I’ve always known I wasn’t going to live a long life. From a young age I would say this and it would terrify my mother. I would assuredly state, “but 36 is old. I won’t make it to thirty-six.”
In the coming years I would learn about my father’s mental health issues. That darn hereditary gene. I understood, then, why my mother left and it suddenly made sense that I would never find someone for myself. And I was never short of being told.
The first came from an angry ex. A random boyfriend who decided his last words to me would be, “You’re cold. You’ll never find someone that will love you.”
The next came from a parent. Yup, the same parent whom I share this lovingly depressing disease. And finally, a sibling. Sweet siblings, that tell you everything you don’t want to hear. And that was my final straw. The straw that broke more than my back.
See, for so long people thought I had such a stone heart that it never phased them when they were throwing stones. I’m sure they figured I would just shrug it off. Take it like a man. Rub some dirt on it. And walk away.
But each stone cast has been eternally swallowed and absorbed, building an even bigger wall around my heart. So much so, that my chest has become the heaviest it’s felt in years.
And so I will not live to see thirty-six. I will likely die of this disease, a stoning for the whole world to see. Ashamed, sad, and alone. But at least I’ll finally get it right.