The other night I had a sudden pang of loneliness as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come. It hurt more than usual, so I let myself feel the sting of it, and then I got serious with myself.
What was I missing? Did I really wish I had a man next to me? Really? No, I decided, that wasn’t it, because I’ve had men in my bed before and felt the same sense of loneliness. Maybe I just wanted sex. No, because sex without love and passion is… grinding genitals. Barely a step up from Big Blue, my personal feel-good tool. And since I recently made a conscious decision to deny a man who loves me unconditionally that warm spot next to me, I resigned myself to the theory that I must just be totally fucked up.
What was hurting me?
I never really did figure it out, but tonight I’m wondering if my pain stemmed from the simple fact that I had a need. I don’t like to need anything or anyone. In fact, I hate that feeling. If I need something or someone outside of myself to feel okay, what happens to me when they leave? The agony of abandonment is practically unbearable for me, and I never ever want to experience it again.
And so, I fill my time with beautiful, soul-opening runs and physical challenges and career goals and children’s needs and housework and…
Maybe I just won’t have time to think about what I need.