“Time To Myself?”

Time to myself.  He asks if I want time to myself.  What the Hell kind of joke is that?  Time to myself is what caused these feelings!

I just want to cry right now . . .  I just feel so hopeless.  I don’t want to go on feeling this way.  I just . . . I want people.  Friends.  Ones that I see, instead of just talk to online.  Online is just another way for everyone, including me, to hide.  It’s just a way for people to not have to answer to things, or to be able to drift away without the awkwardness.

Here they come.  The tears, I mean.  My money problems, why I can’t seem to save any damned money, it stems from this feeling of loneliness.  I’m trying to fill it with things.  Objects.  Posessions that I can hold dear.  Because, let’s face it.  No one knows what I’d truly like for my birthday, or for Christmas.  I find it funny.  Even when I flat out tell someone what I want, that this is what would make me happy to receive, that’s not what they get me.

I want things, things that I can hold, things I can hug.  Because if I hold them tight enough, if I hug Purpl-grr enough, and let my tears soak into his purple cloak, then maybe, just maybe, I won’t feel so alone.  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel Jason’s arms around me, like I did the last time I saw him.  Probably the last time I’ll ever see him . . .

That’s why I want to break my promise so badly and go up and see him.  He was someone tangible, someone real.  Someone I could hold, laugh with, talk with, someone who was outside of this house.  Someone who I purposely disengaged myself from because of unjust circumstances.  I didn’t want to lose him.  I did give him every chance to take the morally right road.

I’m lonely . . .  I want people.  I’ve made efforts.  I understand that people are busy, but . . . once we’re “adults,” do we really lose so much of ourselves to business and strictness of work that we lose sight of our friends till they’re merely acquaintances we write Christmas cards to?  That’s what I see my future as.  People who have drifted to the very edges of communication, where our only contact is the Christmas card I give and receive in future years.  And it terrifies me.  I don’t want to have friends by online communication, or the ocassional phon call that’s only made because of a message that’s being returned.  I don’t want to have people around me who don’t know what to say to me.  I don’t want to be alone . . .  I want someone to come along and understand.  I want someone to just . . . know when they look at me.  I want someone to look past me snapping at them, and to just know that I need a hug.  Even if I don’t accept it, the fact that they tried makes a difference to me.

I’m not gointo say that no one could possibly understand where I’m coming from.  I know that others do.  But it never feels like it with the people I “know.”  I come onto this diary, and I see random entries of people who are true strangers, because I’ve never seen their faces, and they mirror my thoughts.  Their words could be, and are, my words.  Kindred entries of minds that were truly on the same level at one point.  But no one wants to remain this vulnerable, so when the mood passes, the strength comes back up, and the unacknowledged isolation continues . . .

I’m afraid.  I don’t want to reach my hand out, because if I don’t get a hand back . . .

I don’t want pity.  I’m not even sure I want sympathy.  I don’t want notes telling me how I’m worth so much to someone.  I don’t want notes telling me that you understand how I feel, that other people feel the same way, that you’ve felt the same way.  I know that!!!  I know other people have felt this, I know I’m no one special in the eyes of Misery, that cruel and taunting tormentor.  And I know that people will tell me that I am special in their eyes.  But . . .

It doesn’t matter to me.  Words don’t matter.  They’re just pretty flowers, fragile and breakable, that people write on paper, or type online, or speak through their forked tongues and chapped lips.  Words are supposed to make everything all right.  Words are supposed to scare away the bad things, take away our nightmares, remove us from injustice and help us flee the monsters.  But they don’t.  Words are just that.  Words.  Breakable, fragile, and can be blown away by the wind.  Promises are blinked away, threats aren’t upheld, love, only spoken, is so easily unthreaded . . .

Words are cheap.  They mean nothing.  Words have betrayed me for far too long . . .

Ironic, then, that I would use so many to describe the capacity for their betrayal.