I miss my home. I miss my mother. I miss my bike. I miss my freedom. I miss my solitude. I miss my TV. I miss my best friend. I miss all the food I love. I miss cheese. I miss all the things I left behind. Especially myself.
I miss the person I was for the last few months. Happy, independent, excited, unencumbered, and of course, anxious. But anxious in a way that was balanced by all the positive feelings I was experiencing. But that’s changed.
I’ve returned to the pattern of academic life I’ve been in for the past six or seven years, where I escape into alternate realities through the beautiful media available to me, and emerge only for food, and to work when I absolutely must. Having a roommate has only dented this a bit.
I sometimes wish I was one of those people who loves to be outside, talking and laughing and yelling. And sometimes, on very specific days, at particular moments, I am. I like that version of myself too. But that person is not me. Not the real me, who wants to be cosy in bed, book in hand or television show all set to play, and in my dreams, with someone who wants the same thing. A person to hug and kiss and who’ll be there for me when I feel like I’m all alone, and who’ll let me be all alone when I feel like that’s what I need.
Speaking of hugs. I can’t believe I haven’t been hugged since 27th July. It’s been nearly two weeks. I hate it. It absolutely sucks. I hate feeling like a socially backward loser. I don’t feel confident enough and comfortable enough to go up to these new people, and demand a hug. Maybe there’s one person I could ask for a hug, but she’s gone out of town for a bit. And the weirdest thing is that I’m waiting for the day she returns so I can hug her. It’s not that I know her any better than I know anyone else around here. I just feel like she’s a good person to hug. Someone I can hug without worrying too much about what she’ll think of me. I’m pretty sure she’s already judged me and maybe she thinks I’m lacking, but I know a lot of people do, and I think I can live with it. So long as I get my hug.
I don’t care if she can feel every kilogram of fat on my body, I need to feel a physical connection to another person. I need that. Or I’m going to go insane. I knew I’d feel like this. I could tell I was going to have mental health issues when I got here. It’s why I got my tattoo. I brush off the questions about why I got my tattoo with humour and my other usual defenses, but I know why I got it. It’s a way to hold on the sanity I sometimes feel slipping away. It’s the thing I can look at on my arm and feel secure. Stable. Special.
I want to feel special. I want to feel loved every day. I know I’m loved. I can hear it even through a pretty pathetic phone connection. But I want more. I want someone to tell me I’m special to them. That I am important and lovely and my life has meaning.I can do that for myself sometimes, but not all the time. Not when I feel I’m constantly being judged. Judged by everybody every moment I exist in the presence of another person here. It feels absolutely stifling.
I hate this feeling. This not being enough. It drives me mad. I have career plans and hopes and aspirations. But for now, all I really think about and hope for is a person to love me. And this is where that thing called love comes in. I want a different kind of love than the kinds I’ve had so far. Why can’t someone look at me and talk to me, and think I’m amazing and want to be with me? That’s what I really want. What I dream about. It’s what I find myself thinking about far too often.
It’s not fair. I know, I know, life’s not fair, I’ve heard it a million times. I see it for myself everyday. But can’t it be a little better than this? Just a little better. So that I don’t have to always have an awful day following the brief moments or rare hours where I feel content and at peace? If that’s not possible at this point in my life, then I don’t see why I shouldn’t just go find a really tall building and jump off it.
I know why I can’t though. Because of the people who do love me. I can’t do that to them. I’m afraid of the day when they aren’t enough to stop me. When I hate myself and the world too much to think about anyone else. That’s the day I’m going to really miss myself. The self that I was on many days as a child, a few days as a teen, and the days I hope to have in the future. Where I woke up in the morning without dread, and went to bed at night with some semblance of peace, instead of a thousand worries and bits of self-doubt. I want more of those days. I hope I get them, and that writing this all down helps me get there.