Sometimes when I have no one to talk to, I talk to you. Or I just ask you to read an exerpt from my journal.
If I talk to my heart about why I'm unhappy, our voices are muted and drowned by ocean waves and seagulls beaking at eachother for the crumbs of a walker's breakfast. We only scratch the surface. Resting on the water's edge is desperation. I only say desperation in humor. Really, I mean love.
I've never been in a serious relationship. I have never been in love. That is a lie and it is not a lie.
My first of two relationships that meant anything meaningful was the kind of relationship you find yourself in when you're young and curious about love. When you want to remember what it feels like to be kissed on the lips by someone besides your mother or the man who killed everything inside of you. When you wonder where does one go when their purity has vanished, or been stolen and now you're a wise old woman living inside a 13 year old's body. When you want a hand to hold while you stroll the mall with only $5 in your pocket, not even enough for a Keropi phone book slash picture holder, the one you want. Instead you make out on the bench in front of Spencer's Gifts hoping the haters see you with the hottest guy in school.
With all the glamour of teenage love, the hope of teenage sex, the rebellious enjoyment of breaking mom's rules by dating the guy she know's will break your heart. Trying to prove that parts of your dead father live inside this "soul mate" who only ends up chewing on every part of you that is good until they rot and fall out of his mouth leaving you with nothing but a baby you don't know how to take care of.
This ended six years ago and is still an easy place to send the blame for everything that makes this life so hard to stay alive in.
The second hurt much less but was far from normal. This relationship is the kind you find yourself in totally unexpected, pleasantly surprised, and slighly dissapointed. The kind that shocks you in to the reality that what you thought you were according to Mr. Dead Beat (said #1) was only in his imagination. I found beauty in myself that I didn't know I possessed, richness of a life that felt old and dirty and cheap. All of this seemingly healing and fresh was only an illusion created by the old me to justify the new me. Nobody should ever find themselves through others. I shouldn't of found my confidence in his wanting me. He only wanted some of me. He said he loved me but he only loved the idea of fixing me, giving me what I never had, making me feel like I wasn't the sagging, drooling, dripping hag that I thought I was...tricking me into feeling like he was an easy place to send the blame for everything that makes this life so easy to settle in, with hopes of making it out alive. Or dead.
If only he knew that it was me who was doing to settling and the fixing and what not. But under false convictins. I was settling with what could be read, but not philosified. I was tricking myself.
This ended one year ago.
Wether this makes sense to you or not, what I am trying to say is that I am completely alone now. I have been for a very very long time. Lonlier than ever.
And I'm ready for love. Real love. True love.
But I don't know where to look or even how it will feel. Or if I really want it at all once I have it.
But it's the only mountain left to climb, the only solution to what makes me want to die. I have everything else I could need...food, family, friends, home, fashion, job, 3 Muskateers candy bar. I did break my iphone which is sad, but will pass. If this doesn't work...I guess I will have to finally give in to the reasoning that noone gives me credit for. Chemical inbalance?
Why else would someone so normal and so strong want to take the coward's way out everytime the tears fall? HUH?
Thanks for reading, my friends.