Given the past few years, I thought maybe steady into directionless would circle back to steady. It hasn't. Profoundly hasn't. Suicidal ideations are more prevalent now than any time since my 20s. I keep questioning if I have nailed my own personal path to happiness upon the cross of others. Do I only feel substantive when acknowledged by others. Frustrating as it is, I seem to be stuck in a pattern where I allow myself to be content, only to have the misgivings of someone I care about, shatter that illusion. In my head, I want someone to spend time with... someone I have things in common with, someone I can have a conversation with... someone that enjoys spending time with me as much as I enjoy spending time with them. Sex isn't even a component of those needs, though I wouldn't reject it if it was an option. Nearly every aspect of my nature; exploration, music, film, Autumn - they feel joyless without someone to share them with. Arriving at a place so self-absorbed in the idea of being alone shreds away any hope of escaping myself and enjoying a moment, embracing what is instead of what should be. There's millions of people out there dealing with this same thing, yet, we cannot find one another. If by chance, our orbits cross, we are locked away inside ourselves so deeply, that the present moves about as a ghosts; untethered by our attention, unaffected by our words, unmoved by our touch. Many of us choose to stay home in avoidance of such torture; not existing at home is far less painful than being unseen by masses. "The holidays" are at the doorstep, and I think it's party to the feelings this time of year ushers. I've never been one that is okay with people I care about being alone during "the holidays", and I somehow have convinced myself that other's shouldn't be either; especially the people that matter to me. I've also perfected the metamorphosis of my expectations into belief of ambivalence towards my circumstances. If, somehow, I could travel outside myself, to see myself, I would speak to the aspect of my personality that takes a sledgehammer to the Hallmark novelty of seasonal warmth and good will. I need space; and consistent intrusion of my time exhausts and frustrates me. Expectations placed upon me that don't align with my... let's be real... anything, moor my mood to an exacerbating darkness that consumes any and all things. This... this unpleasant thing is where I begin to understand my narcissism. The thing, that I try so hard to obtain, is a thing that I am ill-equipped to nurture and sustain. I realize, it's a thing, it's a checkbox, it's a collection; it's another blog post. Of all the reasons I dislike myself, this is the thing I am most disgusted with. Is it an aspect of autism, is it an affectation of my childhood, am I simply a bad person? All of those can be true at once, but I feel that none of it is within my current abilities to control. I believe this situation is summed up by stating, "I think I am ready for someone to enter my life, but that's an illusion, and no one is certainly ready for me to enter their life, so I should be alone." Admitting that, circles me back to "why bother" scenarios, and "what's the point" of hurting?
