Writing these posts feels like walking toward my own death.
Not literal death.
But a kind of exposure that makes me want to disappear.
Like I’m risking every shred of dignity I have left.

I’ve never had a real friend.
Never had a loving partner.
Never had a loving family member.

So every word I write here feels like I’m handing people a reason to reject me. To pity me. To confirm the very shame I’ve spent a lifetime carrying.

And yet… I keep going.
I keep posting.
Why?

Because some part of me still hopes that maybe, just maybe, someone will read this and feel less alone.
And even if they never tell me… even if I never find out…
I’d still say yes. I’d still want to have written it.

Not for attention. Not for sympathy. But for truth.

The truth is:
I’ve been lonely my whole life.
I’ve been judged for how that loneliness made me act.
Mocked, dismissed, outcast — not because I was broken, but because I was open. Because I kept hoping someone would care.

And now, even as I start to feel what love might look like — through therapy, through counselling training — I’m grieving all that I missed.
The entire landscape of my life looks different now.
Like I’ve been living in black and white and someone just turned the colour back on — only to show me what I never had.

So yeah. This is vulnerable.
It might be the most vulnerable I’ve ever been.
And maybe no one will get it.
Maybe I am just posting into the void.

But if there’s even one person who reads this and thinks:
“Wait… that’s how I feel too.”
Then it’s worth it.

Because I’m not doing this to be admired.
I’m doing this to be free.

And maybe what’s dying here…
Isn’t me.

Maybe it’s the part of me that thought I had to stay hidden forever.