Every once in a while I get this feeling that maybe
everything will be okay, that things might actually work out in a way that
involves happiness for me. Happiness for me involves being loved. I want
someone to love me, to care about me, to be bothered about whether or not I’m
happy at the end of the day. At the moment, the list of people who are
interested in that is my mother. That’s it. And it’s not enough. Or maybe it
is. But I always thought I’d be loved more. I’d have more people than my mother
who wanted me in their lives. And who would do something about it. But I was
wrong. And when I have this feeling – that everything will be okay – it doesn’t
take long for it all to come crashing down again. Those moments – when I go
from hope to hopelessness, they’re the darkest. They’re the moments when I can’t
keep it all in, all together. Where it all comes flooding out, and where I
wonder what the point is. Where I wonder how much longer I have to go on
pretending that I’m fine. But it doesn’t matter. Because no-one is there to see
those moments.
