My body completely revolts when the bad episodes happen, and life is just terrible all-around. I face this alone, and my feelings fluctuate between being thankful nobody is here to have to deal with this and anger and despair over my loved ones' complete lack of understanding. I realize there isn't a thing anybody can do for me, but a thread of "give a damn" would be kind. At the very least, I would feel like it matters whether I'm dead or alive. I'm not feeling it. I haven't for 30 years. The name of my memoir is "Invisible" for a good reason.
I read a lot of articles about love. It's an interesting subject to me, but I don't expect I will ever put the things I've read or learned into action with the exception of friendships, which are more important than I can express and I guard them with my life. I manage to be a dreamer and a realist at the same time. I lie in bed and imagine a different me, but the reality is that this is the me I'm stuck with and I'm glad that there is no man (or child) feeling trapped, anxious, and/or resentful. I refuse to coexist that way...I cannot do it. I am an empath and I would feel more sorry for my significant other than for myself, to the point of detriment. I know me. I love people just like anybody else. Dare I say, I am more passionate than some people, without a doubt. My love is intense.
And because of that love, I would never drag an innocent soul into my personal hell.