Looking back it's hard to recall times when I've been happy for any extended period of time. Hard to recall times when I've felt safe around other people. And this isn't anyone's fault, it's not some grand failure of a system or of a people, it's just how life is for me.

I made my self small, my needs small, when I was young. Nobody asked me to, but, whether right or wrong, I decided to do it anyway. I felt a burden to those i loved in the state I was in. So I packed myself into a box and pushed it to the back of the store room. I adopted coping mechanisms that would become facades for hobbies- more ways of escaping responsibilities I placed upon myself than things I truly enjoyed. I made my needs small, I put effort into keeping the peace, making sure others needs were met, even if mine weren't. I did my best to fade into the shadows and want for nothing- but no matter how often you fast you still get hungry, you still need to eat.

I have no true concept of self, I could not tell you what I look like, I could not tell you the sort of person I am. I exist as a constant stream of thoughts detached from a physicality. I could not tell you if that is true for anyone else, or just some side effect of the way I have lived. This state of just keep surviving, the tardigrade way of life, is the majority of what I can remember.

And it gets lonely, every now and then, but it's just another block on the stack of things I need to cope with. No matter how many times I hear that I am loved, that I am not a burden, it still doesn't feel real; it doesn't even begin to chip away at the monolith of the times I have been told otherwise. The times I've been upset and ignored, or told there are more important things at hand, or told it was ok because it was proving the efficacy of my medication. And it hurts, a little less every time, but it still hurts.