Hoping It's A Phase

Don't know what to do, just over this. 

Last night I entered my apartment building, hands half full of trash half with medicine.  The trash bad ripped in half, dumping debris and spraying brown liquid all over the floor. I scrambled to clean it up, eventually making it out to the trash to dumb it. On the way back inside a leaf off a little weed gently caressed my neck and I almost began to cry, visceral realizing how long it's been since anything let alone anyone touched me so kindly and gently. I say inside, trying to glue together the pieces of my life, eventually realizing in a panic: I had quite possibly thrown out my medicine. 

I charged outside, opening the stinking can and sure enough my meds were sitting in it. The bag could've toppled over, sending each of the dozen bottles into the full can, and I was thankful for that at least. I walked back inside, passing the weed along the way, and settled in for the night.  And though I tossed the bag the medicine has been in, as it had become infused with the smell of trash, I had a few bugs crawl on me last night and this morning, likely tracked in from my err. 

This is my life. 

This is exactly how I feel. 

Everything I hold falls apart in my hands, and created worser problems as it goes. 

I'm so alone and regularly feel so unloved that a kind touch from a weed, not a rose, nor a tree (let alone a human) is the highlight of feeling loved (let alone a love life). 

And despite all this, I'm thankful for the little bit of my health that I have, which nevertheless is still in the trash, and whose silver lining even tracks in pests that get under my skin.

This is my life. This is the world that I have when I step off the stage of work. When I'm no longer surrounded cast members part of the same shared experience. This is the behind the scenes of my life, what I am facing without a script dictating some good in my life. 

And I want to change it, but again, everything I try to do, just touch with a plan in mind, falls apart in my hands and creates more problems. So although this isn't working, I genuinely don't know how to escape.  And at the end of the day, I only have myself to blame. I escaped this city once before, and it was me who thought it would be better when I came back.  So I have no idea what I'll do, how to clean up the grime of my life, and ideally feel happy with my life unscripted.  But unlike the last time I left, I have memories of a happier existence, which rather than motivating instead haunt me, reminding me of what I chose to leave and how much of a mistake I had made.