Monday, November 30, 2015

Othello's Desdemona Dilemma

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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