Interesting Facts about Space

I am so worried that I am a bad person. I am afraid of facing that possibility. But I think, if I were a good person, I would face it. Good people want to know what they did wrong.

“Nothing is wrong with you—”

“No, something is wrong with me. I’ve actually been going to a doctor. She said I am different neurodevelopmentally and that I have mental health conditions—”

“That doesn’t mean something is wrong with you.”

I will never understand how my dad could stand in the glow of my mom, as if an inch from a star, and be unmoved by her formidable light. It has been devastating to watch her fade in response to him.

I find it impressive when queer people knew they were queer as kids or teenagers. I think it reflects a strong sense of self-awareness. I was not self-aware when I was a teenager. I can tell from my YouTube channel that I did not know who I was at all. I presented myself with no consideration toward my true personal tastes or interests. I wore the clothing I did, bought the things I did, and behaved how I did purely to protect myself from negative attention.

Sometimes, when I have a nice interaction with someone, I hope I never see them again.

Whenever my mom says that something about me reminds her of my dad, I feel slighted. It feels underhanded. I’ve always interpreted those comments as her way of saying something like, I love you, but you’re horrible.

I hate my voice. I hate the words I choose. I hate my instincts and the way I think. I hate that I am self-absorbed enough to hate myself in detail. I think I am a bad person. I feel self-loathing so deeply I think if I cracked myself open, I would see the physical manifestation of it calcified in my bones like a geode.

Sometimes, when things are broken, I find they fix themselves if you just pretend that they are fine and give them time.

I hate the idea of being at the core of someone’s heartbreak. I don’t want to be anywhere near other people’s hearts.

I struggle to stomach sincerity, or to express any authentic emotion, because everything feels insincere when you suspect that deep down, in the chasm of yourself, the most sentient part of you is a little ill-intentioned monster.