pretty and graceful? Why can’t I find the arms of someone who would love me that way? Oh, there are people whom I hold a candle for, some of them suspect that, I’m sure, but I don’t approach them because they deserve so So SO much better than me, and I would never want to saddle them with my burdensome weight. One in particular who likes me but deserves so much better than me, and I can’t ever tell her how I truly feel because it would be wrong to try and bind someone to my sinking ship.

No, they deserve better. All of my friends deserve better, and I hate that what I am is the best I can do at the moment, because it’s woefully inadequate. It’s less than that, it’s useless.

For anyone reading, there’s no danger of my doing anything to myself, I barely want to associate with me let alone take charge of dealing with this walking blob of flesh, but I have too many responsibilities to do such a thing anyway. Too many people depend upon me continuing onward, despite it all. It’s just that the pain is so hot and bright, I had to get it out, and this is the only way I could.