When I was single, I had all sorts of art-related activities to keep my mind busy; distracted. Although, even then, I didn't constantly write poetry or draw, and I had little drive to take those talents seriously, I was always occupied (or preoccupied). Now that I am getting in touch with my old self, I remember how it felt like, about five or six years back. I always had a melancholic air about me... which disappear every time I was having fun with good friends or my close cousins and relatives. It was a lot easier to understand who I was, what type of person I was, back then, I think. Although I wasn't as open as I am now, I didn't confuse people so much before.
I still give people wrong impressions now. Just different ones. Much better ones, I guess? I don't really know. But I was attuned to myself a long time ago. After dating Miles* for a while, I forgot to look into myself; to converse with myself. I used to literally, silently speak with myself.
"What the hell, Lilith? Did you really just say that? Ugh, yeah, I know, what was embarrassing, can we just forget about it? Listen to some music, that should help you forget! Right, I'll do that."
My older blogs even had comical portions that featured the three parts of my consciousness arguing/conversing. It's funny, and I could write endlessly, and with my eyes closed; I think, because I was so aware of my thoughts and feelings. I realize how raw my blogs could have been years ago when I religiously maintained them.
I've always been lonely, and I think this is the very first time I'll admit that. On here, an anonymous blog, too! I wonder why it's so hard to preserve friendships. It may be because it's hard to find friends that I actually like. There's always something that puts me off. I have friends that are so like me, yet their vast knowledge or their busy schedules or their fast-paced lifestyle kind of makes me want to take a step back. Sometimes, they really do matter to me, but I am just another random face to them. I've also been used by "friends" numerous times. These aren't even "friends". Jesus, I'm this old, and I still have trouble keeping company. What the fuck.
I have friends that are true soulmates, but distance and priorities keep me apart from them. I'm still happy we try to get in touch and we miss each other. I'm not sure how to take the changes in our lives, though. However, the fact that we remain friends despite the separation makes me feel warm inside.
I know I can't depend on them, though; and they probably think the same about me. I'm not sure. The thing is, though, they're doing better than I am, and they're fine. I'm not, and that doesn't make me feel like a worthy friend. I feel like I got stuck (pushed back, rather?) in the past after the "big incident" with Miles.
Blogging, writing, listening to music, watching films and series, reading, drawing, et cetera: these always kept me busy back then. I sometimes felt like I was forcing myself to do these things, and honestly, I don't go out enough. I think we've established that the reason for this is because all my real friends have moved on and it's difficult to find new quality friends (also: especially because I have left two jobs and didn't get to connect properly) nowadays.
Despite having an active mind, I was constantly drawn to sad and gloomy emotions, situations, people, things... I think this really is where art comes in. I was so pensive. I wrote beautifully about the most insignificant things. I paid attention to very significant life issues and write extensively, intelligently about them. I was so gloomy, yet I was ten times funnier. How was that possible? How am I so boring now that I am more open, more vocal, less shy, more assertive and confident? How strange is that?
Ah. Of course. I gave all of this up for one person: Miles.
I used to hang out with my close college friends after school. But you know what they say: love is a drug. I got addicted to it. First, it was JC*--and a number of guys I was talking with, too, at the time. I was so into the fact that they might be into me; I guess it was because I needed a simulation of a relationship or dating (in order to write about it?). I wasn't ready to date anyone, mainly because I haven't found anyone who was that worth it, but I wanted to write about love and pain, and the beauty of sadness/loneliness that comes with it. I was so into art, so into love, I was basically in love with everything around me. Everything meant something, and I would write about it. Every small incident was a story. Everything inspired me. I was constantly daydreaming.
When Miles and I started getting more steady, I would hurry home, or wake up hours before I really should. I'd match my sleeping schedule with his so I could spend more time with him. I spent too much time with him and put him above everything. I'd rather stay home and speak with him that go out with friends or family. It was all about him. And somehow, I believed he put a lot of effort in making it about me, too.
But now that I look at everything--at us--from the very beginning to now--all those years--I realize that he only really had time for me because his schedule permitted it. If he had the option to speak with me while he was out doing something, he'd do it. But I really am... just an inconsistent part of his schedule. Everything--work, his health, his friends and family--else in his life goes first. I am just... something he squeezes into his sched.
Picture this. I am working on seven projects on a big table: it looks organized, busy. Miles walks over-- "Hi, Lilith. Ugh, I'm so hungry."
In a matter of two seconds, I've swept all my papers from the table with my right arm, and grabbed prepared meals from under the now clean table, so we could eat together.
Yeah, that's how I treat him. I'm never prepared for anything else in my life but him.
I wonder why it hurts me that our goals are changing for the worse (for our relationship). You'd think by now that our plans are now more in sync, because we're getting older and more and more eligible for settling down. When he was red, I was blue. So I worked hard in considering being red. Now that I'm closer to being red, he decides he's going to be blue. Yes, I know people change, but why are things turning out this way? If I knew this was going to happen, that he was going to consider a future for himself without me, I would've just ignored him five years ago. I would have never let this relationship happen.
The reason why I stopped going out, socializing, taking care of myself, doing art, BLOGGING, is because everything had become him. He had become everyone, and everything to me. My diary, too. Now that he's not around, I feel so uneasy... naked, even. Because I have nothing, no one. Before I realized it, he had become my world. I used to promise myself never to let that happen... with anyone. It isn't worth it. Well, I guess I taught myself a lesson well. I just learned it the hard way. This is something I will someday teach my daughter... at least there's that. Someone will benefit from this pain someday. It's okay.
My blog used to be.... mostly my everything. I wrote about my feelings, every single insignificant occurrence in my life. I stopped because I had him. I told him everything. He knew everything. And what do you know, he doesn't really tell me everything. What's the point?
Blogging feels alien to me when I first start writing after stopping for a long time. I think I should warm up to it again, because it helps... somehow. Crying and drinking and watching shallow movies have started to lose their effect on me. They just wear me out and make me uglier.
I wish I would never stop blogging. I don't think I have to commit to this a hundred percent, like I used to, with my past journals... but I hope I keep this one alive. I know it will keep me sane.