Loneliness – Belonging;

by Milla — she=he

Spring is slowly coming. Masses of grey snow melting, chunks of slippery uneaven ice, slowly uncovering layers of gravel and dog-poo. The colors shift from white, to grey and black, and then – brown, the gravely, sandy, muddy asphalt; the trees and bushes in greenish and yellowish brown; the flattened stringy greyish grass; the puddles of water – running running running.

Got back into drinking again. Either alcohol or coffee. Coffee gets me gassy, and teeth and gum itchy, and tense, fearing that my heart will pop. At the same time as it causes tension it also numbs my senses, as well as keeping my mind distracted on all the things uncomfortable and ‘wrong’ physically. Alcohol, takes me away from loneliness – so hard to understand – the years, the hours I’ve been alone – I’m the type of person it would take a while before people realize she’s gone. A thought that gets me sad, a thought that visits me now and then, to really underline what I’m missing.
Basic feelings that I have and live with is loneliness, hurt and sadness, frustration. It may come out as ‘anger’ but it’s really closer to – not trusting that my needs matter to anyone but myself, a need to be heard, to know there is time and space and an open heart for that.

The feeling of loneliness is pointing at the need of belonging, to be in the presence of others, feeling safe, and appreciated – loved. To be able to love others. To belong.

I also feel ‘ugly’. Often. I don’t know what that is related to. What feeling that is. Probably the shame of wanting, of asking, of reaching out, and not having that experience of the response fulfilling the needs billowing below the sticky clingy feelings always there – reminding me, taunting me – in spite of coffee and alcohol – that it’s just me – I am just me – myself is my only company. The pain of disconnection unbearable after so many years of solitude – the years of disconnecting conflict – every single attempt of connection reminding me of needing that space of acceptance, where I can be, and know that I belong, no matter what,

where there is warmth and willingness to talk, to hear and be heard, to understand, to trust – to believe, to know – that it really is there.

Most of the time there’s despair, and overwhelming sadness. And frustration – coming out in arrogance, tiredness – disconnecting speech.

When I’m speaking with Daniel now since November last year, and first having her expressing interest in talking with me, and she herself picking the topic of polyamory in Finland, and myself expressing a wish to talk about the past – that I still live with the pain of trying for so long to have a talk on Everyday Male Chauvinism, and Daniel saying things that I perceive as aggressive in relation to that, unarticulated needs unmet for her in our communication, remembering myself in a similar expression, a lot of words, and sometimes pure aggression – when behind that desperate powerlessness, the crazy drunkenness, the nasty words, the hurt feelings, repressed anger, was this,

Like, Daniel, hey i feel really vulnerable and i would like to talk with you about stuff that was painful for me, and that i’m still years later on an open wound about, and i would like for you to hear me out about that, that’s all – that’s all i ever wanted

and, it’s sad in it’s simplicity – the many words said,

I want to be heard, and understood, and i want to understand,

and deal with the strong triggers I experience in my communication with Daniel. To own them, to transform them, to know myself, and become whole again, cause the wounds – the ‘ugliness’ and solitude I feel – is so close to the core of me, of wounds I’ve carried for so long – of wanting to belong, to love and be loved – when I take the time to face that, to hold that, then I can begin to see the beauty in me, and to once again be all soft and warm and loving – the thing I miss most of all, to feel the love inside of me – of feeling ‘close’ to me – no longer ‘alone’. Peace inside. It feels unreachable. But I can dream, and try, and learn.


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