I still feel like I’m alone. I still don’t have a family, and every day that feeling grows worse, and more real.
I lost my parents, and I’ve lost my brothers.

I feel like I don’t have anything at all.

The circumstances of this sudden onslaught of refreshed melancholy are too complex and irrelevant to really discuss. But, despite months and months of trying so hard to not be miserable, I have failed quite triumphantly.

I never seem to get better. I get worse every year, physically and emotionally. I grow bitter. I grow like a tangled garden of dying flowers. I’m sitting in a fucking hotel room crying, because some pretentious boy thinks that he can buy happiness, and thought he could do so with me. But you can’t buy someone’s happiness; lest of all your own, and even less when you can’t appreciate the little things that create happiness. I’m crying because he doesn’t understand, and a bitchy comment my sister-in-law made, then a bitchier response to my message.

Fuck all of it.

I exhale, and the world returns, momentum unbearable.

But I do not move. I remain sinking into the burning sand, the roar of surging water is deafening. Gulls cry. Children laugh and people chatter, cars race down crakced asphalt, and I remain, silent.
I am a shell, washed over and over by the cool water of the gritty Atlantic, wearing away, disintegrating back to sand: part of everything and, nothing at all. Or could I be a souvenir? Some precious little token of a memory, a necklace, a collection. Kept as gift, a pet, something pretty to look at and keep forever. That too, would inevitably wear me away.

So it goes.

I suppose, my former English Teachers would be proud of me. I suppose.
My ability to–still, to this day, years later, and quite irrelevantly–explain the careful nuances in stories and novels. I can still quote Hemingway, Plath, Poe, Vonnegut, Kerouac, and so on and so forth.
But come on. Does anyone else know the plight of Sibyl Vane?

A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook.
It can talk, talk, talk.

I find myself easilly comparing people I know to characters in books.
[And serial killers, which was an alarming realization: partially because I can compare my friends to serial killers; partially because I am familiar enough with information about serial killers that I can easilly make those comparisons.]
Will I always be Lady Lazarus?

I guess what I’m trying to say is: I will always love the Jay Gatsbys of the world more than the Billy Pilgrims.

And I should really sleep instead of pondering this.

What’s the relevance of infatuation? Romance? Is it some sort of social response? Why does holding hands and giving tokens of affection bring the shimmering glances of admiration and approval, but the actual adherence to the basic desire to just grab someone and press your lips to theirs seem so very inappropriate? Who decided this? When and why?
Infatuation seems like such a fruitless endeavor! At least lust is more productive, more assertive.
I do not understand attraction, lest of all my own; my attraction to others, and why is it so…rare. Why people would be attracted to me. Why anyone is attracted to anyone.
I am not just self-loathing, although I certainly am, to some extent. It isn’t just that.

I know I am not an ugly girl. It may have taken much longer than it should have to realize this, but I do. I know I am aesthetically pleasing. I have striking eyes. I have high cheek bones, and full lips. I have a decent-looking body. I get second glances.
I also know that I am not stupid, or silly, or particularly annoying. I am sometimes combative. Challenging. Too difficult to understand; secretive, even cold [though I try not to be.] And of course, I tend to be distant, and detached emotionally. I keep people at arm’s length. I try not to let them touch me.
Everyone I have ever loved has left me, either by choice or by nature.
It is difficult to surpass the desire to protect myself from any further pain.

But I am jealous of other people being in love. I am also jealous of other people being able to so willingly be in pointless relationships–nothing of love; just physical attraction and need satisfied. I cannot seem to find the former, or submit to the latter.
Well, no. I can submit to the latter; just not for very long.

I dated The Prince because he was spontaneous, wild, unpredictable. He was interesting. He was surprising, and new; a novelty that never stopped.
But I could never hold an intelligent conversation with him, without him getting defensive, if not offensive, and storming off. He had no conception of greater ideas, or even most simple ones. His world was very small, and not very deep; it was like drowning in two inches of  tepid water.
He was completely unreliable as person, with no real personality beneath the eyeliner and snark. He lied if it made him seem a certain way that he wished to seem. He was a shallow fascination.

I was with The Mephistophelean because he was strong, and masculine. He was mischievous, and clever, and dark. I loved his voice. I loved the roughness of his skin, the feel of his hair in my fingers. I loved his brutal cynicism, his insanity.
Or so I believe. When I focus on it, those are the first things to pop into my head: his laugh, his smile, the feel of his arms wrapped around me. There are many things about our relationship that I don’t remember. He was what I needed at a time when I needed something, anything; anyone. And it was completely unfair to him, because I suspect the girl he fell in love with is not the girl that I really am.
I wonder sometimes, if he and I couldn’t be friends. But there are many things about him that disgust me: make me angry and sick to think about. He’s weak, in ways that annoy me to point of loathing. And he, too, left me feeling unfulfilled intellectually; and so, ultimately, physically and emotionally.
I realized this in physically seeing him, again, after so long. [A year!] Yes, I still find him physically appealing–I could readilly see myself touching him, or holding him in a way similar as to before; no, there is nothing more there.
[[There is a physical reaction, yes; but, now, having experienced a more severe physical reaction with someone else, I question what that really means.]]

I just want someone to watch late-night crime dramas and History Channel specials with, without them barely concealing their boredom. I want someone who is just as interested. I want someone who is just as nerdy as me–a fan of Star Trek and comic books; some one who understands and is interested in physics, theoretical mathematics, literature, history; someone with whom I can discuss the hypothetical social hierarchies of ancient civilizations with. I want someone just as crazy as me; just as cynical and apathetic. I want someone to cook dinner for, someone to curl up with while I sleep.

I suppose what I want, or perhaps need, it a combination of The Prince and the Mephistophelean, with a heavy dose of intelligence.
Someone who is spontaneous, masculine, and intelligent–able to hold my interest, challenge me, make me feel feminine. I need someone assertive: someone willing to slam me against the wall when they kiss me, instead of being coy, and shy, because that does nothing for me. Someone who is intense enough to not be intimidated into submission by my own intensity. Someone who can keep up with me–intellectually, physically. Someone with drive, ambition; someone as randomly multi-talented, who is intrigued by everything.

If I can casually explain the nuances of Hemingway while baking brownies, can’t you take apart the alarm clock while quoting Vonnegut? Can we talk about sociopolitcal ramifications while playing chess?
I need someone else who strives to find out how things work.

I need someone stronger than me; someone dominant, so that I can actually be submissive. I don’t want to be in stringent control, anymore. I want someone who can actually, effectively, take the reigns and make decisions. Because I hate uncertainty. I hate this feeling of floating. I hate this feeling that I could literally pick up and go, and never come back, and it wouldn’t matter at all. And unfortunately, I feel like there needs to be another person in my life for this to stop.

How pathetic! How weak of me! I make myself so angry when I come to these realizations!

I am attracted to broken people: those with lives that are just as unnecessarily ridiculous as mine.
I am attracted to the people who frighten me, make my heart beat too quickly, my nerves stand on edge.
The Bigger Devils, as few and far between as they are.

And there is very likely something terribly, terribly wrong with me.

The whole…I want to be a nurse, wife and mother ordeal. So cliche, right? So boring.
But it’s what I want. Honestly. Truly.

I met someone with similar life goals: married by 25, kids by 27.
But he is insane. Truly, truly. He invited me to come visit him in Florida–Florida!!–on a whim. Or perhaps not on a whim. I cannot tell.
But I think he did because he doesn’t want to be alone, and who can blame him, really? Who wants to be alone?
But I loathe extravagance.  And the gesture is unfathomable to me.
And I’m not a big fan of myself, either, quite frankly. I am not good company; not aesthetic enough to attract the earnest attractions of someone. And etc etc in that self-deprecating fashion.

The shiny new toy. The novelty of Jersey girls wears off quickly.

…I just need to sleep…

Regardless of actual political ramifications, and ignoring blatant hypocrisy and ignorance…I find myself most disturbed by the future.
What will the text books say about this? How will I explain this to my kids?
[On a side note: I'm not one for crude humor, but c'mon, I knew what "tea bagging" was in 8th grade. How could an entire movement of people not know they were using a silly, sexual reference as the name for their political movement? Seriously? I'm pretty sure if you typed "tea-bagging" into Google search prior to the 15th, you'd be taken to urbandictionary.com]

Everything is backward. Six years ago, it was the “Democrats” who were “crazy hippie protesters,” and the “Republicans” were “fear-mongers.”
Now, the left-wings are in power, and apparently, we’re going to destroy the world. Because, seriously, in three months, everything has gone to hell. Out of no where! A complete surprise! No one saw it coming! Totally Obama’s fault.

Everything is polarizing. And it’s unnerving.
Equally unnerving: people throwing around words with detrimental connotations, either in the completely wrong context; or while clearly demonstrating that they don’t know what the words mean.
Case evident

Not to mention gay marriage! Argh!

But the most horrifying part…is that people are more worried about their fucking taxes than that we, The United States, support terrorism. We tortured people. And no one will be held accountable? If another country did this to our people, we’d destroy them.
We voted for the people in charge; we are partially responsible.

If you are not horrified, you are not paying attention.

I want to get married in November. I want my husband to get his groomsmen pocket watches–to follow the tradition of flasks and knives, set by my brothers. [My family is sort of awesome, by the way.] I want to give my bridesmaids long, chandelier earrings, in blue-glass bowls. Something borrowed would be the shoes; something blue would be my Mother’s sapphire jewelry; something old would be the veil; something new would be the dress. I’d want my brother’s Adam and Dan to walk me out. I’d want my Grandfather to say the blessing.

I know the songs we’d walk out to, dance to. I know the food we’d serve.

Because when my Mother first went in the hospital, when I was 13, she asked me what my wedding was going to be like. Because she wouldn’t be there. And she knew it.

I want to buy a nice house, in upstate New York, with a big backyard and a front porch.
I want to get a cute little dog; a welsh corgi, or a spaniel. I want to work as a nurse, and come home exhausted, but feeling like I did some good.

I want to have kids.
I want the late nights, changing diapers, trying to feed them. I want the baths, the messes, the unimaginably precious sound of baby’s laughter. I want to teach them their first words. Play games with them. Get them ready for school. Go to ballet recitals, and baseball games.
I want all of that.

Is it really so much to ask? Really?
Is marriage really just a contract of convenience?
Could I grow to accept a marriage based on mutual respect and fiscal necessity?
Or could I grow to accept that I really do love…

I went for a walk at a local fitness center as the sun rose over the Delaware.

I saw the most graceful hawk, and it seemed to notice my attention to it. As I was walking around the man-made lake, it flew to follow me, landing on the chainlink fence and watching me.
[Although, I was a bit worried it was going to attack me.]

I saw a manly-man walking two poodles. Two very adorable, well groomed poodles.

I drank Darjeeling tea from my travel mug, and sat there, alone, facing the day.

:]

I don’t believe in the idea that God has a plan.  The idea of chaos is far more comforting.  Things being randomly out of my control I can handle.  The idea of an omnipotent being knowingly…letting all of this suffering happen.  From the microcosm of my own life, to the macrocosm of the world…makes me ill, and angry.

I was planning on trying to ignore it, but it didn’t work.

I’m supposed to go hide Easter eggs today, but I don’t think I’m going to go. To be honest, I don’t even remember if that is today, or tomorrow. I’d need to call my Grandparents.
I feel weird saying that! I have my Mother’s parents, but not my parents…

Normally, when I feel like this, I’ll go over to the younger of my two eldest brother’s house.  But they are going to a baseball game, today. I think…they don’t focus on things like I do. The youngest of the my older brothers…doesn’t usually speak with me. So…yeah. hah. No family.

I have slept a full 9 hours, collectively, since Tuesday. I do not feel well. Maybe I’ve been subconciously stressing out? Yesterday (Friday) was my orientation for my CNA training. I need to buy white sneakers, and a pair of scrubs. I’m thinking of getting green ones, or lavender. I’m the youngest person by 6 years in the class. When I was spelling out my last name, I had a girl exclaim “I knew it!”  Very alarming!  Turns out she knew my 2nd oldest brother, and recognized me.  Because I look a lot like him.  I also look a lot like my Mother, so I get that too, sometimes.

I tried to make plans with friends.  Which is sort of pathetic?  I can’t just say “Hey…please help.  I don’t let me be alone in my sorrow, today.”  Instead I say “Hey, wanna go to the movies?” or “Wanna go shopping?” “Wanna bake? Hangout?”  Everyone is busy.  The life I’m missing.  My friend/future would-be maybe fiancé, Adam, offered to come down and visit with me…just to keep me company. He’s very good at comfortable silences.   He’s very good at knowing what I need even if I don’t say it.  I think I’m going to call him.

I just…fuck.  I don’t want to feel this self-loathing.  I don’t want to feel this sad.