I am a woman of many words, but I’ve found myself not having all of them within my grasp lately. When I try to explain situations to friends or write an account on this site, I’m often left without the right phrasing, or without any words at all. The descriptors are gone. The result, whether it be in my head or on the screen, is the retelling of a story akin to that of a five year old. This happened, then that. There is no color, no third dimension to any situation. Maybe I’m numb.
This is just how I feel today, about many things that are going on with me, but most specifically about the minutes–neatly spaced between absent minded filled seconds and productive hours–when it physically hurts to be alone.
I know this because I feel it. First it comes as a breathless, stabbing pain in my chest. Then it descends to my gut as if I’ve just been pushed out from an airplane without a parachute. It is at once painful and terrifying.
There are minutes where I believe that this is the way it will be. Period. I will live a life of quiet, peaceful unfulfillment. It is at once a choice and a resolution. But mostly its a defense. A wall I’m building around the disappointed fragments of my heart (and mind).
And yet there are minutes where I feel so hopeful that I almost shed actual fucking tears. This optimism that I will find a person that will love me seems so incredible to me. Because ordinarily I believe in evidence based facts. And I have absolutely no evidence to suggest that I will. These unfailing minutes of faith feel at once beautiful and delusional.
These lonely minutes are usually few and far in-between. Some days pass without a single minute. Other times, there will be hours filled with countless minutes like these.
Today was one of those days. Today I felt all one thousand four hundred and forty minutes of painful, terrified, beautiful and delusional loneliness.
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