An Open Letter

I had therapy today at an awkward time so I decided to do it right before I do my deadlift day. I woke up at 5 AM against my will this morning because I was so anxious for deadlift. I ended up coming home to write this and charge my phone, partially because I was on the verge of tears during therapy.

I stopped myself from crying and now I’m apathetic. Or not, just that familiar dulling of everything from depression. How am I supposed to express the pain I feel when everyone’s home with their family and I’m alone more than I thought. There’s too many things I’m afraid of and scared about. There are too many traps I set that have no clear way to beat. I feel like I’m in a game of chess against my own mind and I’m on the verge of loss. It feels that way at least.

My dad said he’s proud of me, and I felt nothing. I don’t think he means it. I guess I don’t know what it’s like to have someone be proud of you. It never registers whenever people say it. It’s a weird combination with the guilt I carry with every thing I do where I’m not bad. I don’t want to share my achievements anymore. I dislike myself every time I do it feels like. I don’t know if I deserve the praise or good things, if it only gets transmuted into fuel to blame myself.

I told my therapist how I wanted to break down crying into my mothers arms, but I can never do that because I would cry about how I don’t have a mother like others. The feeling is so worn it’s not even envy anymore. I just feel longing. It’s almost like something genetic that couldn’t change. It’s like I’ve been paralyzed since birth watching someone run. I don’t believe it could change, and it’s not like my childhood could change either. The thought of talking to your parents as yourself is foreign. I almost want someone to validate it to me. I want someone to see the way I am at home and feel shock to who they see. Those are two completely separate worlds, reality and home. There’s no intersection between them. How is someone supposed to see what it’s like behind closed doors? My parents are good at seeming like normal parents in the handful of cases where they’ve been around others. I wish my parents were always like that. I wish they smiled, and said nice things. I wish they hugged me as a child and all that. I wish, I wish, I wish.