“It isn’t fair.”
When I finally said those words out loud, it was like a release. When I said them to a friend it was even better.
A favourite flirtation of mine is now getting “serious” with someone, so our little tete-a-tete had to cease rather swiftly. I certainly don’t begrudge him finding someone (much), but it broke something in my head. The unfairness of it shook me to the core. We’d always been attracted and open to each other, although we live further apart. I’d always hoped that somehow we could make something work.
Why. Why do people i know who are vicious, mean, selfish, cruel, who have a face like a bag of spanners, who don’t have enough real wit or intelligence to fill a cup, why do they get to find someone while i’m alone. I’m no model, but I’m not that bad to look at. I have my own charm. I love to read and learn and explore. Why do I have to come home and feel so fucking lonely?
As I curl up on the bed, cold and alone, I imagine what it would be like to have someone to come home to who I loved. I’m not a romantic fool, I know relationships are hard. I know that it isn’t all roses and romance, but I just feel so alone. I’m 27 and after 3 years in London I haven’t been able to make anything work beyond a few months. Surely that’s not normal? I feels like this fundamentally basic human thing which I just can’t get right. What is so fundamentally wrong with me that I can’t even form a relationship? I can’t shake the pain and feelings f worthlessness from me the past few days, all I know is that I don’t know why i’m doing what i’m doing, or what the point of any of it is. As I lay in bed last night part of me prayed that I just wouldn’t wake up. Whatever it is that life’s supposed to be, it’s too hard. I don’t think I can do it. It’s getting to the point where I’m only happy when I’m writing.
Marina says I feel too deeply, think so strongly. She says I can’t just “be” with a an for the sake of it, I need to find someone who is going to make me fall for him as much as he’ll fall for me.
I worry that whatever happens I’ll never meet that person. Or if I do, if I have, then for whatever this thing in me is that’s “wrong” they’ll just leave. I used to like being alone, but at 27 I know by now I should be with someone.
The truth is I’m tired: I’m tired of all of it. The crazy working demands of London, juggling being in a theatre show with writing groups, trying to punch out a novel and forming some sort of social life. Between that dating and finding that every man since Chris just doesn’t match up. Or if they do, they’re not interested. I can’t shake the feeling tat the problem is less about them than about me.
It sometimes feels like this world is so full if hurt and despair that there’s little point even trying. That the odds are so stacked against you giving up seems like the only option.