My loneliness has become palpable, like a second skin with a separate set of nerve endings from the one’s I was given at birth. I feel it look out into the world hoping, waiting, looking for love. It is strange to me because I have lived a life of hiding from and distancing myself from love because it is too painful, but this newly shaping shell of vulnerability (odd how it has shaped itself upon a once impenetrable shield) looks for new sensations whether they be of love or of pain. Extreme vulnerability is a terribly fragile state to find one’s self in though vulnerability, in and of itself, can be quite beautiful. It is navigating the stream of emotions that is difficult for me.
Soft on the outside, soft on the inside, with a hard layer in between. Sounds like a fucked up new candy bar, but no, its me. These extremes of desire to love and be loved are contrasted by my distrust of love and my inability to allow myself to feel it. It is a strange and horrible way to live: to always be wanting something but to also continuously deny it to yourself. or allow yourself to have it, then feel desperately guilty about it.
Sometimes I feel that my loneliness is insatiable. No amount of love will ever fulfill its needs. Maybe that is true. Maybe that is why I will possibly never be happy. Because I do not let myself.
Happiness is too fragile to be trusted, but it’s joy is endlessly appealing to those who feel they can never achieve it. Is it as nice as it appears to be? Something tells me no. What I call happiness is un-achievable perfection, apparently. But, it’s not. It’s merely knowing that I am seen, respected, desired, and loved. Nothing more, and nothing less.
I can bravely face a world of love twisted by pain on my own, but I would so much prefer to have someone beside me who understands me to endure it with during the good and the bad. But, getting to the point of acceptance between my extremes is the key. The wise Buffy the Vampire Slayer once said (yes, Buffy. Shut up.),
I’m cookie dough. I’m not done baking. I’m not finished becoming who ever the hell it is I’m gonna turn out to be. I make it through this, and the next thing, and the next thing, and maybe one day, I turn around and realize I’m ready. I’m cookies. And then, you know, if I want someone to eat m- or enjoy warm, delicious, cookie me, then that’s fine. That’ll be then. When I’m done.
I’m just not cookies yet.