I’m tired of feeling so much that it makes me feel like I’m feeling nothing. I’m tired of it. This has been going on for at least two months, at some degree or another. I’m tired of not being able to say anything because I don’t know what to say because I don’t know how I’m feeling. I’m tired of not being able to write anything because I don’t know what to say about the feelings that I’m not feeling.

My head is so confusing and if I can’t even get a grasp on it, I don’t know who will.

And just the fact that, right now, at this very moment, I don’t even know what to write about feeling like I can’t write about feeling like I can’t speak about the feelings that I’m not feeling just makes everything worse. I want a release, because I feel like I’m going to explode from Lord knows what. I feel like I’m on the brink of something foreign and I don’t even know what it is. I feel like I’m being blocked by something large and invisible and I can’t see it or feel it. And because I can’t see it or feel it, I can’t break it down. It’s just there and it won’t budge, and I’m desperate for someone to be willing to help me break it down, but who is going to break down something that I can’t even explain? Maybe I just need to find someone who can see the wall and who can feel it and someone who has the ability to push it down that I lack. But if that’ll even happen in this lifetime is quite debatable.

I feel bound by mental censorship. I feel constrained by emotions I can’t explain. I want more, but I don’t know what more I want. And if I did or do, I don’t know if I even have the ability to express it because something, somewhere—in my head or outside of it—is telling me to hush. Don’t say it, it’s saying, because there’s consequences. Don’t say it, because you’re dressed to impress. Dressed in the robes of concealment. And if you change outfits now, you just can’t be sure who’s going to stay around to see the rest of your wardrobe. You’ve grasped onto what you’ve earned up to this point, and right now, it’s good enough. Good enough, but not everything you want. You are so unsatisfied. But don’t say it, or what’s “good enough” can very well disappear. Don’t say it, because clearly, their emotions are more valuable to you than your own. So don’t say it.

You are so unsatisfied.

And here I am, transforming my written words into second person “you” form to try to grasp what I’m feeling. To try to psychoanalyze myself and shove my face into realizations that I won’t realize. Because I tell myself that worked last time and the time before that and the time before that too, but if it did, I can’t be sure of.

I feel so incredibly incomplete and like I’m constantly waiting for something (or someone). Maybe I’ll die old in a wedding dress. Maybe I’ll write to someone who was never there. Maybe I’ll put faith into things I’ve never touched. But right now, I’m biting my nails in concentration on what I can’t concentrate on. And maybe my mom will ask me if I’m happy and maybe I’ll say yes but maybe I’ll be lying. Because I’m always happy on the surface, and if I try, things are okay. Things are usually okay. Actually, things are always okay. I’m perfectly fine. But do I want to be just fine? No, not necessarily. I want to be great. And maybe that’s greed and maybe that’s selfishness for wanting to express selflessness, but I can’t deny this metaphorical hand that’s constantly reaching and grabbing for something that’s not there. Like a baby kneading its helpless fists into the air for a bottle from a mother who’s in another room. And I can’t deny this weight I feel in the pit of my chest and the clawing I feel behind my eyes that feels like a balloon constantly being filled with water, more and more, flowing and ever-flowing, until the latex of the balloon stresses against its contents and thins so greatly over what its holding that soon, sometime soon, it’s going to be forced to pop. And sometimes the weight that I feel pops. I’ve felt it pop. I’ve felt the fury of all the contents releasing at once, and I don’t like it. And I can avoid it by turning the water down and trying to not take things in excess, but I know it builds. I know it’s there. And I can’t deny it.

And here I am writing to an audience that’s not there. I couldn’t tell anyone, or myself, how many people will end up reading this in its entirety. One, maybe two, but chances are not enough to make me feel as censored and constricted as I do now. So incredibly afraid to spill what I’m really feeling in fear of some false judgment that may not even present itself to me. The weight isn’t lifting, because what’s holding the weight isn’t being expressed. I could write this in a silly journal I keep in my bookshelf where no eyes will read, where no minds will feast their judgment, but that won’t help either. Because I want to share what I’m feeling. Because I’m tired of holding it in. But it’s an incredibly wicked paradox that binds me and that makes the weight forever heavy because it’s like this: I want to say what I’m feeling to an outside source, but what I’m feeling involves things that I can’t tell people. And these things that I can’t necessarily tell people are the things that I want to express. So what am I supposed to do?

I want someone to ask me, “How are you?” and mean it. No. I want you to ask me how I am. I want you to inquire. But I know you won’t. Yet I keep grasping onto the ideal that you will. Therefore, I keep waiting. My entire being is an endless paradox.

Maybe I’ll die old in a wedding dress.

And Lord knows it doesn’t help that I recently discovered that Libras (example: me) are the sign of partnership. That, astrologically, Libras are on this earth for someone else. For selflessness. And of course it all makes sense, and of course it all comes together, because I’m ever-so-willing to express this selflessness that I know I have bottled up among other things. And of course it expresses this unmovable and gnawing sense of waiting that I have and of course it explains why I feel so incomplete. But I don’t want to admit that it does. Because I can change it. Just because one or two or a million astrology books tell me that I’m astrologically made to devote my life to falling in love doesn’t mean that I have to believe it.

But do I? Of course I fucking do. I believe it with every single fiber of my being.

So maybe that’s why I feel so unsatisfied and so desperate for this more-than-okay feeling that I’m simply just imagining. Because I’ve never felt what it feels like to be in love and have the feeling be mutual with another person. I’ve felt the selflessness and I’ve felt the love, but I’ve never felt the reciprocal. And maybe that reciprocal is what will make me feel more-than-okay. I’ve learned to be happy on my own my whole life. But like I said, this happiness is “perfectly fine”. But I’m so, incredibly, completely, absolutely, ridiculously tired of fine.

So maybe that’s what will make me feel the greatness I imagine, but maybe it’s not. Because I know that I have the power to feel this greatness by myself. With effort, I can transform these dependent thoughts of desperation into believing that I don’t need to fall into this popular little trap called love. I have the ability. Everyone has the ability to change their thoughts and their beliefs. But as much as these thoughts and these beliefs pain people—myself included, obviously—we hold onto them. We obviously hate them and we obviously don’t want to rely on them. But we keep a firm grasp onto what we can get rid of because that’s what makes us who we are. Maybe it’s a subconscious feel of pride as to what molds us into who we are, and maybe it’s not. But if we all have the power to change these thoughts that have scarred themselves into our psyche, but we don’t, then that means something. We’re all holding onto something, for some reason. Maybe we’ll all die old in wedding dresses.

How pathetic it is of me to constantly have my personal ramblings circle and spiral back to the subject of love. Is that really all I want? Is that really all I’m desperate for? Is that really the only thing that’s constricting me?

Yes. Yeah it is, damn it.

I have the power to let go of this, but I absolutely know that I won’t. Because I don’t want to. I know that one day, whether it’s tomorrow or fifty years from now, I’ll find love. Because I deserve it, just like everyone else does. As much as it feels like it at times, I know the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to block the wicked and magical thing that is love from me my entire life. As much as it feels like at times. It definitely does. Fuckin’ universe.

So I guess all I have to do now is accept this. Accept that I won’t feel the greatest to my subconscious abilities until I find someone who is eager enough to help me get there. How desperate of me. How petty of me. How naive and pathetic and 1950’s housewife of me. But that’s how it is, and I just have to accept it. “Is your cucumber bitter? Throw it away.” And I’ll just try to move on.