It’s hitting me so hard today—the feeling that I’ve failed. I failed to make my family, failed to find the right love, and now I may have lost my chance. I feel one million years old. All over my life, people know how to do this, and I don’t: falling together, clicking into place and figuring out what works for them, settling into the dailiness of love, and I’m writing while my ex-wife catches up the bills in the other room. I hate it so much and I don’t know how to get to the other side.
A week ago, for the past while actually, I’ve been feeling good about things, feeling like my momentum would just carry me along to wherever I need to be. For whatever reason, today that left me and I see the precariousness of the situation, I can’t feel any faith.
I am so scared, everybody, that no matter what I do or try, it will be forty years from now and I’ll be on my deathbed realizing that I never realized the dream that meant the most, the only thing I ever really cared about, that I never found true love. What if I have to spend the rest of my life just WATCHING love and never having my own?
Because what if whoever made me just forgot to put the lovable part in? What if I’m just not supposed to be a part of it?