When it rains, it pours

My uncle was murdered, is that when this all started? No, of course not this all began the moment I was born. A trajectory I could not ever change. I look back at my life and all I see stagnation. I always thought things would get better, surely someday things would start to look up and there would be some way out of this darkness. Yet, as the years keep rolling by I no longer cling on to that same hope. No, I think I’m well aware that this life was not meant to be fruitful. Not meant to be get better. Some people want to end things, but I don’t– this isn’t one of those posts. Instead, this is that slow chipping away, that slow wasting away, just waiting for this all to end. I think I’m done pretending that things will ever be better– I think I’m at that point where I have begun to realize that some people get stuck in inescapable cycles. When I was little I learned about the poverty cycle, but somehow thought that if I worked really hard I could simply crawl out. And then in college it happened, the thing that would keep me forever in my place. I don’t think in any of these journals I have ever mentioned mental illness. It feels dirty, shameful– as if anyone stumbling across these ramblings would read this– and think “that’s it?”. But, it doesn’t feel like a small weight, it feels all encompassing, soul-crushing, and sometimes even physically painful. Even now somehow I am trying to justify that I am sick, I mean I feel sick. And mentally I am able to see all the ways in which I am not right. I am wrong. This feels so wrong, so so wrong. When will I feel right, even fine would be a miracle. Sometimes, I have thoughts where I wonder if this is my true personality or just the one masked by all the sickness. Writing this out I had thought that maybe it would give me some sort of feeling of relief, but I don’t. I feel foolish, I think there are people with actual problems and here you are still struggling over some stupid problems that exist solely in your head. I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have this, and I get angry– for being born into this cycle of poverty which kept my parents wholly ignorant of the child with with the many many mental health problems. Why couldn’t they see it? Why didn’t anyone notice? Is this the story where I have to save myself? But what if I can’t even get up most days to even begin to do that? What if this world is too hard for such a soft person? My uncle being murdered reminded me of how we will never get the chance to escape from where we are. We are fully a product of our circumstances.