I’m at that stage of my life right now (yeah, people at 23 do indeed feel they are at stages in their lives) when I feel kind of lost, and I’ve started to wonder when  the next ACTUAL life stage will begin; you know, the part where I get a real career and meet my future husband (someone who actually treats me like I deserve to be loved) and all that.  It seems so far off, and yet the age of 30 is only seven short years away and I’d hate to be 30 and still paying rent and feeling lost.

I think this feeling all started for me when I felt like I had the world in my hands and then it all just kind of vanished.  It was like leprachaun gold; you think it’s safely tucked into your pocket, and suddenly you reach in and realize it was a trick.  I’m tired of life’s little tricks.  I want my real life, the life I was entitled to when I signed up to be alive in the first place.  Instead, I feel like a mope-y, brooding teenager who’s watching everyone else get older and become real and full except for herself.  And because I feel this way right now, I’ve reverted back to hideous bouts of nostalgia and pining for people that are long gone and dissapated from my life completely (though, who I would wave a magic wand to bring back in two seconds flat, if it were at all possible).

It all comes down to love though, doesn’t it?  We all just want to be loved and find that connection that makes us remember what it feels like to TRULY be alive.  I tried my hand at finding that again recently; even when I thought I found it, I knew deep down that I didn’t actually find it.  And then it fizzled, disappeared and was wrecked, right before my eyes, just like I knew it would be.  And that feeble attempt made me out to be someone I didn’t like and never thought I would be, ever. And I don’t intend on being that person ever again.

The fact is this: I know how it is to love someone — maybe not in the same way other people do, but I truly did.  And honestly, I don’t think I would ever want to accept less than what I had into my life, because it would only be setting me up for disappointment.  I want THAT love again, the love that made me CRAZY with want and anticipation and wild teenage fantasies that didn’t make any sense but would spontaneously wake me up at 4 in the morning with these brought-on palpitations that were undeniable and chemical and uncontrollable.  If I can’t have that again… then there’s no point to love, is there?  It’s just an empty grasp at desperation.  It’s settling.

I miss what I had.  Honestly.


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