It is important to me to write. There is such an urgency within, without the musculature to follow through.

(Question: Have you considered that your depression stems from insufficient reflection? Something shifts in the world when you read back paragraphs you have considered, and found yourself self-assured enough not to annihilate each word immediately, for fear of judgment --whose?-- When you make yourself do the thing you feel successful. It is very important to feel successful.)

Often I don't know where to begin. There are so many moving parts, and such turbulent and fleeting desire. And fear - there is a lot of fear. Once upon a time I knew of so many feelings that coursed through me. Now I have to sit still and search them out. I have to open the window and let in the breeze. I have become so accustomed to inhabiting so little of my life. I have trouble identifying my needs. Years of abuse and neglect courtesy of my mother groomed me to find a partner equally cold, critical, and physically scary. I am afraid of the quiet bristling, that never stays at that level - criticism, blame, anger, physical aggression, that is what follows. I can feel the terror rising in me, just thinking of it, although the last time that re-surfaced in my life was months away. 

What is happening right now, typically I don't let happen. I bury it, the cold, crumpling feeling within. Shove it under the bed, it doesn't exist. There is no way to breathe through sadness and fear, and loneliness. I summon them like familiar friends. I tell myself I am to blame, I tell myself that my life means nothing, I tell myself - not to be pathetic, self-pitying, miserable, because that does nothing for no one, and if you give into that you might as well be dead. I tell myself my mother and my husband, W, that they were right, that I deserved to be treated like shit because I was a piece of shit. I should be thankful, as their treatment gives me the opportunity to try to be better. There was hope yet - one day maybe I would be less embarrassing. One day perhaps I would achieve a modicum of acceptability, enough to be ignored, instead of criticized and punished.

I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted to be left alone.

I wanted to be still, to be content. To sit with myself, think, create, and connect with ideas and people. Laugh, and make people laugh. I wanted to be easy-going and witty, casually caffeinated and bathed in natural light. I wanted to go outside and see where the day took me. I wanted to exchange smiles and pleasantries with people that I would never see again. I wanted to be alive.

I want to be in love with the world and everything in it. I want to say yes.

I have not changed - this is what I have always wanted, that I had locked away because others demanded subservience. I refused to believe that I was being held against my will, because I had bought it all - the dream of a happy family, first, as a child, and then as a wife. It didn't matter that I didn't know what love was - wasn't that the point? I learned that love was sacrifice, obligation, loyalty. I did not learn that love was supposed to be kind. I learned it from my mother - love is a weakness, love is a subjugation of self. If you really loved someone you would let them win, always, because there was no way to say no. There was no way to leave. 

(Do you want to bring shame on your family? You ungrateful, lazy, spoiled, proud girl? You are a princess.)

I don't remember what W would say any more. He moved out almost 2 years ago - I don't need to recall it because he still says similar things to me weekly, in corresponding about the divorce, or the children. He has no power over me any more. I am not afraid of him. He continues to have a very punchable face though, not because I harbor him ill will from our history necessarily, but because he has the world's weakest chin coupled with too much nose. I can say, summarily, that he was the least attractive man that I dated. In the early days, I knew that were I more shallow (which isn't to say I wasn't, because the thought did keep returning to me) that I could be with someone much better-looking. I think back then he was able to emphasize the traits that I would relate with, with film and a diversity of conversational topics. He was going to grad school and much of his education rubbed off on me, as I was surrounded by his friends and subjected to their conversations. Maybe I went out with him because my mom would approve. She was after all, Asian, and he was going to an Ivy. He came from a good family. I did want to please my mother, although I didn't realize how overt my choice was. 

I am the same as every person who has ever lived. I just want to be loved, and I don't want to be hurt. Why has it been so hard for me to say this out loud?