Maybe I Don’t Deserve Love

Sometimes I worry that I am too damaged for a relationship. I come with a lot of baggage. Outwardly I try to seem confident. Most of the time I can pull it off. I’m always the person to go first. I am the natural leader of any group. In most situations, I can muster action when most people hesitate. I’m outspoken, and I have been told in the past that I have a devil-may-care attitude. However, most people who know me have no idea how insecure I am ninety-percent of the time.

I was bullied terribly as a kid. Physically, emotionally, and mentally broken over and over and over. The first time I was called a faggot was in the third grade, and it never stopped. It’s hard to feel like you have worth as a human when you’re told most of your young adult life that you don’t because you’re different. I never felt different, other than knowing at a young age that I had an attraction to other boys even before I understood what it meant to be gay.

People don’t understand the way being bullied rewires your brain. It doesn’t matter what kind of support system you have as an adult, it’s incredibly difficult to forget childhood trauma. I have beautiful friends. My friends are the family that I have never had but always wanted, always needed. But still, my friends will never be my mother and father – neither of which has anything to do with me as an adult because I live my life as my authentic self. And while my friends can tell me that I have a lot to offer someone in a relationship, I’m still a scared boy inside that hears people tell him he is living his life the wrong way. If my own parents can chose not to love me, why should anyone else? Especially romantically.

When it comes to relationships, I am still a scared thirteen year-old who is too afraid to use the bathroom at school for fear of having the shit kicked out of him where adult eyes choose to go blind. I’m still the kid who developed a facial tick because of the stress of merely existing in social situations I felt I couldn’t control. I think to myself what could I possibly have to offer anyone? I live in a small apartment, I drive a fourteen year-old car with a broken gearshift, and I work at a job making a modest salary that barely affords me enough money to make ends meet. I’m balding, I’m fat, and I’m prone to bouts of suffocating melancholy. No one deserves that. No one deserves me. I’m better staying starved for love. I’m used to it.

The last date I went on, which was just a few days ago, the only thing I could focus on the entire time was that the guy I was seeing didn’t deserve to be saddled with me. I looked at his house, his Jeep, his career, and I literally thought it’s just a matter of time before he realizes he’s too good for me. And then I felt like everything I said to him was the dumbest thing that had ever came out of my mouth. No amount of psychotherapy has ever helped me to overcome these negative feelings. I think it is easier to be lonely than to face the rejection I know is inevitable.


This Is My Therapy.

Even from a young age, I knew I had a talent for writing. It’s the only one, pure, and true thing I know about myself. I think it comes from not having anyone to talk to when I was growing up. I’m an only child. I was the product of an affair. My dad was married, and he met my mom, and then came me. I’ve never been truly certain that my mom ever wanted to have a child. That left me with a lot of time on my hands. When I was seven, my aunt bought me a typewriter, and that was when the pin was pulled. My typewriter became my best friend, and I began putting everything I ever wanted to say into that gray Brother machine.

I don’t feel that I’m that great in person. I often feel awkward, and I only ever say about a 10% of what comes across my mind. I’ve always been relatively outspoken, and that has help me to sift through the people in my life that should actually be there. People say that I am comedically funny. And as much as I love to make people laugh, most people don’t realize that I’m usually not attempting to make them laugh. Most of what I say is unexpected, and that’s what makes people laugh. Saying things that most people won’t. It’s become a crutch for me. Who doesn’t like to laugh? Once I found that humor was endearing, that became my riff. I’m the funny guy. Rarely do I feel funny on the inside.

I’m firing up my blog again because I need to exorcise some demons that have been building up inside me. I need to be vulnerable again. I need to put my insecurities into words. It’s the only self-care that has ever worked. And while I have not written anything significant in a while, I also need that to change.

I’ll be sharing everything I struggle to bring into the light through this blog. I don’t know how often I will update it, and I don’t know how long I will keep it active. This is not an exercise in pity. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not an intricate suicide note. What it is, however, is a means to get the tensions I live with every day out into the world as a means to express all the things I can’t in any other way. And I am offering you the chance to read it.

This is my therapy. You are my therapist. What I write won’t always be pleasant. But it’s going to be real. And I think that’s all we can hope to be in this short life: to be as authentic as possible in the minute time we have on this planet.