Melancholy in A Childhood Lost

I love to write. I love writing writing writing writing. The pen on paper gliding so smoooothly, leaving perfectly orchestrated lines of print behind, the meaning of which can forever be seen by anyone who cares to look. I wonder often why it is that I am so drawn to writing, to leaving my mark upon the world. Now matter how small. Do I have an effect? Can I truly exist, if only my thoughts ever find the receptivity by paper and never another human being that I can touch and smell and hear. I wonder if my only honest and complete mind may be known to the paper. I feel preternaturally sad. So melancholic that I break my own heart. Is even this self flagellation? Is even my most sincere, intimate love of writing a mere punishment?
Is my life a tragedy?
I wonder sometimes what my mother dreamed her life to be. What did she want? What were her most precious dreams? Why did she have children? She really did not seem to want us. So, she did it for some other reason that her own personal pleasure.. I question the legitimacy of any parenting if it is not expressly an enjoyable experience for the parent. And if the children do not know, or have any doubt at all about how much their parent enjoys them.
I, certainly, never felt enjoyed. I never felt wanted. I never felt loved. I was subjected to hatred for things that I could not help and had no control over. I was not accepted and was in fact rejected for the natural and expected processes of childhood.
And maybe that is why abstracting away from my body, my needs, my very biology, is so poignantly desirous to me. If only I were not this then I could be loved…