One of the things that writing aloud, blogging does is it allows me to see memories in a different light.
Writing about my mother is making me realize that all this time I felt deep down unlovable. Because if your own momma can't love you, who can? You know? I always thought it was me, my fault. Reality is that she couldn't love me even if she had tried.
I continually am amazed that I've gotten this far in my life without a consistent, truly loving human. I truly am alone and have been for a very long time. I'm not sad about it. It's just the way it is.
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