Sometimes I feel like my entire life
can be summed up as one great unrelenting attempt at finding one
person who understands and loves me unconditionally. Sure, there are
people who love me, and I'm sure there are people who understand me.
But I have yet to meet someone who can do both.
When it comes right down to it,
everything I do/have done has been rooted in this deep seeded need.
From friendships, to my education, to my career in the helping
profession, to having having children, to my writing, they all boil
down to the same desire.
This has been my whole life whether I
have realized it or not. Now that I am getting older, I can't help
but start to lose hope. Not the kind of hope people think they've
lost when really they just need a lift or little encouragement. No.
This is the kind that creeps in and I have to do everything to
distract my thoughts from being completely buried in defeat. Where
nothing around me seems to matter when it comes right down to it.
None of it really makes me happy. None of it makes sense. The fear of
never finding this person overcomes me.
I begin to look at people like
neanderthals. Their idea of happiness is so ancient, how could they
carry on pretending to be happy. Don't they realize that all this is
temporary? It doesn't matter what school your kid gets into or how
good your credit score is. None of this matters when you are dead.
Nobody gets it. The point of existing with a purpose.
I'm afraid nobody will ever understand
me.
I try to carry on like everything is
okay. I turn the car radio up so my kids don't hear me sniffle and I
pray whoever is in the passenger seat doesn't look over to see the
ice glass tears welled up in my eyes.
I'm so lonely but the truth is most
people only exacerbate that feeling. Making me think the kind of
person I need is nonexistent. I tell myself not to bother betting on
finding another half. Nobody wants to deal with stuff like that.
Someone that demands you to hurry up and wait simultaneously. They
want easy.
The people who love me know me well.
But even they have exceptions when it comes to being understanding.
Some come in like saviors but only when its convenient. After a while
they leave.
Others are bound by blood, love with
more tolerance and underlying resentment. Where their passive
aggressive words of encouragement graze my skin just strong enough to
make me bleed. Yet never deep enough to leave the kind of visible
scars that would give outsiders a small inkling to whats really going
on.
I'm so good at faking it. So far from
perfect and I bend. You cant expect someone to constantly carry all
that weight with grace. I don't want anyone to feel sorry. I just
want to find somebody to take my hand and tell me things will be okay
and mean it, because everything that lies quietly inside me waiting
for release, they can see it.
One day my daughter asked why I stared
out the window like a poet.
I wonder how even the weight of my gaze
can be so prophetic.
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