First of all, what I write is pretty tame, it's really just a guilty pleasure for shipping. Sue me. But I'm not immune to the self-inserting, and it's made me realize how alone I truly am. Every time I write a new chapter filled with lovey-dovey shit, I will find myself thinking about how I don't have that. I don't have someone who even remotely cares, and not just romantically. I'm effectively Meg from family guy. Hated by my family, teased incessantly and sometimes outright bullied. They even sometimes tell me "Shut up Meg." Because they actually compare me to her, and not in a funny way. When I was in school, I was treated as an outcast, bullied so horribly that I have PTSD and now I have a panic attack when I hear a sound any louder than a balloon pop. The last person to care about me, I grew to be a horrible person to, and they rightfully kicked my ass to the curb. I push people away when they get too close, so afraid that I'll just be hurt. And I am consistently reminding myself of that every time I write something. But online, I get enough views of my work that I want to keep writing. I like the idea that people enjoy my writing. I started writing in the first place because I loved reading stories and getting lost in the fantasy so much, like any other writer. I wanted to gift that to people myself. But it's eroding my mental health. It's like a drug; when I'm writing, it's fine, I feel genuinely okay because I love to imagine what's happening, and I'm happy to live the fantasy I've created. And then the fact that it is a fantasy comes crashing down once I've hit submit. The fact that I'm not loveable like these characters I write about and compare myself to. I stopped writing original stories, like nothing is a parody, because that too was ruined in the same fashion, but more because I was writing the fantastical and reality is a far cry from the wonders of fantasy. I hate what my life has become. Get up by 5am, go to work, come home, take care of my dog, spend quality time with my cruel siblings because I'm forced to do so, eat dinner, then write a chapter on one of my stories and eventually get ready for and go to bed. I'm falling apart. I hate every second of my miserable life.