i don't know what it means, but it felt good

I have tried for years to write a book because I have a story to tell. But my thoughts became fragments and fall apart. Where there should be glue to hold those thoughts together and seperately they make no sense. Not to mention my grammer is horrible. But I have a story to tell. I haven't yet figured out how to tell it, don't know if I ever will really.
I'm a poor abused soul, lost and angry and confused. Unable to connect to others, unable to want to connect with others, yet seemingly obsessed with it. I live just waiting to meet the man that will make me a whole person. I get up and get dressed, brush my teeth and comb my hair, go to work and do it well. I come home and parent-this is the only thing I do meaningfully. I come home and parent with such a passion that is rarely seen in parenting because I know it is the only thing I do right now with truth in it. and i wait.
i'm tired of waiting, i'd like to learn to live just by living, just by me.