Hard to say. 2020 killed me. But so did 2018 and 2019. Those were the years I tried to live again, to change my life for the better, after 10 years of isolation. Of course life couldn't have that. Every time I poke my head out for some sunlight life bitch-slaps me back down into this cold dark muddy hole.
Maybe it was 2001, when I broke it off with the girl I was going to marry. Maybe it was 1996, when I met the girl who fucked me up for every relationship I've tried to have since.
Maybe it was 1986 when my family moved from the most beautiful heaven to the ugliest hell. Maybe it was my high school years there, being bullied and ostracized and alienated.
Maybe it was 1975 when my mom married the man who would torment and shame and warp me into this weak, twisted fucking man-child-thing that I've become. Maybe it was every worsening year from 1975 until today.
Or maybe it began earlier than that, in 1972, when I was born to a father who kept trying to kill my mom and would kick or punch or throw me when I tried to intervene. One of the first things I ever knew was that life is hard and cruel.
What year was it when my mom first said "I miss your smile, I miss your laugh"? Probably in '86 or '87, shortly after starting school in this stinking hell. That was probably it. 1986.