I think one thing that I’ve been thinking about recently is the very idiosyncratic, very human need of simultaneously wanting to reach out, to connect and also to be left alone. So many writers led lonely and depressing lives, many of them never quite feeling like they fit in or beset by their partners’ infidelities (Ted Hughes I’m looking at u). But I feel that too, when I want to let the world know (or at least, my friends) how I feel and then contrive to craft a post on social media about how I a feeling– but then just as much as I long to the feeling just ends quickly and I find myself deleting my post, word by word.
Can there be any true, comfortable way to be understood? Would there ever come a time where I know and believe steadfastly in my connectedness to the world, yet be content with my loneliness?
ANyway I love literature because so many of the words and stories seem to reach through time to sit nicely on my chest. How could a 19th Century author aptly describe my odd little friendship with one of my oldest friends? I have nothing in common with Leo Tolstoy, yet his words speak to me and perfectly made me understand how this friendship had puttered along so well. And books are then, perhaps, a little love letter from all of our beloved authors, spent and tied up in their own loneliness; maybe books and stories were their way of reaching out through time, to be connected to humanity (even long after they are gone), over and over and over again, for to be human is to love and be loved.
There’s a million and one things I want to be and wished I could be
But I can only be me and make this journey mine
And maybe that’s what I need to learn (over and over again)
For the longest time since my JC days, my greatest fear in life was to have lived a life not worth living. I didn’t want to have to face myself at the end of my life and realise that I did not have anything to show for my length of time I’ve had on earth. But then with the beauty the world has shown me (in the friendships bestowed upon me generously, in the sunsets, in the wonderful poems and books) I started to be less afraid and learned to concentrate on the now.
But the ol’ fear is back again, with the fear of not getting a job, of not being enough, of always being the one not chosen.
And it’s made all the more worse because I’m afraid that if I fall, nobody is there to catch me and wait for me until I’m strong again to be capable on my own.
I think I’m spiralling because my mother offered to take me to some networking thing that she feels will benefit me- I don’t want to network, I don’t believe in going for this sort of things just to gauge what can other people do for you, I want to get to places on my own and I know I’m capable of it, just give me time.
But I also know that my mother will probably be disappointed and will want me to go (she never respects my no’s and my I’m not interested anyway) and it’ll just be another way for her to be disappointed in me.
I don’t know, I feel that my relationship with her had been fraught for the longest time and I don’t know how to bridge this gap, I’m just afraid I’m drifting more and more from her each day
But what can I do when all she does is talk and when she does listen, she only hears what she wants to? What can I do when she flies into rage over the littlest things? What can I do when she yells “you’re a disappointment” and “you use people?”
Maybe one day, our own growth will merge and we will be whole again.
Or maybe healing is something we both have to do on our own.