Sometimes, you need to get outside. Dodge the drunks stumbling through the halls, the people standing and waiting for their groups, the familiar faces. Maybe because it’s snowing outside, and you don’t want to miss it, when the sky aches the same orange as you do.

This isn’t your scene, but there’s no one to back you up, so you smile and nod. Fake kisses and obligatory hugs, thinking, “I don’t know you, and I never will”. A façade to appear normal, when memories come flooding back. Sitting alone at a table, wondering why you came in the first place. Times without a person to make you a promise. Moments with other people’s wives, because he’s secure like that, and wishing for nothing else. Walking these halls alone the way you’re doing now. Memories you wish were a little more distant. Maybe you’ll come back one day, and break even, or maybe even come out ahead.

Sometimes you need to take a picture of something, anything, because nothing you see here is how you feel, and it’s the only way you can scream.

Maybe it’s not so much outside, where you’re running, as away.

The blinds are open so I can see outside.

Secretly, I hope a face from one of the windows will appear and look outside, someone who’s thinking the same thing, so that I may not be so alone. A way of comforting myself, when I’m by myself in this veneer of a house.

I’m not sure if it’s working.

It’s on nights like this that I feel especially lonely.

I spent the last two hours looking for an image that would express my mood, but this was the best I could come up with. When I went outside, to see if the street lights would offer me more, I passed by open windows, each one filled with a different coloured light. It made me wonder what the people were doing, who they were with, what mood they were in.

It’s been a day alone. A day without contact. A day of rain and greyness, and living vicariously at Robson Arms.

So here I sit in the dark, with my apple and honey swirl pie and Ovaltine, writing because I haven’t said enough today, listing to songs of love and hate. Feeling like an old soul.

Wondering tonight if I’ll dream, or sleep soundly, or dream without remembering.

The experience of emotional deprivation is harder to define than some of the other lifetraps. Often it is not crystallized into thoughts. This is because the original deprivation began so early, before you had the words to describe it. Your experience of emotional deprivation is much more the sense that you are going to be lonely forever, that certain things are never going to be fulfilled for you, that you will never be heard, never be understood.

Emotional deprivation feels like something is missing. It is a feeling of emptiness. Perhaps the image that most captures its meaning is that of a neglected child. Emotional deprivation is what a neglected child feels. It is a feeling of aloneness, of nobody there. It is a sad and heavy sense of knowledge that you are destined to be alone.

I’m so fucking angryfuriouslivid at John right now. We were supposed to talk and play tonight, but yet again, I get brushed aside for his friends or girlfriend. I have no other communication with him, save for the phonecalls.

It’s not just this time, it’s a whole bunch of times added up. And I’m left alone, again. This is the first time ever that he’s made me cry. And I’m not even sad. I’m just angry. I’m sweating. I can barely see through these tears.

At least I found out that I could show my feelings to him. He’s the only person with whom I don’t have to worry about being polite. I can raise my voice at him, and I don’t clam up like I do with most people.

Right now, I have no one. John’s the one person I can count on to talk to me when something goes wrong. No one else truly understands me. It’s completely devastating when it’s this person who pulls the rug out from under you.

Maybe I am sad. Maybe this makes me think of how I’m always a second priority to everyone I know. That I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. That it’ll always be like this because I’m fucking flawed and fucking defective and fucking unlovable in some way.

I wasn’t going to drive to nowhere tonight, but I think I will now. I just have to remember not to rest my foot on the pedal.

People don’t understand how fragile I am. That sometimes I have to fight to feel significant, that I have to convince myself that people would be sad if steered into a concrete pole and died.

Just because I try to be easy-going and understanding doesn’t mean I’m not important.

I’m a person too.

Go outside. Right now.

It’s dark. It’s cool. It’s breezy. Grass has replaced the snow. Walking downtown, the smell of shawarma from every Lebanese restaurant, the people shedding their coats, the surfacing skin, it’s as if the world is blooming while the sun has set.

All I want is for you to be here with me. To share this moment with you.

It’s a pity to be alone on nights like this.

I’m in a bad way

My sleeping schedule is upside down. I’m lovesick. I’m heartbroken. I can’t eat anything without shitting blood. My lips are chapped. My teeth keep grazing my canker sore. I’m breaking out. I’m dreading another day of work.

But I’d still rather be alone, than be with you.

Outside, the snowfall is fast but light. From the blanket of white on the cars, one can tell how long it’s been snowing. Against this white is the aching orange glow of the sky, and the warm fluorescent street lamps. The blinds of the houses across the street are all closed and the lights are off.

City in a snow globe. Lifeless. Plastic. Shaken.

In the darkness of my living room, Emiliana Torrini sings to me about love in the time of science.

It shouldn’t hurt me to be free
It’s what I really need
To pull myself together
But if it’s so good being free
Would you mind telling me
Why I don’t know what to do with myself

It’s the last day of the year. The little clock on my screen tells me it’s six minutes to 2 a.m. I should be in bed, but this is the only chance I have to write.

Where did the time go? I thought I would be bored, or lonely, during the holiday stretch, only to discover that it wasn’t long enough.

They say that the days, months, years pass faster, the older you get.

Maybe this means I’m getting old.

Hi there.

I’m already in holiday mode. Sure, I have one day of work left — Monday — but my brain has checked out. I even took the day off yesterday and made it a long weekend because I have extra vacation days left, and they can’t be carried forward.

This is how I spend most of my time nowadays: on my new chaise lounge from EQ3, with a mug of tea by my side, in a generally unkempt manner. Unshaven, with the flourish of a cowlick in my hair.

Last year, in which I declared that Christmas is dead, I stayed home out of spite, not directed at anyone but myself. This year, I’ve decided to go to Shirley’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas, and Pat and Jen’s for New Year’s.

But there’s a stretch of a several days in between in which I have no plans. Even though it’ll be a chance for me to do some extra writing, work on my photo projects, maybe even relax a bit, part of me wishes I was busy like everyone else.

I know I don’t have anything to complain about. I’m lucky enough to be spending the “important” days with friends who are important to me. I’m even lucky enough to have a choice of where to go. But I know that during the stretch, when other people has somewhere to be, somewhere to go, I’ll feel somewhat forlorn. They’ll have a place where they belong.

Maybe I’ll belong here, at home alone, on this wonderful chaise.

Things haven’t been going my way. As much as I try to let them go, I can’t. There’s just too much right now. My mind jumps from one thing to another when I’m in bed.

I need to stay away from the blogosphere for a while. Not writing, but being a part of my usual cliques and forums. The drama lately has been really pissing me off, and it’s certainly not helping.

It’s six in the morning and I’ve been awake for…hmmm…two hours? Another hour before I’m off to work. Maybe writing this has helped.

Pick yourself up, you son-of-a-bitch, because no one’s going to do it for you.

Crank it. Loud, and maybe you’ll understand how I feel.

I’ve been in such a slump the last week. Maybe I’m over-worked, over-tired, and over-stressed. Things haven’t been going my way.

It’s filled me with such frustration, sadness, and anger.

Now I’m left to face the ugly world alone, and all I can think is to never put your trust in someone. Never be dependent, never expect anything from anyone because you’ll only get hurt.

I try to rationalize everything and follow the Tao, but I can’t. Everything is so overwhelming.

As much as I’ve learned, as much wisdom as I’ve gained, as far as I’ve come, I’m still human.

Among the shots and the rounds, the friends and the fun, I found a graduation photo framed on his shelf, a candid shot of the Class of ‘05.

Every one of my “clique” was among the faces. There were others as well, people I knew from class, even though I never talked to them. How different they all looked — all prim and proper in academic regalia — yet familiar.

I was the only one not in co-op, and graduated a year before everyone else. My convocation was insignificant. I only went because my parents wanted to see me make that walk that stage, a return on their investment. I don’t know who the dean of my faculty was, or who handed me my diploma. I was just another number in a profiteering institution. It meant nothing.

But seeing that photo struck a chord in me.

It made me realize how I’ve never really fit in. How I never belonged to a group. For some reason, I still long for that, or, perhaps, to have had that at one point in my life. Last time it was elementary and high-school. This time it was university. I don’t know why. I have my own group of friends now. Not a clique, because they don’t hang out with each other, but a motley crew I’ve built through the years.

The logical side of me understands that it isn’t significant. That it doesn’t, and shouldn’t matter. That nothing is more boring and pedestrian than fitting in.

But another part of me feels like I missed out on something.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever let that go.

I just had a day without contact in the office. So I called every single person I regularly talk to on the phone, and not one of them picked up. These aren’t just single people, they’re families and couples, which means that everyone in the house was out. I even called my cell phone to make sure my land line was working.

It’s like I’m the only surviving member of an apocalypse. I’d half expect to see a mushroom cloud in the distance, houses on fire, bodies in the streets if I looked out the window.

I’ve never felt so alone.

It’s 28°C outside. It’s hot, but there isn’t a touch of humidity in the air. I can’t help but take my time. I’m supposed to be thinking of where I’m going, what I’m doing, but it’s too nice out. Another beautiful summer day.

And no one to share it with.

There were two other things I was going to write about, but this is the only thing I think I can get down. Too tired to write, and too nauseous to sleep. I tried to talk through it with John first, to get my thoughts in order, but there was only one conclusion.

I only feel alone when I’m sick.

There’s this thing that’s missing, and if I generalize it enough, it comes down to someone with unconditional acceptance. One may think of the classic maternal figure: a person who can be depended on, no matter what the circumstances. With the (ideal) mother, even aside from a physical presence, there’s a mental support there. Someone who’s willing to go out of their way to help in times of need, dire or not. Someone who asks, “Do you need anything?”, before one may actually consider such an idea.

Of course, this is a very specific example, and many other people usually fill such a role, such as relatives, spouses, or friends. Unfortunately, I still find myself without, in these exact areas. I have no family in close proximity. I’m single (and even though I’ve had my fair share of chances to be with people who were willing to unconditionally accept or help me, this wasn’t enough for me to stay with them).

The case of my friends is more complex. Out of the six, two live in different cities, and it remains that Aaron, Pat, Trolley, and Shirley are the only ones who can simply physically be there for me. Shirley is almost always automatically too busy, being the mother of three children and the holder of a full-time job (I don’t know how she does it), so she’s the last person I try to bother. Aaron is seldom there for me, because he’s almost always doing something else, and I never fall high enough on his priority list. When I needed his help during a particularly stressful day, he was out of contact. When I was having a bad shroom trip, he was with his brother (although he did talk me out of one last year when we went camping, which I appreciated greatly). When Louise hurt me for the last time, he was having dinner with his grandparents. None of this is the fault of either Shirley or Aaron, but simply due to the fact that both people are busy. Too busy for me, at least.

I’ve learned that right now, the only people I can depend on are Trolley and Pat, and even then, I still try not to rely on them. Trolley will hang out with me to make sure I’m okay, is willing to get me anything I may need or want, and will even let me decide what we listen to (a very generous gesture), in times of trouble. However, he isn’t as open about how he cares about people, so even though I know that he cares, he doesn’t show it enough for me to be comfortable asking for help. This isn’t his fault; I require a significant amount of reinforcement to be comfortable enough to go to others, and generally it’s more than most people naturally show. Pat is also someone I can call up when I need to, but usually he’s so busy that I need to book him two months in advance. This discourages me from going to him, but he’s one person who will definately make time for me when I ask him.

Perhaps if my friends realized that I only ask for help when I actually feel like I need it, whereas some may think that I go to them for superficial problems. I try to get through as much as I can by myself, but when I can’t handle it alone anymore, I look to others. When I’m turned away in those times, it hurts more than anything else.

Part of this may be blamed on my own low tolerance for pain and sickness, but I don’t think that such a thing should matter. People experience suffering differently and have varying thresholds of pain. What’s important, to me, is whether someone feels like they’re alright or not, not whether or not they actually are. Even if I know that I’m going to get through whatever temporary affliction I may have, it still helps to have someone willing to be there for me (John believes that this simple mental support contributes greatly to the healing process), even if they also know that I’m going to be alright. For example, when I’m hungover after a night of binge drinking, and it seems like I’m throwing up the lining of my stomach, I feel like shit. It’d be nice to have a person who’s willing to help me keep my mind off the nausea, willing to get me whatever I need to cure the hangover, even though it was my fault, my stupidity that got me there in the first place, even though we both know that the hangover will eventually go away.

And if I was comfortable enough to ask this from my friends, maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone.