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.

FRIDAY FUNNIES
Coming economic hardship may help me understand Aunt Bessie
It’s a mystery why two cats bond — or why two people fall in love
Weddings are triumphs of love and hope over reasonable fears
How can I share what’s obvious when nobody will listen or see?
Double standards seem like the only standards most politicians know
Fear of making trade-offs to get best life leaves us with nothing
Ayn Rand spins in her grave? ‘Atlas Shrugged’ is a bad film