I thought I was hungry for food.
For ice cream. For bagels. For cake.

But underneath it all,
I was starving for connection.
For softness.
For someone to touch me—not just physically, but emotionally—and not let go.

I don’t think I’ve ever had sex with someone I truly loved.
Not because I haven’t wanted to. But because I’ve never felt safe enough.
Because I’ve been performing intimacy while holding my breath—keeping the deepest parts of me sealed off.
Because I’ve layered myself in so much protection that no one could reach me, and maybe I couldn’t even reach myself.

I long for connection. Not just romantic, but human.
Chosen family. Friends who see me. A person I can fully let go with.
And yes, I miss sex—but really, what I miss is being known while being touched.
I miss the kind of moment that feels like home in another person’s skin.

But this wound goes back further than that.
It’s older than any adult relationship.
It’s the feeling of being unwanted as a child. Of being born into resentment.

My mother used me to meet her emotional needs.
My father, engulfed in shame, didn’t know how to face his failures—so he took it out on me.
They didn’t want me. And I felt it.
I might not have understood it at the time, but my body knew.

And so I built layers.
To cope. To protect. To survive.
Even my psychosis—I see now—was my mind’s last-ditch effort to protect me from a truth too big to hold all at once.

That I was never truly loved.
That I was never really chosen.

It’s no wonder I reach for food.
Not for nourishment, but for numbing.
Because for a few moments, it tastes like love.
It gives me the illusion of being filled.
But it never lasts. Because food can’t meet the craving beneath it all.

And still… I haven’t given up.

Because even now, I’m writing this.
Even now, I’m choosing to name the wound instead of bury it.
Even now, some part of me still believes that connection is possible.

I don’t know how to love myself completely yet.
But I’m trying.
And maybe that’s the beginning of something real.

Maybe this is what healing looks like:
Not a perfect life, but a quieter war inside.

And maybe—just maybe—there’s someone out there who’ll one day look at me and say:
“I see you. All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Until then, I’ll keep showing up for the one person who always needed that the most:

Me.