I've always had a hard time sleeping. I'm used to constantly worrying about four people and the rest of their lives. Sometimes I feel like I'm their only shot at a real chance. It's the part that's killed me about moving out and being so far away.
I've always wanted to provide a support for people, mostly because I never had one. Although definitely screwed up because of it, I somehow made it without one.
I never could figure out how to impress my parents. There was always something inherently wrong with everything that I did. I was immediately a failure because I didn't want to follow in their footsteps.
That's all I had there. Extreme Criticism. There wouldn't be a day that went by without me hearing about how much I'm going to fail. I know it's in the past, but every time I have a chance to collect my thoughts and look at where I've been, it stings. No matter how many successes you had, knowing that you were so low the two people who are supposed to love you no matter what have discarded you just kills a chunk of your soul.
This really only upsets me when the world catches up to me now. I have no where to be comforted in doubt, no place to feel safe. I have no home. I'm just as comfortable sleeping on a park bench as I am in my parents house or my own.
I'm coming a long way but the depression is still there. I still cry every night. I still long for safety. I'm still trying to fix all of those little things that I now realize are messed up in my head. I want a home.
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