A real post.
"My door is always open."
It's a trend. I find myself saying it more and more every week. When I bother to go into detail about it, it always ends the same.
"It gets lonely up here. Stuffed up, in the corner, nothing to do, no one to talk to." Whether I'm at home or at work, it's the same. I'm lonely. I have never felt more alone in my life. My best friend has been avoiding me. My love life has gone on a summer-long vacation. My health is deteriorating. I am no longer energised enough to take care of that.
I'm lonely.
I wake up in the morning, and there is nothing. There isn't a reason to get out of bed. Only a blank screen, waiting for me to type something to someone who doesn't care. Waiting for me to spill out a poem to express myself. A short story. A novelette. A paragraph. A sentence explaining exactly how I am feeling and how I have gotten to this point in my life where I feel like everything is falling apart.
It's never been this bad. Sure, I've gotten lonely in the past. Very lonely, at times. When I thought there wasn't anyone there, someone always pulled through, calling me up, asking me if I wanted to go do something. No one is there anymore. I don't get that 2AM phone call, telling me that I'm missed, that we should hang out asap. That email, "Hope you're okay. Call me sometime." That little budge of encouragement from my parents. Nothing. There is nothing.
Not one damn thing. Not one fucking smile from a stranger to acknowledge my existance. No Tina at Filippos to remember my order and to yell bye to me as I walk out. No Erin to harass (lovingly) at work. No Fjaere to tell me that I look good in my new shirt or that I smell nice. No fucking Alisia, even, to say, "Hey, how have you been?" which even eludes to a slight notion of caring.
I hate feeling so self-pitying, but no one else is doing it for me. I've become so used to being the one in charge, having it going on, being the lady of the house, the five-star actor, he who is chauffered, that now that everything is gone, I feel hollow.
Ab-so-lute-ly hollow. It doesn't even pay to drink anymore. Having a martini for breakfast these days doesn't even make me feel happy. I feel used and violated. Like I had been out all day and night smoking pot. The smoking pot doesn't even seem like a beacon of hope. The last time I smoked pot, I didn't even get hungry. I got tired and fell asleep.
I don't feel like painting. I don't feel like singing. I don't feel like writing or baking or eating or drinking or smoking or staying awake in hope that someone will care or getting up in the morning, or, for that matter, getting up ever again. I don't care. I am so lonely and afraid that I don't care.
My door is always open. Feel free to let yourself in and care. I sure as hell ain't doing it.
It's a trend. I find myself saying it more and more every week. When I bother to go into detail about it, it always ends the same.
"It gets lonely up here. Stuffed up, in the corner, nothing to do, no one to talk to." Whether I'm at home or at work, it's the same. I'm lonely. I have never felt more alone in my life. My best friend has been avoiding me. My love life has gone on a summer-long vacation. My health is deteriorating. I am no longer energised enough to take care of that.
I'm lonely.
I wake up in the morning, and there is nothing. There isn't a reason to get out of bed. Only a blank screen, waiting for me to type something to someone who doesn't care. Waiting for me to spill out a poem to express myself. A short story. A novelette. A paragraph. A sentence explaining exactly how I am feeling and how I have gotten to this point in my life where I feel like everything is falling apart.
It's never been this bad. Sure, I've gotten lonely in the past. Very lonely, at times. When I thought there wasn't anyone there, someone always pulled through, calling me up, asking me if I wanted to go do something. No one is there anymore. I don't get that 2AM phone call, telling me that I'm missed, that we should hang out asap. That email, "Hope you're okay. Call me sometime." That little budge of encouragement from my parents. Nothing. There is nothing.
Not one damn thing. Not one fucking smile from a stranger to acknowledge my existance. No Tina at Filippos to remember my order and to yell bye to me as I walk out. No Erin to harass (lovingly) at work. No Fjaere to tell me that I look good in my new shirt or that I smell nice. No fucking Alisia, even, to say, "Hey, how have you been?" which even eludes to a slight notion of caring.
I hate feeling so self-pitying, but no one else is doing it for me. I've become so used to being the one in charge, having it going on, being the lady of the house, the five-star actor, he who is chauffered, that now that everything is gone, I feel hollow.
Ab-so-lute-ly hollow. It doesn't even pay to drink anymore. Having a martini for breakfast these days doesn't even make me feel happy. I feel used and violated. Like I had been out all day and night smoking pot. The smoking pot doesn't even seem like a beacon of hope. The last time I smoked pot, I didn't even get hungry. I got tired and fell asleep.
I don't feel like painting. I don't feel like singing. I don't feel like writing or baking or eating or drinking or smoking or staying awake in hope that someone will care or getting up in the morning, or, for that matter, getting up ever again. I don't care. I am so lonely and afraid that I don't care.
My door is always open. Feel free to let yourself in and care. I sure as hell ain't doing it.