Joy (Teach Me How)

Writing used to be my passion. It used to sustain me for hours, days, weeks. Now it seems I can barely dreg up the effort to open Word. I’m not in love with the story I’m writing, and the other idea I have is good, but inertia has claimed me and I just can’t find the motivation.

Personal struggles that I’ve been going through certainly have something to do with that. The counsellor I’m seeing says I need to find a new balance in my life, and some other rah-rah thing like making myself happy or enjoying my own company or some such thing.

But I don’t think that’s really it. I’m a pretty hard core introvert. Being alone doesn’t bother me. It’s the idea of being alone forever that I can’t stand. It’s the idea of never being the #1 important thing to someone. Hell, I’d settle for top three. But even these things aren’t the worst.

The worst is having nothing to look forward to.

I have a fairly full life for someone as lonely as I am. I have a full time job, I volunteer, I have a writing gig on the side, I see a personal trainer, I have 3 adorable pets, good friends and a supportive family. On paper this looks fantastic! Who could ask for more, right?

The problem with me is that I don’t really *enjoy* any of it. Ok, I enjoy my friends – though most live far away – and I enjoy my pets. I even sort of enjoy reading & watching TV. Kind of. But none if it brings me joy or happiness. Writing, at least, used to do that, and now it doesn’t.

I need to find something that makes me happy. Even if it’s not writing. There’s got to be something right?



The one I have lost has told me that there is a possibility that we may be able to be friends again some day.  In face, she as much as guaranteed it, which helps a lot.

But the frustrating thing about me, as she and others have so well learned, is that I am a VERY all or nothing kind of person.  It’s a coping mechanism.  Likely a very childish one.  I accept it for what it is, difficult for most people who get very close to me and find that I demand these extremes.

It is not something I value about myself, but it is something that is so intrinsic in me that I cannot even fathom how to change it.  I suppose that is what therapy is for. My first appointment was yesterday.  Another on Tuesday.

And hope is not different.  I am so immensely relieved that she has said that she will forgive me one day and reach out.  I don’t know when that day will be, and that is ok.  I have no right to make demands.  And maybe it will actually never happen. But the paradox that I am both clings to this hope and refuses to let it bleed into my life.

Clearly she is not dead.  It’s not even an appropriate metaphor if there is indeed hope of us reviving our friendship at any point in the future.  But whilst I very much cling to that hope to keep me afloat, deep, deep down inside, on the surface I must act that there is no hope.

I cannot do what I am doing, seeking help and getting therapy if I am doing it all to “win her back” so to speak.  That won’t work.  It will backfire and I will end up accomplishing nothing at all.  I must do all this, this therapy, seeking help, healing myself and fundamentally changing parts of who I am as though she will never come back. I must do it so that *I* become my all, even when there is nothing.

So I am caught.  The hope she has given me I am immensely grateful for.  It is a huge help in ways I cannot describe.  But I must tuck it away in my most secret of places, and not take it out and look at it every hour, every day.

I must hold it deep within as a gift, but not the fuel for my fire.

So if you ever get to know me, in a close, deep way, and it seems that I am a pessimist, or so negative that I don’t see hope as a good thing, please know that you are wrong.  I carry hope with me every day.  It is just not my reason for being.  Hope is the future.  I must concentrate on today.  If someday my hopes come true, than I will be doubly blessed, because I will have made myself a better person not for it but for me.

So please don’t stop giving me hope, even if it seems that I don’t want it.

The five Stages of Grief

They say that when a relationship ends it’s like a death.  I’d say that’s very accurate.  A relationship I had with someone who was very important to  me ended recently, and I am deep in the dark hole of dealing with that.  I haven’t eaten or showered in days, my apartment is a mess, all I can do is sleep and be thankful for my dog, otherwise I don’t know how much worse it could be.

The worst part of all of this though, is knowing I brought it on myself.  That it wasn’t her fault, that I push people to this point with my anger issues that are only worsened by other problems.  I’ve never cared before.  Never about a friend.  If I lost a friend I always just stopped caring.

But rightly or wrongly, and for many reasons, this feels like I’ve broken up with someone.  That I’ve become the kind of person that chases away with anger and jealousy the person that they love so very much.  I never knew myself to be that person and now I do.  It is a hard reality to face.

But it is a reality I have to accept.  Because while she’s not dead, thank gods, she might as well be.  At first I was angry.  How dare anyone ask me to change, not accept me for who I am.  But I quickly realized that’s not fair.  No one is obligated to take what can only be called abuse in the name of ‘being oneself’. And if all this anger is who I am, maybe that *does* need to change.

And now I find myself deep, deep in the bargaining stage, wanting to beg, to plead, to promise anything, just to get her back.  Anything.  But that’s not fair either, that’s just another burden for both of us, but boy is it hard to resist.  Incredibly painfully hard.

I am doing the things I need to do because of this.  I’ve got an appointment with a counsellor lined up, for real, willingly, for the first time in a decade. That is a good thing.  But the mind plays mean tricks on you, by giving you hope.  Hope that the phone will ring, hope that she’ll knock on your door, when you know these things are as impossible as if you were mourning a death.  It’s simply not going to happen. Because of me, because I put myself here.  If we’re to continue to abuse the death metaphor, it’s as if she’s dead and I’m the one who killed her.

I don’t know how a person can ever accept that.