It’s starting to occur to me, that the people around me are not the sort I need to help.

I try. I find myself going back, much as I did to my family, time and time again, even though anyone (else) could likely have told me, “It’s hopeless. Give up. Don’t try again.”

I do, though.

And it affects me. I need something other than instant judgement, thinly-sliced witticisms and half-meant insults.

I think I’d like someone to trust.

I’m considering therapy more and more, but… that’s not really a *person*, is the concept I gain from it. It’s a device and some whitewash, antiseptic exterior to which I speak. Which, come to think of it, is really what I have in this blog, if only I were to use it.

All the patience that anyone has shown me is used up. I can’t really try anymore.

I formally announce my intended celibacy.

I’ve been broken too much, for too long, and haven’t had anyone to really talk to for, well, most of that time. Or if I have, it’s been miscommunicated. Lost in the intricacies of intrinsic inter-gender confusion.

I feel put-upon, downtrodden, confused, attacked, and generally… sore. Does it mean anything, or serve any purpose to even state such silliness, if I don’t attempt to resolve it?

I haven’t been able to really concentrate on anything in about 3-4 years. That’s a fair chunk of my adult life.

This doesn’t flow, so much as shatter on the rapids.