Moments way before this one stung with my loneliness. My entire adolescence, the wake of disappointments in college, the year I moved to another city and it didn’t work out. … Continue reading Notes on Loneliness
Grief is not the fence we hop over. It’s the ocean we swim through.
Dedicated to the friend who inspired this post.
Opinion: I don’t think one-sided love is as uncommon and embarrassing as people think.
I’m struggling with self-worth right now. I’m struggling with staying alive. I’m an optimist sandbagged by depression, desperately clawing for hope. Everything hurts right now: my body, my head, my spirit. It all feels so heavy. Is it always supposed to be this hard?
I feel like I have to force people to love me. I chase until I am breathless, heaving. Love was introduced to me as something I had to earn. I never unlearned that. When you’ve never really been wanted your whole life, when the only thing you’ve been to others is option rather than priority, it’s hard. I wish I could gloss this with poetic language, make the pain sound pretty, but it’s not. My emotions and mindset are coarse, brutal, unrelenting. My head is desolate, my throat tight, stomach heavy. I can’t even call it rejection, as it rejected implies that you fit somewhere at some point. I am aimless, a nomad homesick for community.
People don’t want me as a person. As a concept—something consumable, disposable, ready at their leisure—I am wanted. But my vulnerabilities, my hopes and hurts and everything in between—nobody is interested in that. I know this because when I ask for help, I am shamed. How dare the concept think she’s a real girl?! How could you reach so close to others that you almost touch them?
I don’t want to be alive right now. And I know this is so utterly hypocritical to my last entry, a stark contrast in message. I meant every word I wrote last time. I mean every word I’m writing now. With every breath, I’m fighting to stay here. The last thing I want to be is a tragic tale. Part of this stems from believing that I am capable of multitudes, that I can offer others something good. I still believe, as cloudy and everything is, that the best is yet to come. I cannot house the responsibility I do as a sister and friend and mentor in this world and end things. Even if I can’t be loved back, I am obligated to everything/one I’ve ever loved to continue.
But the other part is that I don’t want people to discuss me, and say “if only I knew, I would have done something”. Let me be clear: No you wouldn’t have. I’m fighting for my own life because I know nobody else will do it for me. They will watch me drown, as I am screaming for help, and trust that some other person will throw me a lifejacket. That other person doesn’t exist, and you don’t want to be inconvenienced. My screams make you uncomfortable, and you will feel relief when they stop.
My mental health and self-care is my responsibility and no one else’s. I am not pawning it off or expecting anything from anybody else. But, then, if I fail at this. If this is the monsoon season that drowns me, please don’t come to my wake wishing you knew and proclaiming your love for me. You don’t love me. You loved an idea that served you. You didn’t know because you only saw and heard what sounded sweet and looked pretty. You were never interested in me, and it’s hard for me not to hurt over that. It’s hard for me not to ache and cry and wonder, “why not me? Why never me?” Why, after I learned to love myself, after I did set boundaries, after I have been my own knight in shining armor, after I have tried therapy and exercise, and got all the accolades was it never enough? I could never ascend from the option category of anyone’s relationships.
“You are not a reflection of those who cannot love you, Marisa. You are abundant. They are smallness. It’s profoundly unhealthy to emotionally flog yourself over matters you can’t control like this. It’s out there. What you’re starving for is out there.” I tell myself these things a lot, repeating affirmations like prayer until they are spoken into reality. I try to soothe myself. But being regarded as inconsequential by so many for so long inevitably affects a person’s self-worth. It happens over and over and over, reader. It happens whether I want it to or not, regardless of strategy or lack there of. Rejection finds me. Scarcity finds me. I attract all the things I ultimately repel. They just linger long enough to remind me that I do not love being alone.
No answers are hidden in this post. This is not a scavenger hunt for hope between sentences. Suicidal is familiar for me. I’ve burrowed and barreled my way through agony and made transportation systems of my emptiness before. It never feels easier, never lighter. I would more than willingly take a lifetime of this, if I knew I would be loved as something other than an afterthought. But I don’t have that guarantee. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are dragons I’ve slayed before, but I’ve never overcome my lack of belonging. Loneliness is another beast entirely, savage and unrelenting. I can’t banish it through binge-ing, purging, sweating– I know this because I’ve tried. You cannot be a village unto yourself. I cannot make a community out of only me and be my only support system, and I don’t have a solution. I put myself out there. I am a good friend, sister, daughter, co-worker. Hell, I’m even liked. It is exhausting to put my whole self out there every time, all the time, and have nothing reciprocated. I don’t think I can keep doing this, but I don’t know what else to do. I am an oxymoron– always brimming with life and fire, while always so close to the grayspace that is suicidal. I don’t want to be that anymore.
All too often, I am the recipient of posthumous affection–
An affirmation arriving way too late.
These are not love letters but obituaries,
More eulogy than sonnet.
“I love you”s are epitaphs to my ears.
They don’t understand that their words don’t adorn me—
They collect dust in a moseleum.
I want a love with as much life as I have,
With a pulse
And better timing.
How lonely it feels to be surrounded by a gallery of glossed gazes,
searching for eyes that burn like mine.
I’m always asking myself if I’ll hurt in the same way my mother does.
There’s nothing wrong
in reaching for another person.
Here I am, screaming in plain sight,
and everyone is too busy to notice.