Love of Your Life?

 I have spent my whole life dreaming of finding "the one". My person. But recent events have made me question the very premise of this need. What does it even mean to be the love of a life? In my culture, they force people to get married as early as possible, and they just get through life. Some find happiness, but most just fall into codependency or everyday abuse. Billions are living like this. Then how are these statements true? What evidence do we have to substantiate this nonsense that first literature and now the expansive media throws our way? I call bullshit!

Over the course of this life, I have sometimes believed I know love and most other times its been beyond me. I kept his note, his toys, and I refused to touch his gifts. What did those bitches keep except my best! I falsely believed it meant anything. They all moved on, only wounds remain on me. I fucking gave my best to them all. The damn lewy bodies that must have been generated in my brain from all the stress and the anxiety I went through, fuck these bitches. My body suffered, my brain suffered, my soul is tormented. Where is their karma! Someone make it make sense.

Makes me want to give up on life. What is the point anyways? This whole drama of finding a dude, making said dude happy, and then keeping the dude happy sounds exhausting to me. And when he cheats, you gotta pull yourself up again. Give him kids destroying your body. Raise said kids destroying it further, and then he will find someone else. Also, I don't want to jail anyone. Bitch better leave than drown me with him. What if he becomes an addict? What if he makes stupid financial decisions and ruins us both? What if he dies? Who will deal with this much emotional trauma! 

I look at my mom and wonder what did she ever get, except maybe Stockholm syndrome? She has convinced herself that she did the right thing for the kids by staying with the walking abuse of a man. She cared for his bedridden mother for 12 years, raised his 2 kids, cared for his brother, and built a house for him. And said dude was enjoying his life, getting drunk on weekends, partying and vacationing with his friends. What did he lose? Nothing. What did she gain? A sore and broken body and spirit. Fuck that!

 I used to think pretty women have it better. They can find the good ones. But upon closer inspection, I realize one must be pretty but also naive or manipulative enough. Those are the ones getting it, rest all are settling and adjusting their expectations. My fat ass and ugly face don't stand a chance here. 

Not going to lie, I feel lonely everyday. I have felt this loneliness everyday since I was a child. But I guess after 3 decades, one must wise-up and face the music. No one is coming. All friends are gone. The moments of lighthearted joys are gone. I never got to be the silly, fun, and happy girl out on the town. The youth was fucking wasted. All I got was an year. Maybe that's all it was. i fixed my body and my soul was happy, even if it was a fleeting moment in time. Yesterday, I looked at my body. My butt has dimples deeper than the craters on mars. It looked like the butt of a middle-aged woman. My cheeks can only camouflage my age only so long, the slap is coming. Better to get this head straight before shit hits the fan, and get a visor.

Bury the remains of these dreams, and accept the weight of these old bones.

Ultimately, I question the point of this life. Why! What the actual fuck! 100% regret. Why am I even alive? What is going to change even if I fix my career? There is no happiness in my life. There is no soul alive today whom I want to call and share anything. I am just drudging on, only lord knows why. If this is all indeed a simulation, I'd like to change the damn seed. Why was I given this?  I know, given what I have now, I am probably in the 90th percentile of all women in the world, in absolute quality of life. But this only further proves my point of what is this world and what is the point of all this anyways! So much suffering all around, no ground is untouched by a tormented soul. Yet we keep going, Why?

How to Live for Joy?

I took a day off and traveled to see the eclipse yesterday. A spry young group of 20-something grad students and my old bones. While feeling immense guilt on the account of missing work, I partly forced myself to go. As a scientist, I know enough to know the causality behind this spectacle, but the subjective experience is something science will never be able to explain. 

Nauseous, red-faced, and partly dehydrated, I sat on a rock cowering under my umbrella to stand witness to this cosmic dance. Awe-inspiring! As the moon moved closer to the sun, the sky became darker as the  wind cooled. The fire of sun's surface, a calming white glow, seemed so surreal that I could not believe what my own eyes. And to think, I would have missed this just because of stupid work that will always be there. 

All my life, I have dreamed of freedom and my own money to make decisions for myself. I wanted to run away from that house and my circumstances to find joy. In this running, I didn't realize that I never learned to find and live with joy. Those twenty-somethings around me -- of all shapes and sizes -- weren't bound by such barriers. Each with their individuality were striving for and living with joy. I don't mean to idealize their lives or discount their challenges; after all, what do I really know about them as they do about me? Yet, I cannot shake this feeling of being bound my own insecurities and hiding in my room. 

I know survival and delayed gratification. I can possibly write a book about sacrifice and fighting to escape toxic situations. I know self-restraint and perseverance. But I don't know joy. I don't know how to look in the mirror and not hate the person. I don't know how to shake to this feeling and dialogue of being unworthy of everything. How can I make this life meaningful for me? The fear of everything, from heights to fire and injury, all have me in a death grip. None of this is helpful and all of this feels suffocating. I don't want to rely on anyone, except myself. 

Somehow, must get myself out of this and into light.