People laugh and patronize me, say that I am young and that it will happen at the right time. What a bunch of bullshit they feed me! I don’t want them to pity me. I reject their sympathy. I want cold, hard, concrete solutions. I want them to tell me what the hell is wrong with me. I know that there must be something. I know that I am a disgusting person. I must be. I must be so horribly disgusting. I feel it. Can’t they feel it too? I try so hard to hide it, and maybe I over-hide it. My confidence is for my own laughter of course, but it is also a defense mechanism. Or is it a coping mechanism? Perhaps it is both.

I feel disgusting. I feel pathetic. I feel lonely and afraid and ugly. Why is that I am doomed to be alone? It’s not funny or cute that I haven’t ever loved someone or even tried to love someone. It’s completely sad. I hate when people try to make me feel better. I do not want to feel better. I want to feel someone’s arms around me, someone’s hand in mine, someone’s lips between mine. But I am almost convinced that I never will. Oh I know I will, but at this point it could be anyone. I am tired of waiting. I am becoming desperate. I’ve fought so hard not to be desperate, but I want to say the truth. I am desperate. I am desperate for attention from someone, for someone to think of me as more than funny and smart or maybe annoying…and smart. Yeah, I should refuse to be seen as just a sexual object, but damn, I want to be a sexual object too. I don’t just want to be the person you send jokes to and ask for help with school. I am not just a freaking joke machine and study buddy.

I have more feelings than happy and ambition. I feel depressed and self-loathsome. I feel gross and overwhelmed. I feel defeated and dead. I want to be wanted. Is there a reason no one wants me? I want to not feel like what I am writing right now. I want to experience pleasure and bliss and contentment. I try so hard to convince myself and others that I am happy, that I love my simple, simple, boring life. I say that my mind is exciting enough, that my thoughts are a wonderland unto themselves. Maybe this is true, but it isn’t enough. I want to be touched, want to touch someone myself. I want to laugh and laugh with someone else. I want to be able to sit with someone and not say anything and have that be okay, have that be simple and wonderful and beautiful all at the same time.

I’ve forced myself to say that I don’t want these things. I dismiss them and say that they are stupid. I pretend not to want any of it. I don’t want the Vera Wang wedding dress or the church filled with family and friends. I scoff with disdain at engagement pictures and overpriced, uncut diamonds. People brag about their sparkle, and I am determined to scuff it with my less-than-enthusiastic remarks. I don’t want borrowed and blue and old and new. I don’t want a honeymoon to Paris where we drink champagne and kiss on some stupid bridge. I don’t want a husband who brings me flowers just because or buys me jewelry for fun. I absolutely do not want to care about anniversaries. God forbid I have one of those weddings with games and dancing and dreadfully long vows. I never want to have a “song” or a “dance” or a “pet name” or a “thing” or whatever the hell people have. I do not want to care. I do not want to hurt. But the truth is that I want all of these things sometimes. I want to have the option to want them. If I want Vera, then I should be able to have her. If I want a big-ass wedding where I can get all of my friends drunk, then I should get to have it. If I want to bore everyone with long vows and pictures from my trip to the Eiffel Tower, I should not be denied that chance. If I want to have a song and a dance and be called “sweetheart” and have a thing, why can’t I? I’ll tell you why: because there is no one who wants to do that with me. And I can’t get married alone, can’t wear Vera for myself, can’t kiss myself, can’t do any of that s*** by myself. So instead of holding onto hope I think it is easier to give up the dream.
It’s not as if I want a big wedding and long vows and a Paris honeymoon. I don’t even think I do. But I want people to think it’s possible for me. Hell, I want to think it’s possible for me. I remember one time in my life in which I thought marriage could be a real thing for me, glimpsed myself actually walking down the aisle. I only remember one other moment like that, as if I was having a flashback to the future. I saw someone holding my baby, the father I assume. He cussed and I playfully hit him, with all my futile strength, telling him not to say that in front of my baby. It was so real. I don’t know who he was or if he’s out there, don’t know if that idea is even real. But those two thoughts gave me peace in the moment. I thought I could have the love that everyone else professes to have possessed at some point. I thought for a brief few seconds that I would not have to be alone forever.
Those were meaningful, and I cherish them. But it’s been years since I have had a glimpse of a bright future. All I can see is darkness, the unknown trailing before me. Sure, I mention the future all the time. I hope for things out loud and many more theoretically. But I can’t really feel it. I can’t see it or touch it or taste it. And I am losing faith in it. I am losing faith in me.