My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return.
— Maya Angelou

I‘m so tired of feeling this way.

Sometimes I feel like I’m bipolar. When I skim through the different blog entries I’ve written, they go from depressing and upset to blindly hopeful and optimistic…and back and forth and so on and so forth. The truth is, there’s always an underlying feeling of pure sadness. Always. And it worsens with each year that passes. I’ve been internalizing and thinking the craziest things since I was a little girl, and it’s hard for me to accept whether it’s by nature… or by nurture that I came to be like this. Why the hell am I even thinking about this right now? Aren’t I too young to feel this sad, or am I unknowingly privy to some critical fact of life that eludes everybody else?

It’s almost 3 in the morning. My window is wide open. Thunder is roaring and the boom resonates within my heart at moments. The wind is unruly and the rain sounds beautiful… It’s raw beauty and terror all at once. It’s what life is to me. Terrifying and yet so mind-blowingly beautiful—no middle ground. I feel everything to my core so strongly. I told a friend once that I thought I had an artist’s soul, where the highs are high and the lows are low. But I think it’s really just what it means to be a human being. Shouldn’t we all have the desire and capacity to experience life so vividly? Not just the milestones of our lives, but every passing moment of our consciousness? And I weary of people telling me to just let go and relax—to not care, or who try to reason with me that I have no substantial justification to be so troubled or sad. They don’t get it. It’s not even about reason. It goes deeper than that. What normally happens is I tell myself to not give a shit and that I can continue on without caring, but it’s a lie. What’s the point of anything? I have no idea why I’m here. All I know is that life begins at conception, and ends when my heart stops, and everything else is a series of experiences—good or bad—and that’s it. So I just soak everything up, and I reflect. And I try to uncover some glimpse of eternity to look forward to because I fear death and the void, and I fail miserably. Repeat.

Love is the light in the obscurity of life, and I’m stumbling around in the darkness. My Pop told me anyone was capable of finding someone to love—any number of people to love. It’s comfort and pleasure. A person can find someone to love and spend the rest of his natural life with in whatever way pleases him. But he went on to say that only a handful of people ever find their soulmate, and that goes beyond satisfaction and comfort—it’s undefined. What makes us human is our hearts and minds. Unlike animals, we have the ability to transcend base drives and desires. We can choose to rise above whatever primal inclinations we have… if we’re willing to discipline ourselves. In my experience with people, most are not.

So I feel empty. I already had this way of thinking before my Pop ever shared his opinion, and it’s just difficult. It’s difficult because I recognize that my definition… my version of love is so impossible—the bar is so high. I’m not one to settle. In my relationships throughout life, I’ve truly loved one person, and he made me feel like the most insignificant person in the world during the times that really mattered. He destroyed me. By the time he grew up a little and cared, it was too late. I had evolved into something cold and detached. I was frantically trying to start over with people, hoping I’d feel something again… Nothing. It’s all a series of very, very brief relationships, which I put an end to when I realize it’s all wrong. Or maybe I knew it was wrong to begin with. Maybe I was just lonely.

I miss being vulnerable, and loving someone more than I could ever love myself.

4am… Good morning, Universe.

And I Wouldn't Even Care