Anhedonia

I want to die

I want to die

I’m so stupid

I’m too obvious

I’m annoying

I’m stupid

I’m worthless

I will never amount to anything

I’ve got nobody to hang out with

I’ve got nobody to go watch a film on a Sunday

A Sunday, a Sunday

Sunday is for lovers

——

Being human is strange. We are social animals. We love and fear quite naturally, it’s how we are wired. But romantic love is culturally influenced. The way and extent of our desire for it is evidently based on how much it’s been indoctrinated in us to pine for it since birth.

In other words, romantic love is so deep, drives us crazy, it’s euphoric, heaven-on-earth, and inspires the best art and poetry. But why (especially now) are we so so hungry for it… why do people rush? Why do they lie themselves?? This love is rare for a reason… why do dating apps exist?? Why do they promise closer “matches” for fucking $40/mo??

This post isn’t an essay.. just a real question. I’m hungry for it.. I’ve had it twice in my life. In-person once, but was never told they loved me back. I dated man-childs. I want to know what a Benny Blanco kind of love is like. But the truth is I don’t think it will ever find me. I don’t think I’m meant to be loved.

That hurts more than I can say. But I hate how important this is to everyone in the world. I wish friendships were cherished this much. I don’t feel like I fit in quite literally anywhere else. I can’t find anyone who thinks like me, or sees what I see.

I saw everything as black and white. Every small argument sounded like sirens and everything turned red. I didn’t know what to do. I thought it meant the end. I thought that’s what it meant. Even though it never felt right. It was push and pull. Every time.

I’m sorry.

You fought so hard for me. Like no one ever has. Beyond patient, kind, considerate, sweet.

But then you were cold. You were confusing. You avoided conversations about love. You got angry. You confused me.

The things you did, that you did for no one else. The things you said, that surprised even you. Was that your ‘I love you’?

I always found a problem. I over-analyzed. I thought I saw the red flags waving at me. But they were actually boundaries, and forgivable mistakes.

I’m so sorry.

But I still get confused. This is my first time crying about you in ages. It was X years ago. It still brings me to tears. I’m confused because of what you did. The women you liked… the girls. The comments to me. The “do you wanna have sex?” after I cry. The “shiny new toy”… the other things I’ll keep inside. I get confused.

But it’s X years later.

You’re in love. So loudly. So comfortably. So certain. There’s probably no fighting for anything. It just comes, with ease. But I still have no answers. If it was you… if you gave those things to me (which every finger pointed to you but I loved you so much I refused to believe you could be that evil).. how could you? And how could you be gifted this life?

While I remain continually betrayed, violated, deceived, and alone. No matter how cautious I am, no matter how many walls I put up. You became the rest. But worse. And with every drop of love I could ever give someone. It was all I had. Now wasted, forgotten, and gone.

It’s been years. I don’t love you anymore. But this “what could have been?” has lingered over me today. I could’ve been different. I was the problem. I was too much. Too emotional, confrontational, eccentric, opinionated, autonomous.

I should have compromised. I should have. But would we still have ended? Would you still have done the things you’ve done?

Im completely changed. My walls are steel, airtight next to the other. I am trying. But I can’t seem to let them down yet. Will i ever? And when I do… can I be comfortable risking it all over again? Knowing that the odds are so against me… that love is somehow so scarce in my life. But pain and betrayal is so so abundant.

Things are worse. I can’t heal. Because I broke myself. That’s the dilemma. I broke myself. And I can’t get away. And the past looms over me. It laughs.