Lovesick and Lonely In Longing
I long for meaningful, strong, and true companionship.
I like to keep my need buried deep though, inside my ever present, gnawing and nagging fear of abandonment, which I shroud beneath a lingering, offensive and repelling mist of paranoia that I attach to all my personal relationships. I’m so terrified of what I want most that it cripples me in brutal bouts of anxious over analysis of my fractured and impaired personality.
My sense of eternal inadequacy continually drowns my hopes for happiness under dark navy grey waves of tempestuous agony at the inevitability of my death, and the horror of having died alone – no love, no family, no legacy.
I feel uneasy and insecure when facing my fears, or acknowledging my wants. I don’t believe I deserve what I think will make me happy. And unless I dress my aching loneliness, my chronic emotional isolation with anything beside colorful, superfluous descriptors; unless I paint my pathological emptiness as a mythical, romantic landscape inside an alternate dimension of my psyche, and preserve my pain as illusory and removed from my day-to-day persona, I feel pathetic.
And I don’t want to feel pathetic. I don’t want to be some fragile, needy emotional weakling with a small and self-centered scope of my humanity, validated if and only if I fall in everlasting true love.
But I want to believe everlasting true love exists. And I don’t want to live without it.
I’ve become annoyed with my own preoccupation with comprehending human connection, even as I do my best to limit my interaction and involvement with others. The closer people become the more vulnerable they are to one another, and one usually more so to the other.
I abhor vulnerability (despite its having seven syllables and being an interesting mix of simplicity and exotica as far as words go). Vulnerability is touted by emotionally sound creative types and women’s lifestyle blog writers as an ultimately rewarding exercise in demonstrating one’s strength of heart and mind by exposing their own weakness and openly sharing their fears.
Vulnerability is me to an absurd and abstract conundrum, an infuriatingly inescapable and unsolvable puzzle to which I have no interest giving time. It especially frustrates me to consider that for all my moments of feigned strength and completely disastrous and distressing weakness, vulnerability has yielded me absolutely nothing enduring, aside from scarred tissue.
I feel no sense of personal power or growth, no strengthening of my heart muscles, no confidence in the future when I am vulnerable to another.
I only remember the last time I felt vulnerable, weak, desperate, furiously confused, sobbing against the bricked doorway of the warehouse around the corner from my apartment building, or lying on my sofa, listening to a reggae dub song on repeat, recalling the comfort and familiarity of positioning myself on my lover’s lap, nestled in his arms, breathing his flesh, briefly experiencing serenity in his sleeping face, that after all of the whispered confessions from lips sparkling with tears, my love had evaporated and I was once again left – alone.
Still, there is some pleasure to be found in my quest to dismantle Love: My Romantic Addiction.
I love to long for my lover.
I idolize him. I glamorize our affair. There is something fated about us. There is something magical in our kiss. He is “The Everything” I’ve ever wanted in life. He is the genius to shape my curious mind. He is the guru to my spiritual wanderer. He is the lover I have fantasized about since my fantasies began. He is intelligent. He is charming. He is hilarious. He is the most perfect human I’ve ever known, and romanticizing even his flaws is my drug.
I self-medicate with heavy doses to keep from remembering that I can’t trust myself nor will I ever trust him enough to actually open up. Because what will putting words to my fears accomplish anyway? And he won’t understand the paranoia. And he won’t understand how I got this way even if I gave him all the reasons. And if I gave him everything he would run as far and as fast as he could because no one wants to be with a damaged and deranged woman who can’t put herself back together.
And so it goes, the fear and the agony and the repetitive self deprecation, the large and looming shadows of my maddeningly low-self esteem, the deep breaths and finger tips to temples as I try with a jaw locked in stone to stave off these heavy tears and their meaningless context.
I want so badly to be with him, to break apart safely against him, to gently put myself back together in the warmth of his forgiving and understanding love. I want to dissolve into pieces beneath him, and be wholly renewed through him. I want to be healed by his love, and I want to love him with every atom and cell and breath of my existence.
I cannot endure this life alone.