People who take annual vacations seem to have so much fun, but usually they're folks who have partners and/or families. One of my library buddies has started going on trips by herself; this year's iteration was a road trip of the Laura Ingalls Wilder historical sites. Maybe I should take a similar trip, but I figure I can be just as lonely in one place, where I don't have to pay to board my dogs or sleep in strange hotel rooms.
We're kind of back to the concept that I don't like being a burden to others, and I always feel that I'm underfoot. I also have this weird thing about 'I should be doing something productive' when I travel; there's supposed to be some sort of 'mission goal' involved. I guess that staves off some of the emptiness.
What it boils down to in the end is that I don't live, I exist. In many ways, that stems from a lifetime of being dismissed as burdensome or boring or unattractive or...(insert depressing adjective here). I wouldn't know joy if it jumped up and bit me on the butt, because I've been estranged from it so completely my entire life.
Seeing all the photos and cheerful social media posts this time of year just drives the point home. I don't begrudge anyone their happiness or their vacations, mind you. I just wish I deserved a little slice of that, or had a clue to finding it.