#602

I’ve come a long way since March 3rd 2014. That’s 168 days of recovery, and yet, my heart is still heavy with emotional burdens. I think a lot about what it used to feel like to be loved, cared about by a peer, or understood in some capacity. it’s hard going from that, to ignored in one day. Sometimes things fall apart, I get that. But one day and love is dead? Does it really happen in one day? I know the process, and I emphasize, PROCESS, takes time. And I have thought oft about that night, and cried again, and again over it. I remember each vivid second of that agony, that feeling of having been cut off by your wife, of knowing she had drifted to far from me to ever reach back and get her again. My love didn’t die that day. It held me up while I was in the hospital, thinking about when I was going to come home to her. Things change. People make up their minds about you. One way or the other. I still have to be the same me person. How else can I ever hope for success? If you start off the journey with a lie, all the rest is poisoned. So being straightforward is frowned upon. But still necessary. I think finding agreeable parties is a daunting task. But what the fuck do I have to lose?

The chance of finding someone is only as possible as you make it. With the right amount of effort and patience, there is an inevitable match. Or a coincidence of characteristics amounting in marginal friction in select nonessential places. There are supposed to be differences in personality. There should be unity of life direction, comprehension of love, and morality. Is that really too much to ask? And I’m not saying this has to happen soon or anything. I’m just trying to find a friend. A single friend who might stop and give me a second thought. It’s going to amount in a lot of me being ignored, but what the fuck else is new? People have been stigmatizing me for decades, and the shit is the same color no matter what part of the world you’re in. But I guess people who are attractive can get away with being choosy about who they want. The rest of us have to fight over the leftovers. The rejects from the first cut, for all the geeks, losers and outcasts to sort out for themselves. Sometimes we get lucky, and a truly forgiving soul comes along looking for a mate of personality. In those circumstances, some people can truly see us; the frail balance we so desperately struggle to maintain, the exuberance of spirit, the crushing dark of madness. They see is and they love us all the more because we are so rare, and see the world through a prism of our individual mental health journey. We struggle so hard for peace, a thing we see flagrantly abused and taken for granted by regular people. We try so desperately, to be like you. We wish so much that we could just obliterate your soul and steal your body and it’s perfectly functioning brain. But then, I’m only wishing to be something other than myself, which is destructive.

I’m days from signing the lease. They are drawing up the paperwork for me and will email it over. I’m so close to getting it all back. So fucking close. I’m just doing so good at my life, even after all that hell, I’m still going to come out ahead. And more stable. And less preoccupied from my own personal mental health journey, which is my driving concern. Either you’ve joined the 400 or more followers, or you represent the majority in your disregard.

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