Sometimes, it all feels like an act. I come back into my room and take off the mask and feel so alone. The mask is clear, though, it’s not like I’m fronting, trying to be someone else, or presenting to be a more “on” version of myself like I have in the past. Maybe mask isn’t the right word. It’s more like a wall. Yeah. I have this wall that I keep up and don’t know if I’ve ever been able to take it down for anyone aside from those who’ve dated me or are related to me. Not that everyone in either category has experienced me that way though, with my guard down. For someone who seemingly shares so much, I’m not as open as I’d like to be. It’s like I’m a shallow pool, but with a length and width of forty football fields. Very deceiving and no depth to give.

A week from today will mark one year since I’ve been divorced and I still really hate sleeping alone. I thought that time would help fix that completely and perhaps that was naive of me. I don’t lay awake each night staring at the ceiling without actually looking at it anymore. I don’t drink myself to sleep or smoke so much that my eyes are heavy enough to finally close, but there are times when the night feels unbearably quiet.

I feel like if I were to talk to someone about this, either myself or they would try and look at the bright side. I’m so good at that because I don’t like making others uncomfortable with my discomfort. I will follow up an emotional share with minimization of those emotions.

“Yeah, sure it was hard, but I’m fine now,” or “Now that it’s over, I’m able to give myself space from that hurt,” etc, etc. They aren’t lies, but they aren’t truths either.

Just below the surface, I crave so much. I want to be emotionally held and understood. I want to remove the memory of the pain I feel having loved as deeply as I had only to sit here and talk about it in the past tense. I want to be brave enough to do that again, because what’s the point of loving if it’s shallow? I feel so greedy saying that. Not to blame everything on poor childhood experiences, but I can’t be too far off the mark to think that in not getting stable, consistent, unconditional love as a child, that’s a hole I’m constantly trying to fill as an adult.

I realize my desire for closeness isn’t as loud as it used to be, and this might sound immature, but I don’t want that to fade. I think of it being immature because I shouldn’t want to rely on another to make me feel fulfilled or at ease, no one needs that pressure. We’ve all got shit to deal with and who am I to expect another to, in some aspect if I really am honest with myself, heal a wound only I can? It’s unfair of me, and I resent that part of myself.

I’m all over the place and that’s fine. It’s been a long time since I’ve typed out my thoughts and it’s fair to assume that it’ll take my mind some time to get back into the flow of longer form writing. Live-journaling. Whatever the fuck this is. Bleh.