I just want to be heard and understood. Not told that someone understands, but shown, to know that someone understands. Like the difference between bad literature that tells you meanings and emotions and good literature that evokes them in you.
About 15 years ago I had a counsellor who recognized my emotion and named it. He said I was profoundly sad. That was the most validation and understanding I have ever had.
Most people can’t do that. They just try to lard it over with some attempt to look at the bright side. They hope I had fun or enjoyed myself. Well, no, I didn’t. I was profoundly sad. I struggled through the battlefield because I am courageous, but it wasn’t fun, for fuck’s sake.
When I get a chance to dwell on the sadness and let it out, sometimes I take pictures. The cellphone makes that easy, a way to take multiple images with low cost and no effort. I have a whole folder of them, me frowning and face twisted in sorrow. Tears, an expression of anguish, and the easy inference that loud cries occurred at that time. I was alone, with no one to care for me, just me. My validation of my own emotions.
I like looking at those pictures sometimes. A break from the rest of the world where sadness is pretty much banned. I would love to post a bunch of these pictures, but I am not going to show my face.
I see the eyes of older males lingering on me, briefly. I’m 55. I’m strong. I move gracefully.
I don’t take any medications. Many times I’ve had the experience of a quizzical look on the doctor’s face, a re-ask of the question if I take any regular medications, and then a re-order on whatever blood tests or other tests I took. “Maybe there was some fuckup,” I guess they’re thinking, “since this fat person shows no bloodwork problems.” No, the test was fine. I’m healthy. Possibly because of eating home-grown veggies for many years and generally not eating industrial crap food of various kinds. I’ve never smoked, and I exercise because I know the rule: Use it or lose it. These self-repairing machines need exercise in order to repair. We’re not generally meant to live this long, i.e. in most of human history we didn’t live past 40 or 50.
Feels good to be noticed, to be lingered upon; however, I’ll never have another partner. Recently, my crazy ex told me about his love-at-first-sight with some totally unavailable person. I told him I didn’t need to hear about that. “I’d be glad to know you had someone on your dance card.” Yeah, well, you dumped me. I didn’t dump you. If I have someone on my dance card, you don’t have to feel so bad for ditching the marriage that I meant to be for life, for ever. My sacrifices that I made beyond reason, hoping for a forever connection. No matter how hard it was, I didn’t want to end it. I wanted to fix it. Make it do or do without.
There will never be anyone on my dance card. No one could possibly accept me, given the crazy relationship that I was in. I weep, but I move forward alone. I took a chance and failed. Gotta try something different in future. Not cut out for romance or deep connection with other people. No one ever loved me and no one will. I accept that; I was not meant to be born. I’m a freak. That’s okay. Someone has to be on the end of the normal curve. C’est moi.