I've got a secret. A secret addiction that I hide from everyone, including myself. A morbid curiousity of sadness that makes me unable to exist in the happiness I am surrounded by.
You are my mom. But somewhere along the line I became the nurturer. The unconditional love between us has allowed us to ignore our identities as people and to just fall into these roles that are locked in the guilt and hurt that strikes me at the core.... over and over and over again.
It took me months to find out I was in the midst of the worst depression and anxiety attack that I had ever been in; it took me weeks to reach out for help; and then it took me months to thankfully climb back out.
I've moved around so much that I'm just fragments of stages of my life. To me, they create a kaleidoscope of experience and depth but to others, they can only see that me that is present.
I was supposed to be special. But I'm not. Not in the "Bill Gates" "Steve Jobs" sort of way. And that's unsettling for me. I'm not a great. But I was supposed to be. But I'm not. And that realization has taken me years of self hate to endure and surpass. I am not a Great.
There was no book about this growing up. There was no warning about how intrinsically I would change when my heart left my body in two separate pieces in the form of these perfect mini-mes that will inevitably grow to hate me.