And so I sit in my room, reading my book. Silence all around me. It’s not a bad day, I am not unhappy. But I am alone. Generally, that’s not a bad thing either. But I’ve been alone like this for quite a bit of my life. I have my mother and my half sister to call family, and one set of grandparents and plenty of cousins. Yet, I still consider myself alone. I don’t have any truly close friends, no father, no boyfriend, no husband (any longer), no children of my own. It’s always been like this. Even when I was married, I was alone. I did everything for myself, just as I do now, and just as I did before.
I’ve never been able to depend on anyone other than myself to help me along in the world. My mother has tried but she has so many issues of her own, she hasn’t always been able to be there for me or my sister. My sister doesn’t try. She has issues of her own as well, and I don’t fault them for it. My family, as it is, isn’t close. I can go for days and weeks without ever hearing from them. Before the advent of Myspace and Facebook and before I could afford a cellphone or computer of my own, I would literally go months at a time without hearing from even my own mother, or anyone for that matter. My telephone would literally not ring at all. Not even salespeople would call. It’s much the same now. Even with Facebook and skype, I can still go days. Yes, Yes, it works both ways, but one gets tired of putting forth all the effort after a while and then one stops trying. I’m used to the silence. Sometimes the world is too loud anyway. I just wish sometimes that I had someone. I don’t believe I ever will. Which is fine. I can and always have managed for myself. It would be nice, however, for once to have someone who was looking out for me and who would help me even when I didn’t ask for it. That I wouldn’t feel bad for asking. That I wouldn’t have to ask. I wish I could look around and be able to recruit my someone to discuss a book with me, or go see a movie or go for a run. Maybe go eat a picnic at the foot of the nearest castle on a sunny day. Or sit and watch the sunset over the valley from the bench at the top of my village. Do you wanna go eat at that cute restaurant “in town” I would ask. Let’s do it, he would say. I go to work and whether it’s a good day or a bad day, I come home and have no one to share it with. I travel abroad and see all sorts of interesting things with my “friends” (mostly close acquaintances if that’s not too much of an oxymoron.), but once I’m home and I post my pix on FB, that’s it. No one to reminisce with or pull out the album with in years to come and say Oh do you remember that trip? I’m left with just a handful of photos pasted into a book that only I will ever care to look at again. I guess that’s why I’m not a big “camera” person. I figure once I get so old that I forget where I’ve been, a picture won’t help to remind me anyway. I look around at my things and they mostly make me happy. Or rather I enjoy having them. I think I’m good at my job and the pay is definitely good, but then what? Yay me!? So I’m working on my degree, whoopee! Who really cares? My mom I’m sure will be super thrilled. OK, she’s supposed to be. Then what? When I get old and my mom is gone, then what? It’ll be me and the cats. Whom I miss, by the way. I see the years stretch ahead and I’m not ungrateful, but I’m a bit confused as to what it’s all supposed to really mean. I almost dread knowing that the years will most likely stretch ahead just as they are now. Not bad, there are people who live much more unfortunate lives than I do. But I dread the emptiness the years seem to be full of. It’s not that I feel I’ve missed out on kids or anything. But I do feel like I have been and always will be a terribly solitary figure in the world. Gliding along, bumping into one and then another, but never really “sticking” to anyone or anything. I don’t have a “profession” or “passion”, I don’t have a “family” in the sense of feeling as though I belong and have a history. I’m not exceedingly good at any particular thing. I’m not brilliant or beautiful. Nowhere that I really call “home” since I moved around much of my life. It’s just me..and the cats…but they’re with mom right now while I’m overseas. I have people I hang out with but I always feel a bit the outsider. I always have. Like I don’t quite fit anywhere. Am I whining? Feeling sorry for myself? No, I don’t think so. I’m not upset or sad. Just observing my world as it is. Do I want pity? No. Just wishing there was something more. I feel like something is missing, or that I may be broken somehow. I can’t seem to click. More so now than before I was married. At least back then, I found some measure of comfort in my boyfriends or for a while my husband. Now I keep men at arm’s length on good days. I’m not nice to them anymore. So I guess my loneliness is my own fault in a way. It’s me in the world. A psychic described me that way once. A lone female facing a windswept, cold world. I feel that way a lot. I get tired of having to be strong. My mom called me a little roach on a rock once. She meant that no matter what I figure out how to prevail even in the most austere of environments or situations all by myself. It was a great compliment, but it’s also a great burden. For once it would be nice if somebody could help me bear the weight. But I’m broken, I think. When I hear guys talk I tend to lump what they say into either lies or stupidity. I have a truly hard time trusting them or respecting them anymore. They are unruly children to be watched closely and chastised heartily. I wish I could find someone who proved me wrong. Men are human though. They will all have flaws, and so how will I ever trust or respect one? How will I ever want to? Until then, the years will stretch ahead of me. And I’ll be sitting in my room, reading my book, alone in the silence.
I’ve never been able to depend on anyone other than myself to help me along in the world. My mother has tried but she has so many issues of her own, she hasn’t always been able to be there for me or my sister. My sister doesn’t try. She has issues of her own as well, and I don’t fault them for it. My family, as it is, isn’t close. I can go for days and weeks without ever hearing from them. Before the advent of Myspace and Facebook and before I could afford a cellphone or computer of my own, I would literally go months at a time without hearing from even my own mother, or anyone for that matter. My telephone would literally not ring at all. Not even salespeople would call. It’s much the same now. Even with Facebook and skype, I can still go days. Yes, Yes, it works both ways, but one gets tired of putting forth all the effort after a while and then one stops trying. I’m used to the silence. Sometimes the world is too loud anyway. I just wish sometimes that I had someone. I don’t believe I ever will. Which is fine. I can and always have managed for myself. It would be nice, however, for once to have someone who was looking out for me and who would help me even when I didn’t ask for it. That I wouldn’t feel bad for asking. That I wouldn’t have to ask. I wish I could look around and be able to recruit my someone to discuss a book with me, or go see a movie or go for a run. Maybe go eat a picnic at the foot of the nearest castle on a sunny day. Or sit and watch the sunset over the valley from the bench at the top of my village. Do you wanna go eat at that cute restaurant “in town” I would ask. Let’s do it, he would say. I go to work and whether it’s a good day or a bad day, I come home and have no one to share it with. I travel abroad and see all sorts of interesting things with my “friends” (mostly close acquaintances if that’s not too much of an oxymoron.), but once I’m home and I post my pix on FB, that’s it. No one to reminisce with or pull out the album with in years to come and say Oh do you remember that trip? I’m left with just a handful of photos pasted into a book that only I will ever care to look at again. I guess that’s why I’m not a big “camera” person. I figure once I get so old that I forget where I’ve been, a picture won’t help to remind me anyway. I look around at my things and they mostly make me happy. Or rather I enjoy having them. I think I’m good at my job and the pay is definitely good, but then what? Yay me!? So I’m working on my degree, whoopee! Who really cares? My mom I’m sure will be super thrilled. OK, she’s supposed to be. Then what? When I get old and my mom is gone, then what? It’ll be me and the cats. Whom I miss, by the way. I see the years stretch ahead and I’m not ungrateful, but I’m a bit confused as to what it’s all supposed to really mean. I almost dread knowing that the years will most likely stretch ahead just as they are now. Not bad, there are people who live much more unfortunate lives than I do. But I dread the emptiness the years seem to be full of. It’s not that I feel I’ve missed out on kids or anything. But I do feel like I have been and always will be a terribly solitary figure in the world. Gliding along, bumping into one and then another, but never really “sticking” to anyone or anything. I don’t have a “profession” or “passion”, I don’t have a “family” in the sense of feeling as though I belong and have a history. I’m not exceedingly good at any particular thing. I’m not brilliant or beautiful. Nowhere that I really call “home” since I moved around much of my life. It’s just me..and the cats…but they’re with mom right now while I’m overseas. I have people I hang out with but I always feel a bit the outsider. I always have. Like I don’t quite fit anywhere. Am I whining? Feeling sorry for myself? No, I don’t think so. I’m not upset or sad. Just observing my world as it is. Do I want pity? No. Just wishing there was something more. I feel like something is missing, or that I may be broken somehow. I can’t seem to click. More so now than before I was married. At least back then, I found some measure of comfort in my boyfriends or for a while my husband. Now I keep men at arm’s length on good days. I’m not nice to them anymore. So I guess my loneliness is my own fault in a way. It’s me in the world. A psychic described me that way once. A lone female facing a windswept, cold world. I feel that way a lot. I get tired of having to be strong. My mom called me a little roach on a rock once. She meant that no matter what I figure out how to prevail even in the most austere of environments or situations all by myself. It was a great compliment, but it’s also a great burden. For once it would be nice if somebody could help me bear the weight. But I’m broken, I think. When I hear guys talk I tend to lump what they say into either lies or stupidity. I have a truly hard time trusting them or respecting them anymore. They are unruly children to be watched closely and chastised heartily. I wish I could find someone who proved me wrong. Men are human though. They will all have flaws, and so how will I ever trust or respect one? How will I ever want to? Until then, the years will stretch ahead of me. And I’ll be sitting in my room, reading my book, alone in the silence.
No comments:
Post a Comment