Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

I won’t be celebrating this year.

I still feel like I’m alone. I still don’t have a family, and every day that feeling grows worse, and more real.
I lost my parents, and I’ve lost my brothers.

I feel like I don’t have anything at all.

The circumstances of this sudden onslaught of refreshed melancholy are too complex and irrelevant to really discuss. But, despite months and months of trying so hard to not be miserable, I have failed quite triumphantly.

I never seem to get better. I get worse every year, physically and emotionally. I grow bitter. I grow like a tangled garden of dying flowers. I’m sitting in a fucking hotel room crying, because some pretentious boy thinks that he can buy happiness, and thought he could do so with me. But you can’t buy someone’s happiness; lest of all your own, and even less when you can’t appreciate the little things that create happiness. I’m crying because he doesn’t understand, and a bitchy comment my sister-in-law made, then a bitchier response to my message.

Fuck all of it.