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Letters number one hundred and thirty-four: The days go on (it's 2020)

Dearest J,

I checked.  My last letter to you, was June 29, 2018.  That's crazy.  Crazy long while ago.

Of course I know you cannot hear me.  Just that it still serves a bit of comfort for me to start an entry with "Dearest J".   I read a bit of my old entries while searching for the last entry when I wrote you.  The letter number one hundred and thirty-three.

Was not in a good place earlier, so I tucked the phone away and watched Breakfast At Tiffany's on Netflix.  Enjoyed the good cry, mixing my own tears with tears for them characters.

Don't know how to break the news to you, but I do feel like I've failed you somewhat.  This is the 10th year since our 'separation' and I cannot say that I am in a 'better place' yet.

Moments such as tonight.  I am afraid to face myself.

I started writing some diary sometimes.  Like, really writing them, with a nice pen.  I wrote to myself: feel like a freak show, a lone woman so far removed from love.

I've been hurt lately, by an innocent remark from someone I'm close to.  A honest opinion from this friend on my state of things with men, or the lack of; possibly due to my behaviour...of my mind.

Back to why I feel like I've failed you.

The further I am from you, in the aspect of distance in time, the further I feel plunged in the abyss of darkness of the mind.  One that was so well hidden I didn't know it was there.

So often that I announce that I am not one who needs the conventional relationship, I believe it myself.  I still think that even now.

If so, how come at the slightest poke of an honest comment about no wonder I am alone, because the way I am pushes people away - broke me into pieces?  I have to be hiding some dark gaping wounds to be this easily pushed.

It's ego.  Always the ego right?

Afraid to let go.

Afraid to admit that I too need what all the girls around me want.  They want to share themselves with someone, they want to go home to a husband some days.

My need for solitude seems real enough.  I feel at ease and at peace with all the space at home for myself.  Is this the same thing with wanting to be alone?

I wish I could print a headline, announce it to everything and everyone - that I don't have much held together.  I am a clueless fuck about most things in my life.  I don't know what I want and I don't even know if that is true or I'm lying to myself.

Meanwhile, I cannot take off and go to a hole and figure it out.  I've gone too far down the road of engaging in 'adulting' activities that I don't have the luxury of 'just stop'.

Parents are old now and needing care, a lot of time.  And money.

No time for fucking around with shit like that.

My favourite line of late - This too shall pass.

No one has asked me or made me pretend that I got my shits together.  I have done unto myself this burden of looking and walking confident in life.

I told Winnie and a few friends a few nights ago that - the worst feeling I have with you not around me anymore, is that - I can no longer turn to you at moments of chaos and doubts, to ask you what should I do.  You've said many times you too don't have answers for me.  But to have you there to stand taller than me and to admit that you don't know better than me - was comforting and assuring.

But worry not.  For this shall pass soon.  Life is too busy.

Till the next dark cloud comes.  I have ways to distract myself.  I deleted Tinder app again from the phone.  I can read more books.

I might get some help.  I will be fine.

Wish you were here.

Love,

B