There's something I have to say. This isn't an appropriate place for it. Nowhere is. If I put it here, I get the best of both worlds: it's possible someone will read it, so I can trick myself into feeling like I actually told someone, but it's highly unlikely, so in all probability I won't be judged.

So what I have to say is this:

At least back when I was a cute little kid, still in the thick of my trauma from my father sexually abusing me—or when I'd just lost my mother, and was shutting down mentally in a way I hadn't ever before—or even a couple years back when I was so deep in depression and isolation I almost committed suicide, but slipped up and leaked my plan, and ended up hospitalized—at least in times like those, anyone pretended to give a shit.

Now I'm a grown-ass ugly-ass adult of 31 years. No one wants anything to do with me, as well no one should. I'm nearly alone in this world. My only company is my uncle, who loves me, but is almost as chilly as I am; a certain Discord server full of wonderful people who make me feel very welcome, but who, as far as I'm concerned, exist only on the internet; and my own thoughts, which are very cruel to me.

It would be foolish to say I'd trade away this loneliness to have the trauma back, or the depression, or the grief—because while in the moment they may have hurt less than this isolation does now, I know this isolation now hurts so much because of the damage I've endured from those past trials.

My mother once told me that I have to love myself first, before loving others—that it's unhealthy to love others but hate myself, and eventually it would crush me—that for the love I feel to be "real," it has to start with self-love and radiate outward. It felt unfair even when I first heard it from her, and looking back on it now, it feels like a death sentence. What if I can't love myself? What if I need love so badly, but can't love myself? I know it's not what she meant, but it feels like she was telling me that if that's the case, then I'll just have to be alone forever.

I'm not talking about romance. I don't give a shit about romance. I'm talking about being loved platonically. I'm talking about being able to feel like there's someone in the world who cares about me, and being able to care about them, too. I'm talking about something as simple as having friends.

Hell, friends be damned, I'd love to at least feel like I belong somewhere.

I went back to school recently and I didn't really have any friends then either. I had one particularly close colleague, as colleagues who aren't friends go—close enough that we cared a bit about each other, helped each other, had some deep conversations, and might, as a matter of politeness, have sometimes identified as friends—but if we were really friends, we would have hung out; we would have done things together, beyond just our school project. So yeah, I would say I didn't have any friends in school. But I at least felt like I belonged on campus. Like I was there on important business. Like I was allowed to be there, and could share some ambient camraderie with the other people there, being myself there for the same reason as they were, and facing many of the same challenges. I may not have participated in the community, but I had a community. And I was so happy. Still fragile. Still broken. I still hated myself. And yet, for a moment, I was happy.

I don't have that now. Now, I don't belong anywhere. I'm an outcast. An aberration. In school, I was among other people who were like me in many ways, even if not in age group. Now, no one is like me. I am other.

I just need a hug. From anyone. I'd accept one from my worst enemy. Someone, please, touch me. Anyone, please, see me. Understand me. Prove to me that I still exist.

But no one will. Because I won't let them.

When I said no one wants anything to do with me—well, it wasn't a lie exactly, because it's true that no one cares or reaches out to me, but it's not like everyone hates me in the way my prior wording would suggest. They tolerate me, and I could probably make some friends, if I would reach out to them. But I never do. In fact, even in venues where it's expected, I go out of my way to avoid reaching out to anyone.

I lie to myself and pretend I'm alone because I'm unlovable. "I don't need them," I tell myself. "I don't deserve them," I tell myself. Playing the victim. Trying to pretend meaningful relationships are wholly out of my reach. Because the truth is worse.

The truth is that it's simply too scary. People can hurt you. You can hurt other people. And I'm not brave enough to take my chances anymore. Adverse experiences have worn me down, and defeated me. I need other people so badly, but I just can't do it anymore. I can't do this anymore.

I need meaningful relationships. I need them desperately. But if I allow myself to have them, I will get hurt, and I will hurt others, and I can't survive any more of that than I've already dealt with. Any time I interact with someone in a positive way, I ruin my own experience of it by spending the whole time waiting anxiously for the moment one of us gets hurt.

So, what? To live and be miserable? Or to seek relief, and accept that I won't survive? In that sense, the great irony is that seeking connection at this point seems no different from suicide.