well, here I go again, repeatedly posting on SF because if I'm alone with my thoughts all I do is cry. At least the physical activity of convulsing in grief is bringing me sort of an appetite back. I even talked to a friend last night and said that I felt like I am sinking, and losing contact with reality. He said he was feeling similar. Which, while it made nothing better, at least we were miserable together. Also it's nice to have someone to talk to when I feel like shit who doesn't try to change that.
I feel like an ingrate. So many fantastic people came into my life to lift me up. When I was struggling to behave like a human because I was constantly being torn down (physically and verbally) at home, a couple men, namely a leader in my boy scout troop and a guy who just took an interest in me from church, stepped in to help me and convince me I wasn't the horrible waste of oxygen I was being treated like at home. Given their positions, they had to know I was vulnerable, and if they wanted to they could have joined in the abuse. I would have happily let them assault my body because at least then I would be good for something. But instead of taking advantage of the fact I was starved for attention, they gave me advice. Sat me down and listened to me, and taught by example what a real man is like. Tough, but not aggressive, compassionate, but not enabling, and above all caring for people in need. During college I had a huge friend group by way of performing in the music scene, which was tightly knit and I count several of the ones who are still alive as friends to this day.
Even in adulthood I have been enormously fortunate to have very good providers in therapy and medicine although that luck has run out as of 2024. There was even an older man who mentored me when I was struggling to get sober. It was only because he never, ever gave up on me that I even kept picking myself up after the umpteenth relapse. He only encouraged me. He never said what I was doing was okay, but he also never said I was hopeless and always advised me to try again. Then there was my partner, who would have left me in the first year if he had any sense. But he also saw someone worth helping. To be clear he did not "rescue" me as in a codependent relationship. He did, however, reflect back to me what I was doing that I would have otherwise been unaware of. In that way he allowed me to become an adult despite having to learn self-care in my 30s. It was until death that we parted; although I was disappointed that death came for him first. He took care of himself while I was drinking and consuming more than my share of processed meats. If anyone should have gotten cancer, it should have been me, but as it turns out lifestyle factors only have a small portion of the likelihood of one person getting cancer vs another. According to the oncologist, random chance is all it can be attributed to. Therefore I am indulging in as much charcuterie as I please.
But, even with all those advantages, I'm barely staying out of jail. I'm wishing for death as in trying to make my heart give up out of sheer desperation. It seems like I need constant support, and when it's time for me to put on my big boy pants, I fall apart.