None of this is happening. Wake up.
I want nothing more than to be close to you.
I want nothing more than to run as far away from you as possible.
The internal battle between my head and my heart has begun.
Nothing is ever easy.
Twenty four years.
Every year the same nightmares. They never change. They never go away. My mind cannot let go.
The image of perfection was shattered in a moment.
I wish these were just nightmares. I wish these weren’t memories.
Twenty four years.
And I still feel like everyone is staring at me and knows my dirty little secret.
I’ll never be whole again. You made sure of that.
I read a lot. I read these hauntingly beautiful things that speak to my feelings of emptiness and sadness. They speak to the parts of myself that I feel will never connect with another person. They remind me that for all the people I have in my life, I still feel alone.
And then there are those moments when I am with someone and those feelings and doubts disappear. Hold on tight, the moment is fleeting. Eventually, I awake from the dream and filled with endless sadness.
I could easily mistake lust for love. I could lie to myself and make believe that an afternoon of bliss could somehow be a lifetime of happiness. I could convince myself that somehow, someday, I will find someone who fills that empty space.
Instead I sit here in the reality of time knowing that in all my years I’ve yet to meet anyone who was able to light me up inside and keep that light burning. And maybe it’s not someone else’s job. Maybe it’s mine. Maybe I just haven’t figured out how to feel alive.
Maybe I’m so attached to this sadness within that I can’t let go of it. I’m not alone, I’m just unable to let go of what I’ve known for so long in order to hold onto something unknown.
I don’t know how to be happy. I learned to laugh, but the laughter masks the chaos within. No one wants to see those things. No one wants to love someone beyond repair.
Moving slowly. At a snail’s pace. Guarded but open. Hesitant but curious. These things are delicate. And good things take time.
I am 10 again. Hearing you scream about everything I ever did wrong. How my tears are evidence of lies. How I will never do anything with my life.
And your words are so familiar even if your face isn’t. Your venom tongue spits out words of hatred while you whisper under your breath how you wish I’d never been born.
I still hear it. I still feel it. And some days I also wish this had never happened.
The smell makes me think of you. And all of the times you thought you were a fish. Swimming in a bottle.
You always said you were such a great listener. How would people describe you? As a great listener.
Who are these people? Because over the years I’ve tried to tell you my truths and you’ve never heard them. You’ve been so busy waiting to talk that you can’t actually listen to what I’m saying.
You think because you’re funny and witty, that somehow it equates to you being a great listener. You can hear a sad story and then make a person laugh. The problem is, you have no idea what that sad story was. You don’t listen to see if the person needs a laugh or a hug. You just assume that the world is better with you telling jokes.
I don’t want to laugh. I want someone to listen. To hear me when I’ve had a bad day. To give me a hug. To make me feel like it’s okay.
I don’t want someone to make me feel bad that I’m not perfectly happy. That I’m not perfectly bubbly all the time.
I don’t want someone who pretends to listen, but really he’s just waiting for his turn to talk. And sometimes he can’t even wait that long and has to just start talking over me. My stories are short, but those precious few minutes are too long for you to wait.
I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want you.
I hope you’re listening for once.
Life is changing. I know I’ve made choices. I know that things are moving forward in a different direction. I realize this more than everyone around me seems to want to give me credit for these days.
And so they think because it’s been a few days, few weeks, few months since things were broken and battered that somehow I should be ready for this change. That I should be back on my feet able to face the new day.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready to get back out there and meet new people. I’m not ready to admit that my life has gone from quiet weekends at home to friends thinking I should meet them at a bar. I’m not ready to like someone. I’m not ready for them to like me back.
Yet these nights are so lonely. And this house is no longer a home. I’ve ceased to do all the things I would have done without question before the break. The dishes pile up, but they are not mine. The laundry sits unfolded, but it is not mine. Things sit around waiting to be put back in their place, but these are not my things. This is not my home. This is a roof over my head, a bed in which I sleep, a means to an end until the end really does come.
And some people are confusing my loneliness and sadness as regret that things are over. That somehow I want to go back. I want to work it out. I want to make it better.
I want to see you walk away and know that you’re never coming back. I want to delete you from my life. I want to forget you ever existed, because your existence reminds me that I wasted so much time thinking it could be better. I want to finally move on and move forward. I want to be happy.
And so here I sit, making up every excuse possible to stay in the comfort of my own shell right now. Because I don’t want anyone or anything to get the impression that I am somehow whole. That I am somehow okay. That I am somehow ready for someone new.
I will fill these moments with random conversations and music and sleep and movies and wine. But I will do it all from within my own comfort zone until I am ready to start anew.
“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.” - Paulo Coelho
The real question you need to ask yourself is, when you are building a relationship with someone (whether it be a friendship, romance, etc.), are you going to ensure that the foundation is solid or will you rush through half-heartedly thinking that house of cards will withstand the storms you’ll endure throughout life?
I’m pretty sure this last relationship lacked a solid foundation. We were crumbling from the beginning. Neither of us wanted to admit it. Only when we were drowning and unable to scream without water filling our lungs, did we realize this is too much… this isn’t going to work… this has been too fragile from the start.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
I saw this tonight and immediately began crying.
I need to find myself again.
Without anyone or anything else interfering.
Without the pressure of a new person to learn about and devote time to regularly.
I feel too much right now to know how I truly feel about any one thing.
I have all of these jumbled words bouncing around inside my head. I can’t seem to lay them out in a way that makes sense. I can’t seem to pull the feelings from within and translate them into words.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe next year.