Can I set the scene? It is Easter weekend. I am in my room, on my three-seater couch, comfortable under a throw blanket, one cushion behind me, two more at my feet. A vanilla-scented candle is lit on my table, and a large coffee mug contains a hazelnut cappuccino.
This is it. This scene is what I always pictured when I was a student, fighting to finish my studies so I can finally get this, the couch.
I have it now. I should be happy. I should be content. I am not. I am hollow. I am alone and I am lonely. But this is not the point. The point is that now, I cannot bring myself to talk about why that is, why I am lonely. I cannot admit that I feel the least confident I have ever been. I miss the person I was before 2017 killed her. She was alone but remained self-assured. She was okay with her full self. She was never lonely. She knew her worth and would never imagine settling for anything less than the best. From herself or from others.
Now this me, this 2019 me, this post-failure me, this looking-for-crumbs me, I don’t recognize her. I don’t know her. She is broken. She is damaged. She thinks the entire world is happy and secure and she is not. She thinks she deserves nothing good. She has taken back the forgiveness she received for past transgressions and, is punishing herself for them. God, what happened?
The couch means nothing. It does nothing. The vanilla scented candle has not scent. I need to call a friend… I called a friend. The old adage rings true: a good friend is better than a brother. Made me feel ten times better just by listening.
(Written 20 April 2019)