Therapy was always a luxury that I couldn’t afford and didn’t think worthwhile because it was inaccessible growing up. Whatever was available to me as a child filled me with resentment instead, for the “school counselor”, for my problems, and for my parents and the events that happened to me to make me who I am.
“why can’t I be normal?!”
I don’t even know what that means. Normal?
As I grow older, it seems like there’s damaged people all around me. All coping. Some failing. Some succeeding. Some saying that those succeeding are lying. What’s the truth? The pain?
Pain is everywhere. Life is living with pain. With a rollercoaster of emotions and experiences to fill in the gaps. To remind you of the pain, and what it felt like. What it can feel like. What it can make you do. How it can destroy you, or build you up. Maybe it’ll be so painful you won’t feel anything anymore. Maybe, you’ll become so deluded, all you’ll feel is everything else, and never know pain again. Or maybe, you’ll learn to love it. Love the pain you feel because you know nothing else anymore. You don’t remember anything else. All you feel is the comfort of the pain, the one constant in your life that has always been there, to fill you with a sense of emptiness you fool yourself into believing makes you alive.
This is normal. Normal for me.