Journal

I’m 23 years old, and I’ve yet to have anyone express any romantic interest in me. I’ve never gone on a date, kissed someone special, or even held hands. And it hurts. A lot. I am constantly thinking something is wrong about me that keeps people away. That I’m falling behind all my peers as I lack common experiences and milestones someone of my age should, at least according to society, have experienced already.

Maybe I’m really ugly and my friends pity me too much to tell me. Maybe I’m a terrible person and people are too scared to let me know. Maybe I smell weird or act too energetic or speak too loud.

But, I also think I’m too obsessed with love. I read romance books, I watch romance movies, I listen to romantic music. Yet, there’s a difference between appreciating love vs. becoming obsessed in all the ways you are lacking in it.

The people who say, “it comes when you least expect it” might be on to something.

Because in all the time I’ve spent wasted on crying over loneliness, it could’ve been time spent loving myself. It’s not giving up on love to let it go. It’s letting it go, so that when it finds you again, you’ll be ready for it. One does not go out into a garden and wait for a singular flower to blossom, ignoring the rest of the opportunities around them in relentless pursuit of being desired.

So, I think it’s time I let go of chasing love.

Because, as the poets say, it’ll find me when I least expect it. And I’d rather spend my time in the present, enjoying my friends and the experiences I’m currently going through. Compared to sitting and waiting for a future that is unknown and unpromised. Sure, life could be better with a partner. But life can still be good with just me. I can still find new music, taste incredible food, make amazing memories with myself.

Then, if I ever get the opportunity to meet someone, I’ll have an abundance of life to share. And we can explore and continue growing together.

For so long, I considered myself unworthy of love, thinking I was not productive, perfect, or pretty enough for someone to desire. But I think in the chase for external validation of someone else, I’ve forgotten the parts of myself that are beautiful. I’ve forgotten that I don’t not have to prove my worth to feel love. I can just exist and that love will find me. I shouldn’t have to beg on my knees to have someone love me. I have friends, family, pets, and so much more.

But on top of that, I have myself. I can love myself. And I can love my life. And maybe one day, in all those small moments we deem unimportant, thats when I’ll meet someone. And that love can blossom, healthy and radient into something truly beautiful. And I won’t have to worry about not being enough, because I’ll already be there. Because I’ve always been enough. And being single or lonely doesn’t impact my value as a human, but rather reminds me there’s still so much to explore.

I can sit here and let the petals overtake me. Continue to fill me until I am choking on petals and they clog my ears so I am unable to listen to any other thoughts other than those provided from the poisonous juice of the flowers stuck in my mouth.

Or I can let the petals go. I can imagine that when I open my palms or when laying in bed, that the petals came just float out of me. I don’t know where they go. But I always end up feeling lighter.

And maybe that’s all I am at the moment. Maybe I’ve just continued to fill my hunger with toxic petals instead of looking for sustenance elsewhere.

Maybe it’s time I find a new flower to eat.

But the warehouse forgot my fragile sticker. And life hasn’t been kind.

The bumps in the back of the truck send me for a trip. But I’m packed so tightly between my family that it doesn’t bother me much. Sometimes the delivery man drops me. It’s not his fault that I’m too heavy. Sometimes I get left out in the rain. But it’s peaceful out here. It might be cold and lonely, but at least I’m at peace. No one can hurt me.

As I wait for my delivery to be complete, a sense of dread fills me.

Waiting for my family to come back.

Waiting for someone to come pick me up and tell me, that I’m a good person, and that I’m worthy for such a love.

But instead I was left out on the streets to fend for myself. I grew bitter and angry knowing only abandonment. Scared of the world.

The black velvet-lined bottomless pit seems more comforting than the life I have now.

Full of uncertainty, anxiety, loneliness.

The dark has never left me lonely. It has always welcomed me back into its razor claws. Keeping me safe within the bars of my enclosure. I might not be free but life if predictable. It’s mindless.

There is no worries of whether people like me or if I’m not doing enough.

It is soundless. Thoughts are muffed by the gushing icy water filling my head.

Here, I can focus only on me. I can take my own time. I can lose myself in the clutches of ambition with no one else to lose. There are no friends. There is no family.

It’s me and my keeper alone in this black cage.

I wish it was more.

I wish it was a whiteout blizzard.

I would go outside and sit in the snow. Admire the nothingness and fullness at the same time. The howling wind and cold flakes that bring along the unique snow crystals and beautiful scenery.

I wish the wind could pick me up. Carry me through the storm like I’m weightless. Where I could be nothing and everything at the same time. The underlying rage and anxiety I constantly feel deep inside coupled with the beautiful on my outwards appearance that is constantly on show.

I’m so overwhelmed. Just like my car would be as is piled underneath inches and inches and feet of snow.

I wish I was buried in the snow.

The quietness only achieved in death yet I’d still be breathing. Just away from prying eyes and social expectations.

The weather app only says a winter storm watch. But I wish it was a warning. That it was coming.

An unstoppable force where we sit in both terror and awe as it falls and crashes outside the windows.

I wish I was a snow storm. But instead of filling my life with riches like the crystals outside I’m melting in a consonant state of paralysis and panic that leaves me only wishing.

Wishing for change. Wishing for rage. Wishing for more.

And every year I am incorrect.

Because I want people to celebrate me the way I celebrate them.

But it never happens.

Im not sure if it’s because of me being me. And no one actually likes me. Or if I’m too emotionless on the outside that they don’t recognize the thoughts I have on the inside. Or if they just don’t like birthdays in general and I have nothing to do with it.

But either way