The hardest part is the loneliness. When I was in elementary school, I was made fun of. A lot. I was often the butt of jokes, which taught me to smile when I wanted to cry and laugh when I wanted to yell. At school, I was surrounded by kids but I always felt alone.
When I got married, I got busier than normal. I was now responsible for a household, bills, and finishing school and if I had any free time, it was usually spent at home. My ex and I would argue any time I wanted to go out without him because he felt excluded. I was isolated, but thought it was ok because I was at least with him. And then my oldest daughter was born and I suddenly realized I didn't have the time or energy to parent both my husband and my daughter. I asked him for help. He instead chose to start an affair. Afterwards, he "came back" to me, but I still felt alone. One of the more telling things he said during this whole ordeal was to his mistress: "I don't care if I lose Becki, but I don't want to lose my kids. Don't tell her about us."
He lived with me, but he was never really there.
My kids are trying and take a lot of work, but they give me immense joy. That said, I have no one with whom to share that joy. My heart feels empty most days. I chose to get married because I didn't want to go through life alone. I wanted to share the things I loved with someone. But I chose a man who only loved himself, who chose to love only the things that he valued. And it turns out, I wasn't someone he valued.
So I'm lonely. I've been lonely going on 5 years. And loneliness is a common feeling for me.
They say you have to learn to be alone to be happy with someone else. I've learned loneliness for so long. I've given everything I have to another person, just to have it rejected and be replaced (twice in a row now). Both by people who promised to be there for me and take care of me.
I have to take care of myself. That's not a new lesson. But it gets harder and harder everyday to be alone.
A few days ago, I went to a movie with an acquaintance and afterward, we decided mutually that we should get to know each other better, which, considering my lack of an active social circle, can't possibly be a bad thing. (Shut up, anxiety. I'm trying to knock those walls down. ) We were exchanging questions and he said, "You'll have to tell me about [your son] sometime." A few moments later he added, "...and your girls. They clearly have your heart." That first sentence, blinking bright against the black on my iPhone struck me so profoundly. It's a simple request. "Tell me about your son." The innocuous reason he asked that question was simply because he knows that my son is important to me and wants to know more about the people I care about. However, when I read it, it struck me how I would seriously answer what my children truly mean to me and how I would honestly describe them. Not in the funny things they do, or the sweet things th...
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