It turns out that my life was largely imaginary. I imagined it. I dreamed it. I lived it only accidentally, or in passing.
I never found the partner I was looking for, or the deep and abiding love that might have convinced me to trust and make family.
I found the friends, I think, and felt well understood. I was useful, for a time, to a few, and that was good.
I was meant to teach. I felt that strongly. I’m surprised it didn’t work out better. At my two real jobs I made strong connections, met great professors and students. But I also endured some of my life’s most profound humiliations.
Then the cancer, which ended my ambitions. The way that the cancer itself ruined me physically was just the first brutal phase in crushing my dreams. The treatments have been the second part, eroding me such that a return to normalcy is impossible.
I don’t know what’s left to dream. I think service, usefulness, but I’m tired. So tired.