A lot of me feels like I have nothing left. I thought I found a life that both honors my authentic happiness and has space for healing and growth and change. But perhaps it was never there to begin with. I’ve just been reaping the benefits of someone who was unlucky enough to fall in love with me, and get stuck in my chaos and my rigid structure. I think I’m autistic. Because this keeps happening. The structure of my brain, the way I see things, the way my life has to be so that I don’t kill myself feels like a one way street of overgrown weeds made of intergenerational complex trauma. I never want to hold that over someone. He doesn’t deserve to bear the burden of that worry, the burden of all my weird idiosyncrasies, the structure that no one but me feels comfortable in, all my behaviors that are impossible to read and feel volatile and random, yet feel so natural to me and my inner world. I thought I found it. I thought I found home–where all the struggles and the pain was healthy, towards good. Where I can speak freely of what’s going on in my heart and be heard. I always feared he’d be too good to be true. Too kind, too forgiving, too loving, there was no way any human can be that kind and accept me truly, in the long term. No way that this perfect pure man would be able to face, witness, and understand the same darkness that I’ve spent my whole life fighting. I had hope that I could live and thrive on this path. I feel like a drug that keeps sucking helpless victims in. I’m pretty, talented, smart, and have such huge feelings of happiness, passion, and care for others. But I’m also a broken fuck that infects those who get close enough with this darkness that I’m trying so hard to heal. I can’t go back to Washington. It’s too cold. I can’t go to my dad’s. I can’t go to my mom’s. My sister has moved on. My brother is a chaotic sweetheart but he has his own journey. My other brother is dead. I have 1 or 2 friends here that I’m actually close and comfortable with, but I can’t ask anything more of them. Did I do this on purpose? Have I been isolating myself this whole time? Or is this just capacity for me? My tiny little soul feels like it can’t handle anything but can handle the whole world at the same time. I’m tired. I wish I could drink, I wish I could smoke, but I can’t bring myself to do that, to escape that way. I can’t will myself to be anything but honest and authentic, or it makes me not want to live anymore. This life isn’t worth living if I can’t be my true self. But my true self doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. I’ve dissociated for 12 years of my life. It’s just too painful to live that way. I thought I found home. I thought I found home. But my home is just an unlucky beautiful soul who got sucked into my madness.