In my solitude

Billy Holiday's pitch is the perfect portrait of painful beauty.

So here I am, in my solitude. My body has grown in girth as to render a feeling of alienation from my soul. My spirituality is in ruins. For some reason, my intellectual pursuits continue in an unabashedly promising manner. This isn't to be a "pity-party" or some "woe's me" post. It's simply me venting a little bit. The challenge is whether or not I will actually post this. [I chose to remove details, but if you know me, you know what I'm writing about--or do you?] It opens me up, potentially exposing me to the eyes of the world as a the creature that I am: a timid, loving, scared being in a male body who is constantly either misunderstood or misrepresenting himself. Do I love myself, am I battling with imagined (not fictitious) notions of what I am, or still more confusing, is it both?