How could I ever be a man again?

Its important, I write what I can here, if I write it on paper and leave it in my home, who will find it? Who will understand, why I say the things I write? It is only here that I can see who I really am. Will my children, although grown, understand the mindless ramblings I've written? I don't want anyone to understand what I write but, witness what I was in what I write. I can't sit with you my son, my daughter, my mother or my father and tell them the things I write, nor could anyone else, try to sit with your closest and say the things you write. I am being looked at so closely now because, I am not like them and am suffering, am on massive legal doses of narcotics. So they must be searching my eyes, my speech, my comments, searching me for weakness, for a stumble, for that moment when I break under the pressure of being ill. I think, since I am alive, I must be stronger than them. My family in the midst of me, are not grasping the ideals of how lucky they are to be healthy, to have blood that is clear and not toxic of medicines and pain killers. To have healthy chances of direction, to have missed the bullet that hit and still spins inside me, taking out brittle bone, after brittle bone. To not feel gravity drawing the centre of the earth towards them, to dance without leaving a footprint, to reach dreams I can not, to draw air without guilt, to give, to be needed, to be of use, to carry on a reality for the betterment of together/another. I talked with a neighbor the other day, who said, " I push the chance of a companion away because, I am like a weight he felt upon the ankles of another" he is my age and suffering from a different disorder, MS (Multiple Sclerosis). I guess, I agree but, how do I fathom the reality of companionship? How could I ever be a man again?