Sometimes I feel alone. Not lonely that’s something else entirely. I mean alone. Like I’m that last of a long line of whatever I am and they aren’t coming back for me and there won’t be any new me and so I’m it. the last, the one and only and I am all that there will every be from here on out. and today, well this moment right here, I am sad about it.
The time is growing so very close to when the option of having a baby using my own uterus is coming to an end. I’m afraid that the time is past and so I seem to hold onto the thought that it is almost past.
I wanted a partner to have kids with. I wanted a family to bring kids into. The last relationship destroyed that possibility. 12 years of my life essentially given over to the beginning, middle, end, and recovery from that relationship. And now here I am, 44, almost 45. alone.
I think back to the almost baby. I do not find myself wishing for it. Strangly. I don’t know if I was right, I do know without a doubt that I did the best that I could at the time with what I had to work with. so I do not regret it. I do sometimes dream of scenarios where it was different. You cannot go back and change the past though. I don’t think of having babies without thinking of that almost one.
I wanted to be a grease monkey – an auto mechanic. I still do. Maybe when I grow up a little more.
I have some work I want to do. I left my home and came to the library (after a quick afternoon breakfast). The idea being that if I was in the library, surrounded by books and people looking like they were working on really smart stuff, and reading books, and goofing off in what looks like a meaningful way, then I might get the work done that I want to get done.
However, what happens is that I linger in that getting the computer ready so that I can begin to get ready to do the work I swore I came here ready to do. First, I have to download something, then I have to make room for it on the hard drive, meaning that I have to move files here or there; while I am waiting I check email, check dooce.com, maybe facebook, then remember what I was doing and go back to check the file transfer. By this time I’ve already been at the library an hour and have only just begun to begin the thing I came here hoping to be finish with in an hour.
and then I write 200 words about it and at least feel like I got something done.
I don’t really have any feeling about it other than ‘Okay’. It’s one of those things that when a person has been gone already for a long time, it seems kind of pointless when they say good bye. Not pointless but redundant. I mean you’re already gone, nothing left but the ceremony. And so I’ve already missed her. I’ve already been without her. Her goodbye is a formality I just don’t have any feelings about.
Except, I feel a bit of relief, like ‘hunh, that wasn’t so bad.’
I’ve been defriended. I’m surprisingly okay with it. I learned my lesson well: I have no desire to hold onto something that only I have expressed a desire to have.
I need blurbomat and dooce to get back together; more than I need to know or care what happened. I need them to work it out. I need him to move back in and be better at whatever he was bad at. I need her to be better at whatever she was bad at. I need them to do what they do best together, for each other. They need to reconvene the procedure, wake up to little reading girls and crazy coco and their poetry reading cat dog.
I don’t know why but I keep dreaming about it and I don’t want to anymore.
How do I talk about the things I want to talk about without talking about me? How do I talk about me without making myself discoverable as me? Some of the things I want to talk about, I’m embarrassed to talk about in person; I want to retreat to the anonymity of this written space. The thing is this space is not always as anonymous as I think. What if someone sees it? What if no one sees it? What would have been the point of writing about it here if no one sees it and talks to me about it?
I want to talk about kink and desire and sexual expression that isn’t about sex or another person. I want to talk about being seen as unattractive and how that effects sex and desire and sexual expression. I want to talk about my long celibacy and the regret and anger I have about the reasons and wherefores that created that celibacy. I want to talk about how low my sexual esteem has been and why I’m finding it hard to address.
I guess I will talk and say to those who may find their way here and who may also know exactly who I am that I will reject any efforts to embarrass me about the things I write. If you don’t want to read, don’t. If you want to have a conversation, that would be great. I’m dying for someone to talk to.