It's unbelievable how much of my identity is tied up in all of you. What am I if not Cassandra's husband; Jaylyn's father; my parents' son; Chris and Renee's brother; Christopher, Blaine, and Rebecca's friend?
It turns out if I'm not those, I'm nothing. And that's where my feeling of nothing comes from. I don't feel connected to anything or any one any more. I feel cut adrift, disconnected, apart.
I've got no meaningful relationships here. I've got relationships I actively avoid here at home. I've got nobody to share discovery with, nobody to do something with. Nothing's fun without somebody to share it with.
I eat frozen, tasteless food. I go to the gym. I go to work. I watch movies. I've got no connections.
I feel broken.
I know it wont last forever, but that knowledge does me zero good right now.
Let me explain what making a sandwich is like for me. It'll make sense in a minute, I promise.
Because the kitchen is filthy, I have to get one of my cutting boards. The big one is best, the other two don't give me enough room to work. I take the bread out while I'm in my room and put it on the board. I put my knife on the board, too, and go to the kitchen.
I wont put any of my stuff directly on the counter because it's disgusting. It grosses me out, and I feel like that's really saying something. About half the cutting board is for the bread, the other half is for cutting tomato and avocado and cheese. I have to do each item individually then put it away for fear of it coming into contact with the grime weird oiliness that coats every surface.
Once done, I bring everything back into my room. Typically, the knife goes into one of my pint glasses filled with water. I'll wash that stuff later on. The cutting board goes onto my desk, the only clean place in the whole house to eat. I check email, read Daring Fireball, remember I'm thirsty and head back to get some cranberry juice.
Along the way, I might meet my black-toothed housemate who's got far more conviction than education. Or I might meet one of my Asian ESL housemates who are responsible for the house being a disgusting smelly heap, and I am polite because murder is generally punishable by imprisonment.
Each and every part of my life feels like that right now. At best, empty relationships; at worst, contempt. Even making a simple sandwich requires planning and logistics.
I've got nobody to share it with. I've got nothing to look forward to. No one wants me. There isn't a moment of relief from this horrible crap, and I'm shriveling up. I'm toughening up, growing smaller and smaller, trying to protect the core that's me, defending myself against every goddamn minute of the day and night. And I'm obviously doing a poor job of it.
I owe everybody who loves me an apology. I'm so sorry. Hardship doesn't give me permission to be insufferable or insane. It should be an opportunity to grow strong, and I'm not taking it.
I'm sorry. I'll get better.