A Part of me Asks in A Childhood Lost

Why am I not loved?
At one time another part would respond that I am not worth loving. No one loves me, and that is proof enough.
Another, or the same, part might then suggest that my parents “love” me… quickly followed by a derisive “because they have to.” and a sick sort of pity for my parents who must love an unlovable child. A child so off putting that no one even likes.
But now… I don’t know what there is to say. Those voices are a memory… an echo. I sort of… miss them. They were with me, always. They highlighted my misery; guiding me somehow. I listen for them, now. But they are silent. And I am lonely.
My son W is so happy. I don’t know anything about it. I find myself mystified… curious. He is so happy. But I am not. W needs nothing: happiness unfolds naturally from him- from his purpose. One must do nothing except not get in his way....
It’s odd, now; I feel as if I unfolded early in life with everything I needed. Perhaps I did receive an adequate attachment object, and was loved enough… not by mom, probably, but someone. And then later, my natural exuberance and happiness was cruelly put to death. This is so different than the experience that I remember. It is like a new perspective… it is not exactly exclusive. It seems to be.. emerging. The thought of my happiness, that I held it within my being for a shining moment… that I truly remember an embodied feeling and experience of self expression and the experience of being happy- It is painful. It is difficult to bear. Even the thought is hard to witness. It requires a critical view of even and maybe especially those that did love me… those that gave me some kind of attachment figure or object.