Sunday afternoon, and I sit pondering of what will come next. It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that I live in a constant state of worry. At this point, it’s second nature to me. I cannot control it, I don’t really know how. I know this I a mental state. I know that there are things you can do to keep the worry at bay, but even when I try to take my mind off of what is worrying me, I always, inevitably go back to the comfortable place, of worry. I say comfortable, it really isn’t that. It’s painful, it’s annoying and it is like a drop of water in a constantly overflowing glass.
I am alone. I have family, I have friends, but I am alone. I live alone, with my pets, and the few friends I have in town are all married, have kids, and their lives are moving alone at a steady pace. I sit here alone. I have not been in a relationship for a little over ten years. The one relationship I was in really wasn’t fulfilling to me. After five years I ended it, knowing that it wasn’t right for me, and while at the time it began it was what I needed, as the years went by, I realized I wanted more, so I ended it.
I had one boyfriend that I lived with when I was 22 years old. That ended just before I turned 25, and it ended badly. I have never really had anyone in my life in that way again. And even that relationship was a struggle. I was the one working, I was the one keeping things going, trying, paying the bills and just barely making ends meet. I don’t want that again.
So hear I sit, at times feeling numb inside. If it wasn’t for worry, would I even feel anything? I have small bits of happy here and there. I do love my pets. It is because of them that I wake up and get out of bed some mornings. It is because of them that I just keep moving alone, hoping for things to finally “get better.” I know, I am not the only one in this “funk.” But, it’s my funk, and it hurts, and it’s been where I have made my home for way too long.
When I was younger, I wanted to find someone to fall in love with. Someone to marry, buy a home with, have children with. That never happened. It was only when I turned forty that I realized, children would never happen. I still thought maybe they would, but after forty-five I really knew it would never happen, and while I don’t think I really wanted kids, I still wanted them, if that makes sense. Be it because society expected it of me, or because of some part of me just wanted to have a child so that I would no longer have to be alone.
I have a sadness inside my soul, I cannot explain fully. I don’t even want to try. I put the mask on daily, and I keep moving forward, in the hopes that the sadness will quiet down, go away, leave me to better things. But then, I sit and realize, I’ve been moving forward for more years than I care to admit here, and still the sadness won’t go away.
I see myself, in this dream, in a house. With a small yard, my cats happy, healthy. My dog sitting quietly in the sun, as I sit on the couch drawing, waiting for my love to serve me some tea. It is a dream I am afraid it will never happen, I truly do. And I hate admitting that, because in the back of my mind, I fear that admitting it, will make it a reality. The reality I am living in now.