Before this experience, I was planning to title this blog, "I Feel So Alone" and elaborate on that. I could be surrounded by people, chatting breathlessly as I often do, but the emptiness never seems to fill. I met some people who have expressed that they're glad to have met me because they finally know people who understand what they go through and what they have to deal with. I'm glad I can offer them that, and it can't be a one-way street, right? But I don't feel as moved by it. They experienced this sense of relief, comfort, and community. I feel none of those things. Why is that?
I do feel alone, but I'm aware that it's just a feeling. In reality, I'm not alone. I'm not the only one going through this. A friend of mine complimented me on this blog and thanked me for it because it made him feel less alone. It's good to know that this blog has helped someone and touched someone's life that much. I just feel so alone, helpless, and filled with regret and sadness. I'm waiting for this to end, but I know it won't for a while. I'm waiting for someone to make me feel like I'm not all alone.
It's stupid to feel this way; I know that. To dwell on how alone I feel, as though my experiences are drastically different from others gives the insinuation that my feelings are so isolated and significant to others, and that's just untrue. I'm unique just like everyone else. Yet there's no comfort in trying to convince myself about philosophical ideologies. I've painfully discovered that emotions are too powerful and, at times, unreceptive to seemingly reassuring notions.
Now that I'm not as emotionally-closed off as I used to be, I've experienced what it is about feelings I'm afraid of. I used to be closed-off because it seemed more convenient. Then I maintained that process because I didn't know the benefits of it. And it was partly also my addictive personality just systematically executing itself. When you're frightened to open up and you sense why, it makes it all the more harder until you no longer feel at risk. That's when everything I've been too afraid to face comes rushing in.
If I had written a blog last night it would've focused on my premonitions. They were powerful, emotionally-exhausting and frightening when I first got them. The intensity fluctuated from startlingly real, heartbreaking, and moving to about as interesting as typing. Eventually, they subsided for a while or I thought they did. It turns out that I have the ability to suppress my emotions, and I exploit that. Sometimes they would pour in, but I could ignore them.
Now they're all just rushing back in, mixing with the emotions I feel now, the emotions I felt then, the feelings that could've developed and exist now if things turned out differently. It's all very complicated, intense, confusing, powerful, exhausting, and mind-blowing. But what's most frightening about it all is that none of it may not even matter.
I hate this. The tears are burning my skin. I'm tired of drowning in my feelings. I'm tired of pretending that I'm not sad. I'm tired of the emptiness growing more and more vacant as time passes. I thought time is supposed to heal all wounds? No one ever told me that the pain and darkness would grow unbearable first.
There are just so many unanswered questions gnawing away at my soul. I have a friend who I want to seek advice from, but I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for. What do I say? I'm saddened by the loss. That sounds like I'm looking more for a therapist than anything, and therapy is not what he has to offer. I'm still new to this talking about your feelings crap.
A lot of people come to me for advice but generally it's about concrete life plans that I can create a formula over. I used to think it was so dumb when people would say they need advice when all they do is pour out their emotions. It seems more like they need to be heard more than to be told anything. I'm not sure if I'm ready to be open about this and especially with him, but I feel like he can offer me wisdom and insight as he often does.
Too bad we're not very close, and we don't talk at all now. He's a good friend, but sometimes I feel like he's not a good friend to me. Then again, I might be the bad friend. This is the time of year when he suffers over his own pain and past. As his friend, I don't want to add to his burden. Besides, I might've made it worse by expressing some concern I should've kept to myself. I probably came off more selfish than I did caring. He has to heal and deal with his own problems. He probably needs space more than anything. No matter how much we both have opened up to each other and how much we may actually care for one another, I feel like if neither of us make the time to put effort into maintaining our friendship and keep it as essentially a status, I have no place going to him for comfort.
I can type and type, filling up the pages of this blog. But that single moment when the delicate flower fell off the stem, that moment reveals both reality and what I've lost. Relationships are delicate, beautiful, and very, very fragile. All it takes is a single moment for everything you put your heart and soul into to fall apart.
There's beauty in sadness, though. When the flower fell off, all that's left was the stem and the base of the flower. I was looking at its bare skeletal structure and for an instant, I wasn't sad by what was gone, but I appreciated what was left. I may be sad that things fell apart and question how real anything was seeing how disposal the nature of relationships are. No matter how much I question what was once there and what's now gone, there's comfort in knowing that something was there, even if it wasn't what I thought it was.