Empathize with me

Colleen recently wrote about her frustration with not being "understood". It's a subject that holds a great deal of resonance with my own continual state of misery. I want someone to know my history, to not be afraid of me, when they hear about shelterwood, to comfort me, when I tell tales of my parents. In many ways, it all boils down to me wanting recognition for turning out as nice as I am, in spite of all that I've been through. I think I think that if people could know the totality of my personal-history, they would judge me more lightly, than I do myself, and provide me with the validation I crave.

The idea that my life requires external validation shows up in other ways. Like how, since I first started being honest about my sexuality, I've tried very hard not to fall into the gay-only lifestyle I so often see in gay-men, where they only have gay friends, they only hang out in gay-bars, or gay-coffeehouses. I avoided that because I don't want my personal judge, to find that I was lacking. But more and more, I wonder, maybe it would be better for me, happinesswise, if I did take that plunge. It's not like it's easy/fun, for me to hang out with my straight friends all the time anyways. It's hard not to cry, when they discuss their children, or plans for children. I look at all my possible futures, and none seem so cheerful, so hopeful. Even if I do think I'd make a terrible father, I still wish/hope/dream, that I could start a family that would different, better. One where all my children would be encouraged to follow their own dreams, not forced/coerced, into following mine.