Wallows of 22

Have you ever wanted to just be loved?

To skip the awkward first date and go straight to the Sunday morning wake up after a night binge watching the latest Netflix docuseries?

I have.

Because skipping the awkward first dates, the meeting of the family, the exchange of first kisses and sweaty hand holding, and going straight for the happily ever after means that you don’t have to worry for nights on end that you’d be rejected.

I’m off social dating apps because I’m tired of putting in a fake version of myself to get a swipe. Filtered photos, carefully selected emojis, and witty bio entries.

Yet I still sit in bed wanting to get back onto one.

To upload months old photos taken when I had confidence and in moments when I liked the way I looked. Photos that don’t reflect the hollow darkness that now rests in my eyes. The pain from deep within me bubbling to the surface of a forced smile.

I just want to be loved.
To love and be loved.
I know I’d be good at it.

To cradle their head in my lap and play with their hair as they watch the movie on the tv screen. To tuck them in when I wake up and find I’ve accidentally taken all of the blankets. To slide out of bed when I can’t sleep and just admire the life we’ve built together between the floors and ceilings of our home.

Why then, does it feel that I’ll never have these dreams become real? Have I angered the fates? Scorned Aphrodite so that I am to be cursed to love a loveless life? Was I born to only be the supporting character in someone else’s romance novel?

I don’t know.

I spend so much time playing video games and reading short stories. Drowning out the harshness of the life that surrounds me for something sweeter.

Living in fear of rejection and failure isn’t living at all.

I know this already.

I know that living behind the stone walls I’ve built around myself since before I could see outside of them... is fruitless. Yet I continue to hide.

I peak out every so often. Crack open the drawbridge and let a few special souls see some parts sighing within. Never all of it. My castle remains lonely even when a trusted guest sits in the entrance hall. The locked doors don’t let them in any further. I can’t let them trample the small gardens I’ve raised. I can’t risk starting over. The seeds have just begun to sprout again.

Even then, some of the outsiders I let in… I know they won’t understand my castle. They’ll see it’s thick walls, hear it’s echoing halls, and say they relate but they don’t. They don’t know the conflict brewing between the rose bushes and hydrangeas. The ghost of disappointment throwing blankets on the floor and tearing photos down from their nails between the stones. The neglected creatures down the corridor or the blood around my fingernails. They won’t get it.

How could they, when I hardly do?

People learn to love their chains. To love the barren works of stone they’ve stacked around themselves. I’ve built my towers so high that the sunlight can hardly rise above them anymore.

I just want to be loved.

Unconditionally.

Without any fear.

Instead, I settle for the temporary joy of smoke and the company of my four legged child.