I don't understand. I really don't. I think of myself as sensitive, caring, compassionate, understanding, empathetic. And yet time and time again, I manage to say the wrong thing. I don't know how I do it. It seems to be a gift. An unwanted gift like my mania and melancholy. I don't ask for these things, they just are. And then there are hours, days, weeks, berating myself, wondering how things can go from so right to so wrong in a breath of a moment. I don't understand. I try and try, but it eludes me. Maybe it is back to my Strange Aloneness, my subconscious stepping in to sabotage my life. That is the only explanation that I can manage, because I really do not understand. Not at all. It makes me feel like an alien species, struggling to hide on an alien planet, to disguise myself, blend in. But it does not work for long, I cannot hold up the charade, and my alien face bursts forth, betraying me. Sending me back into my solitary purgatory. I don't know what I can do, how I can make myself be different. I should not have to. But I can't keep floundering through life, fucking things up, fucking up my attempts to find where I fit.
So, I step back into my Strange Aloneness, and try to make myself believe that it is all okay. But it is not. I am alone, lonely, and seem to be fated to continue to be so. But I have to make it be okay, to be all right. I have to be fine with it, because it is my reality, this Strange Aloneness. I don't understand. But it is my reality, and so I must make it be all right. I can make it all right. I am alright. I'm alright.