In a matter of weeks I will be forty-four years old. It’s just a number to me, marking out how long I have survived being me. Sometimes it feels as though I know exactly who has been marking the passage of those years, but others seem that I am a stranger to myself. I have survived being suicidal, continue to beat back depression and anxiety, and struggled my way into a career position. I am proud of the accomplishments of someone who didn’t expect to live long out of my teens. Yet, here I am, still with no sense of the future or ambition to succeed, just getting through each day.
For the most part, it’s also been a lonely forty-four years. I have often felt alone even when in the company of much loved friends and family. An outsider always. As for relationships, they have been few and usually short. I don’t know what to make of relationships, only how to be alone. Is it bad when you are capable of investing emotion into caring about others, even complete strangers, than it is possible to share with a lover? What about sparing some of those feelings of love for one’s own self? I don’t have an answer.
I have returned to an oft experienced part of life when I simply don’t care about myself. This has been an accustomed state to be in frequently through life. Yet, I still enjoy picking up little brothers and sisters, not to mention becoming attached to new friends. I crave being loved, probably because it is so difficult for me to accept. Such is life.
That’s all I have for the moment, but I am riding a high on wanting to write, to create. Thank you for stopping by, darlings. I hope you are all safe and, this is my plea, be kind to yourselves.