boo hoo.

During the relatively short time I’ve been single throughout the years, I have pretty accurately kept up the average of one to one-and-a-half girlfriend per year (not counting my one night stands, which are zero). All were potentially long-term relationships as far as I was concerned, and lasted from weeks to months. In my opinion, that’s not even that bad a score for a tard like myself. But up until recently, I failed to see that. It took someone else’s remark to make me realize that all this time, I was counting in terms of breakups, instead. I do love it when someone else does my thinking.

The main problem is that, in between, I spend my days obsessed with me being single. This is not a good pick-up line, so the result is a vicious circle, not exactly playing in my favor.
Why is this? Let’s sum it up.

First and foremost, I detest being alone. Ironic, one might think, considering how much of a loner I tend to be. But seriously, if I can’t have someone to talk to, I at least need someone to listen to. I’m not exactly sure why, but if it has an external reason, it could be because my ex was talkative like sugar is white, or the fact that I grew up in boarding school among others. I don’t think I was ever truely alone until I moved to this very house about two years ago.

A close second is my tendency to go batshit. I think too much. It has helped me to soundly define the world, both inside and out, and allows me to see certain things more clearly than most, but there is also a huge drawback: I second-guess myself. Constantly.
I know what I consider righteous. I have a sound set of ethic rules and more importantly, I know why. What I don’t know, is what is considered normal. It’s not something you can decide for yourself, society makes that decision for you. So when I, upon doing or saying something, I wonder, “Am I making sense at all?” I get no answer. You need other people for that, and measure their reactions. I’m particularly bad at that, so I need a lot of input to confirm that I am, in fact, sane. And as the case happens to be, I need a lot of confirmation, as well.

All this greatly amplifies the feeling of loneliness and threatens to make me a very pessimistic and cynical person. Now that I’ve figured this out for myself, I plan to change that. Aside from blocking out the occasional wave of melancholy, I have put myself on a regime of productive action and the simple gesture of leaving the house for whatever reason. Every day I go out, the only exceptions being the days after a workday. Not only does it help keep my house clean and well stocked, but I also see some faces.

Exactly one year ago I was in Galway, Ireland, alone and desperately looking for a new purpose in life. Shortly after coming home, I quit MUDs, and rolled into a short but frighteningly intense depression. I made the promise to myself to hang in there until the planned hike to Scotland with friends, seemingly the only bright point in the months to follow. It must have been the best decision I ever made, because the night before departure, I did find that purpose.

I lost her now, but that doesn’t mean I lost my love for life again. The easy rules that I am following now, work. I don’t feel like I’m wasting my days anymore, which in return gives me a sense of value of myself. What’s more important, it shifts the focus of my life away from my dependence on others. It gives the confidence that I badly needed.

Anyhow. Enough of this sappy shit. On your feet, soldier.

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