Next Door To The DarkThis is the hardest story I've yet had to write. Harder than describing my nightmares or asking questions about my father. Harder even than the first time I wrote a story that I had to limit to adults. Admitting to being lonely irks me. It feels like every keystroke is yanking something loose from its moorings deep inside.
I have worked hard, so damnably hard, to get here. To be on my own, across a foreign border, with autonomy and the room to stretch my wings. But the courage to do it ? The ability ? The... desire ?
I don't believe in loneliness. I put up a pretty good advert campaign to indicate that if you're lonely, you need to get to know yourself better. That if you don't like your own company you oughtn't to expect anyone else to enjoy it. And yet, here I sit, alone in my house, at my very own dining table *** desk, and I wish I had someone to whom to describe my feelings. As though they would be more real spoken aloud.
Nothing about my story is that unique or special. I am just one of many. That hurts, too. I need that distinction. I need to be a woman apart, because without it I lose my sense of self. I need to see my singular light reflected in someone else's eyes. Even if they dislike me. That's all right, as long as they have an opinion.
My own eyes are dull. There is a groundswell of what should be emotion, but instead is that blessed numbing silence, and I want to sink into it. I want to let it envelop me and let the forgetfulness take me. But if there were someone... perhaps I would rather talk it out and then go do something. Anything.
I hate admitting to being lost because I am the girl who was never lost. I can't be lonely because I am the girl who wants to be alone. Just... maybe not forever.