Picking Old Wounds to Watch Them Bleed
If you’re alone long enough, it becomes an actual physical pain. At its worst, I could feel the ghosts of past contact falling across my nerves, tripping, teasing, playing. Trying to entice me to remember, but succeeding in naught but reminding me how long it had been. My body needed it, and the more I needed it, the further I withdrew from casual contact. I wouldn’t even hug friends. It was too much. It was like a strip club for your senses; everything was there but the final pay off, and the pay off is all that matters.
Even now, I can remember it. It was crushing. It was painful. It burned and I could not put it out. Truthfully, I don’t even remember the last time I made physical contact where I was neither a friend nor drunk. The few encounters I’ve had over the years have come well into a bottle and couldn’t progress far because of that. The pain is less now because of those few encounters and personal growth, but it is still there. Often times I’ll stay up simply because I loathe the emptiness of my own bed and that it reminds me I am alone and how much it hurts.
I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’m tired of writing about it and even more tired of living it. Though I’ve lived it my entire life, I don’t think I was really built for this. I’ve done well enough, I suppose, but I have always been very aware of how alone I was. It’s what keeps me up at night. It’s what I fear most. I still fear seeing 50 having never found someone that cares for me as more than a friend, let alone loves me. I used to think that story ended with a bullet. I don’t anymore, but it’s still a depressing thought. I don’t know how to handle the thought of being alone forever. I try to put it off as much as I can, but in the dark of night, I can’t avoid it.
In truth, I should be excited right now. I have big things looming in my immediate future. Unfortunately, the thoughts don’t always care. They choose when to appear and how to affect me. I just want to be done with loneliness. I’ll love the week I get, but I can still wish for more.
As I write this, I do feel like I’m just indulging myself and doing what I can to make it feel worse. I do still feel alone, and I do hope for the day I am no longer, but it does not hurt as much as it used to. Not by a long shot. If it did, I would probably still be locked in my room avoiding everyone. Just this past weekend, I was out and hanging out with people outside of my normal circle of friends. I still don’t have the courage to openly engage for the sake of moving things forward, but I was able to simply talk rather than sit there and look morose. Things are changing, but there is still the desire to revel in the pain sometimes. That’s not to say it isn’t there, it is, and it still has the potential to crush me, but the weight of it is lifting and doesn’t press as hard as it used to.
I’m very used to the pain. It’s all I knew for a very long time. I wish I could forget it, but I’m not there yet. Though, I think I have talked my way out of it for now.