Presence

I think the day that I was born, something went wrong.

I have always felt that something about me has always been inherently off. As I mark off another decade survived, I cannot seem to shake the belief that being unlovable is simply something that you are born with—a fundamental part of who I am. And I don’t mean this in a self deprecating or pitying way, I mean that I am simply incapable of being loved. I believe that there is something inside of everyone that I lack or simply possess in a way that is just not quite right.

My birthday is particularly hard for me, though, if I’m honest, every day feels difficult in its own way. I don’t really know what any of this is supposed to mean honestly or why I’m writing any of this down. These are feelings I’ve carried for as long as I can remember but I guess I’m trying to accept that these things may never change.

There is a part of me that feels irreparably warped—a heart that is both desperately needy while cruelly distant. It is a strange and hollow feeling, needing so deeply for the love of others only to find myself completely unable to absorb any of it in the first place. It is a constant undercurrent as though I am missing something consequential that makes connection possible. I feel incapable of holding warmth and instead clutch onto an existential weight. It is paradoxical and completely inane, I know—I also cannot help myself.

I think I’m simply trying to ease my own mind somehow. By putting my self loathing into words, I can force it to feel tangible and manageable—maybe even easier to accept my unlovability. A small gift of kindness to myself, in a way, I guess.