I am miserably unhappy — and I have no idea what to do about it.
For years, I’ve danced around having to admit that to myself. When exactly did it start? I’m not sure. Maybe it started as soon as I became psychologically self-aware enough to see my life clearly. But I’ve never wanted to call it by its true name.
I’ve been able to admit that I was lonely. I’ve been able to admit to being crushed by not having the love and companionship I need. I’ve even been able to face the enormous consequences of losing what little semblance of family love I once had.
I’ve lied to myself. I’ve told myself I was fine except for this one thing or that other thing. The things I’ve told myself were true, as far as they went. I did so much difficult emotional work that I knew which pieces were missing. I knew which pieces of my core were damaged. I had excellent head knowledge.
But my message to myself was always a partial lie. It was a way to keep from sliding into the deep pit of misery from which it would be hard to return. But I haven’t been OK — not really — for a long time. Maybe I never have been.
All I know is that I have somehow deprived my life of love. And without love, there is no happiness, no meaning, no joy.

Without hope for a better future, depression grabs us by the throat
I keep trying to find the light, but my choices leave me in darkness
Tribal instincts cause us to see others as evil, when they’re just different
When I feel too much ambition, my ego has gotten too inflated
God may be working on what we need long before we can see it
The free market: It’s not just for greedy, rich white capitalists
Gloria Allred wants free speech for her, but not for Rush Limbaugh
OK, morons, we’ll finally admit it: We really are smarter than you