I’ve always been the wrong person for the persons I’m around.

When I was seventeen, I was sitting next to my boyfriend. He got pissed at me about something and knocked me with his knuckles on top of my head. This same guy once asked me if I knew what kind of stuff he had to listen to from other guys at school about the kind of girl I was. Like he was some fucking hero for being with me despite my reputation. Yeah, this guy who fucked me everywhere and anywhere he could. Ok for him, not so ok for me. What a lucky girl I was to have him tolerate me.

I’m almost three decades older now and the man with whom I share my bed and life feels objectified whenever I touch him sexually. Still the wrong person for the persons I’m around. He loves me. He just doesn’t love me like that…

A failure every day at parenting a child who needs and deserves more than I’m capable of providing. Beyond those shortcomings, living with the awareness that my limitations and damage from personal trauma not only makes me a terrible candidate for motherhood, it practically guarantees I will keep fucking this up to a point that is irrecoverable.

Too loud. Too emotional. Too angry. Too raw. Too needy. Too crass. Too much. All my life. Rejected from those expected to love me.

And I’m told by others that I’m too hard on myself.

Really?? It’s me. 

A lifetime of being trashed when I expose myself. And the idiotic optimist inside believing each day, each person, each time it will be different. It’s not.

Still too much. Always too much. Even for myself.