I am the woman watching from the shadows of the doorway as the man she loves, has loved dearly for years, kisses another woman, and begins to lay her down on the bed, wrapped in his arms.
That is who I am, you see. The very essence of my being is encapsulated by that lonely, quiet woman, standing there unseen, unheard, and paralysed with anguish, with longing and yearning so unbearable and intense it is like the explosion of sun, the rebirth of a universe, the descent into a black hole, all rolled into one.
I watch hungrily from the outside as others laugh, and play, and kiss and love, and I wonder, wistfully, to myself, why it is I can never be a part of it. I don’t why—it’s just there exists a sense of apartness which prevents me from engaging in such activities, and even if I were to somehow end up on a date, or at a social event, I would still either feel alone and anxious, or find the experience, because it exists in reality and not in my head, lacking in some way.
I don’t even know how to explain it, exactly. One of the greatest mysteries to me is how in the world there can possibly be so many people on the planet, when relationships are so difficult and so often end badly. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t understand how relationships work, or how people end up in them, or find someone compatible enough to—well, be intimate, and therefore make a baby. It is incomprehensible to me. As I didn’t grow up in a particularly happy family, every time I see a family, every time I read, on an author’s bibliography, that they are married, with a son, or daughter, or sometimes even two children, this tidal wave of longing rises up inside of me, tinged with the sour taste of envy. I feel so terribly alone, sometimes, so lost, and some part of me feels, or thinks, that if I can just create my own happy little family in this world, have someone to love me, and have my own children, who love me, then perhaps—just perhaps—I would find some measure of safety and security in so chaotic a world.
It has something to do, I think, with the terrible relationship I had with my father, who treated me with less than the respect I deserved, and did not love me. Thus, there exists a hunger inside of me for male love, a void—that is why I always feel, down to the roots of my soul, like that woman standing in the doorway, watching the man she loves love someone else. From the day I was born, I became yearning incarnate, stitched of dusty hopes and unfed longings.
The only solace in all the world for such hunger inside my heart is writing, or music, or singing, or any art form, really. Without creativity and without books, I would have perished long ago, just sort of drifted away, like a leaf on the wind. I live for my art. My art is my lover, my friend, my confidante, my family, my mother and father, all rolled into one. And it’s not as if there’s something particularly repulsive about me which repels all male creatures from my vicinity. No, it’s nothing like that. Instead, I just have a lot of mental issues that prevent socialising in the first place, and I’m also a little on the quiet, creative and shy side, which makes fitting in anywhere a difficult business. I like to think of myself as a kind, delicately beautiful white flower, in a tiny abandoned greenhouse, unfurling towards the sunlight and dappled green by the tinted panes, abandoned and alone, but terribly lovely in its own small way, all the same.
You see, that is what I love, I love the sad, the lonely, the abandoned; the sight of such things fills my heart with a desperate longing and aliveness. The truth, and this is something I usually would not like to admit, not even to myself, is that I quite like being in a constant state of yearning, and unfulfilled hopes and dreams. I love the bittersweet taste of it, on my tongue. It is a kind of delightful pain, if you will, and it makes me feel as though I am truly living; if given the choice, I would not have it any other way. Beauty, for me, lies in suffering, in the unfulfilled, in the hands that reach for the sun but never touch it: that is where it all is, all art, all true feeling, all that makes life rich. So I will stand in the shadows, my friend, and let the tears drip down my cheeks and my heart clench with longing, and smile a tiny and desperate smile of blinding joy, and call it home.
PS: I shall be resuming my daily posts–I recently started a Psychology course, through an online university, and was quite caught up with assignments and so forth for a while, and neglected this blog, for which I apologise. I know this is only a very small blog, but even if there was one person out there in the world who looked forward to reading my posts, then I feel very sorry for having disappointed you. The good news is, I am back, and I am here to stay.