The Middle

I'm writing all this down, just so in a year or so, I can remember how it felt. Because sometimes I forget. Even though right now it's difficult to imagine forgetting feeling like this. Mostly because it's how I've felt for a long time, only worse. I told the boy the other day that I had to go away, that being around him or involved with him in any way was too painful. Too difficult to recover from on a regular basis. Seriously, how can a person be expected to go from being interesting to being non-existent multiple times? To expect recovery? I guess I reached the end of my rope.

So yesterday was, I suppose, some sort of last hurrah. Something we had talked about doing together, and finally did. We went to LA to see some magic, visit some spots, and generally have fun. And I suppose it was. And when I got home, I took off my shoes, then curled up in bed and cried. Not because I didn't have a good time, but because I did have a good time. And it was still missing something, since he went out of his way to not touch me, not be affectionate, and generally be as separated from me as you can be when that's all there is. It's like being trapped in a glass box. You might not see the boundary, but you sure can feel it.

I know I did the right thing. It's just that I also know I did the most painful thing. And for what? So I can be miserable AND alone? Yep. Guess so. It's difficult not to think about all the time I've wasted in my life, and how the rest of it is stretching out before me as one long dusty road to nowhere that I'm going to have to walk alone. With no water. No trees. No birds. Nothing. Just trudging along. Makes me wonder why. If I disappeared tomorrow, would it matter? Would anyone notice? How long would it take? Days? Weeks?

Today I found myself wishing I were 19 more than I ever have in my entire life. To be young again, when there are still chances for do-overs. I think I re-did all my do-overs. And fucked them up even worse upon repetition. It hit me last night: I'm 36 years old, and no one has ever loved me. How is that possible? Am I really that unlovable? I occasionally get to be reminded that I am not the most warm and fuzzy person on the planet, and that sometimes I even instill fear in people, even though I try really hard to be nice to people and generally cheerful. But I end up getting a reputation for being mean. Why is that? Am I really mean, even when I'm trying to be nice? Do I really have so little self-awareness?

Even with that said, it seems like I should have come across someone in all of these years who could like me for who I am. Who thinks my quirks are adorable. The mathematical impossibility of being alone this long is truly mind-boggling.

So is that it? Am I doomed? Is there some sort of therapy for misfits like me? Is there a way to not feel abandoned, rejected, alone, and misunderstood?

I always liked the Rudolph special, mostly because the Island of Misfit Toys seemed like the place for me, even when I was a little kid. I'm the train with square wheels; I never go anywhere smoothly. A couple of weeks ago, I sloppily painted something on my bedroom wall, hoping that it would instill a sense of hope. Nope. Every morning I wake up and see it, and think of how naive it is, and how I'm always and forever alone, never to be reached by anyone. Maybe I should build a taller fence all the way around my property, just so I don't have to see anything. It's so depressing. To be alone isn't anything. It's being no one and nowhere.

And I'm in the middle of it.