I don't like my life.
Not because it's imperfect.
Not because I'll always want more.
But because at 46,
I feel like I've spent my life
trying to have one.
A real one.
An ordinary one.
One that has some flavour.
When I was younger, I wanted a house.
A close-knit family.
A stable job.
A dog. A cat.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just a little piece of happiness
that wouldn't fucking leave.
But life decided otherwise.
I loved.
I lost.
I started over.
I made mistakes.
I paid the price.
I took the hits from judgment,
humiliation,
rejection.
I wanted to please.
To be accepted.
To be enough.
Good enough.
Competent enough.
Normal enough.
After trying so hard to be enough for others,
I ended up no longer being much of anything to myself.
I lost my confidence.
My vibe.
My colours.
And the worst part
is that it didn't happen all at once.
It happened slowly.
One disappointment at a time.
One battle at a time.
One loss at a time.
Until all that was left
was a beige life,
tinged with black.
Today, I get up.
I look for something to do.
I look for a way to move forward.
I'm still looking for what could change.
I go around in circles.
I wear myself out.
I start over.
And nothing goes anywhere.
I used to be a go-getter.
I had goals.
Ideas.
Fire in my belly.
Today, the go-getter is still there.
But he moves forward like a guy
with one lung less,
heart problems,
at the end of a marathon.
He keeps going.
But he's on his last legs.
Pleasure, though,
I don't even really know what that is anymore.
My life is like my favourite meal
when I have a sinus infection.
I know it's supposed to be good.
But I can't taste a thing.
So I keep eating.
Without wanting to.
Without flavour.
And the days go by the same way.
I live.
But I don't savour anything.
With $600 a month,
I can barely do anything.
No trips.
No hobbies.
No little splurges.
Not even a place just for me
to sit,
have some peace,
and write.
I watch other people live.
Their outings.
Their plans.
Their get-togethers.
Their little everyday joys.
And me?
I'm still fighting
to get my imperfect little piece of bread.
Socially,
there's nothing.
I can count my circle on one hand.
No one texts me.
No one calls me.
No one spontaneously checks in on me.
My birthday comes and goes.
Like any other day.
I'm not invisible to my family.
But outside of them,
I feel like I matter to no one.
I have to manage everything.
Check everything.
Decide everything.
Take everything.
Alone.
And it weighs on me.
Fuck, it weighs on me.
The most ridiculous part
is that I'd like to have a social life.
People.
Conversations.
Pleasant moments.
Some less pleasant.
Just human interactions.
But my social anxiety
closes the door on me
before I've even managed to knock.
I wish someone would show up
out of nowhere.
Not to save me.
Not to pity me.
Just to know me.
Without judging me by my appearance.
My bank account.
My failures.
What I haven't managed to become.
Someone who chooses me
as I am today.
Not as I could be
if I were doing better.
I'd like to find a job again.
A salary.
A little recognition.
A place somewhere.
To feel useful.
Wanted.
Respected.
I wish my fucking grey clouds
would fuck off.
Because I'm worn out.
Not angry.
Not revolting.
Worn out.
Disappointed with my life.
Disappointed in others.
Disappointed in myself.
I know you're not supposed to compare yourself.
But when I look at where I am,
at 46,
with everything I've lost
and everything I've never managed to hold on to...
I feel like I'm nothing.
I'm not looking for pity.
I'm not asking to be told
that I'm strong,
that I'm brave,
that everything happens for a reason.
I just want people to understand
that I'm tired of fighting
for things I consider ordinary.
At night,
my greatest satisfaction
is sometimes telling myself:
“Good job.
You made it through another one.”
Not a good day.
Not a happy day.
Just another day.
And tomorrow,
I'll open my eyes again
to this same life
that I don't like.
Am I afraid
it'll stay this way?
Yes.
Because I don't want to spend
the rest of my life
simply enduring my days.
Why do I keep holding on?
I don't know.
Maybe there's still
a tiny part of me
that still wants to believe
that one day,
there will be something beautiful.
Not a miracle.
Not a perfect life.
Just something
that makes me want to get up.
A reason to smile
without having to force myself.
A day
I wouldn't have simply gotten through.
I don't like my life.
And what hurts me the most
is knowing that I only have one.