One year, nine months.

it hasn’t been that long, in retrospect. I had wanted to kill myself that long ago (more recently, yes, but only in passing) and I am hard pressed to think of what has changed, what has been worthwhile, what I can look back on.

It’s not because I’ve frittered my time away with sitcoms and the Internet (well, not all my time anyway) instead of doing creative and ballsy things. It feels like just working and having migraines is all I have the time or energy for. That is a “treading water” level.

It also feels, and I say this having paid for a professional cuddle now, that the things I really want aren’t in my control. I want someone to ask me how my day was. I want someone’s eyes to crinkle up when they look at me. I can’t change myself for a potential theoretical partner, obviously, but I haven’t even gotten as far as an in person coffee date for over a year.  I have, I don’t know, several hundred “views” on dating sites – I keep resetting the counter so as to not depress myself – and no messages. A little hard on the ego. I could think it was because I’m too fat, but I had pretty shitty luck with men when I was skinny too. But really? Like I’m so unappealing at first glance – what Louis CK calls “light speed ugly” that no one even wants to speak to me? Ugh.

Some friends tried to comfort me with the tale of a woman in her 50s who recently got married, and said that she had to go for coffee with a lot of guys before she found the right one. Well at least she was getting invited out for coffee…

I hate the thought that I sound whiny and that I should bravely craft some lonely life for myself, taking up painting with Bob Ross or something. If only I could stop feeling so deeply – a deep sadness that I don’t see hope  for my future, deep loneliness, feeling terribly disconnected from people and wanting not to inflict my need too much lest it drive them away.

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