The link between loneliness and writing

Posted on May 24, 2015

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There’s something intoxicating about the thought of being in a man’s arms, nestled in the cracks and crevices. Cocoon-like. In the womb.

Being busy is great, it means thoughts are fleeting. Often temporary. Or less overwhelming. I dunno. But then when you get caught resting in your own spare room whilst you have Airbnb guests who have rented the whole apartment and the vibe feels kinda weird when you emerge with a bright hello, it can feel quite lonely. Because I couldn’t even be in my own home.

Lucky for me I only had one hour to kill. A nectar lubricated hour at the North Pole. I’ve never been here, but joked about it. It’s this weird bar in Greenwich about 5 minutes walk from my apartment, I hear stories about it, the late nights, the weird disco. Even Blackheath said the other day he was out with the owner of the North Pole. By being here I feel perversely closer to him.

Blackheath is the new muse.

Perhaps I’ll keep these thoughts to myself.

I like.

Shitting help, I like someone – again.

Since I cut the great love out my life, and replaced him with a newfound self-love I’ve been feeling healthy, for the most part. One wobble in February. Stressed and tired I started fantasing about killing myself again.

But since then, since I got home, since I let that wash over me (these things can take a while) I have been good. Settled. Happy. The only issue, the only energy that riles me, is that of my Mum. Even just this last week I found myself telling myself ‘I can’t do this long term’.

Renting out my apartment whilst i’m here in the UK needs to be temporary.

I see this now.

I recognise what I need.

I need to find a way to give myself what I need.

Being lonely is transient. It’s related to my life circumstances. When i’m not in control, when i’m unable to have my own space, when I am constantly around other people, it’s weird – but the darkness kicks in.

I don’t like that feeling.

The being in your arms.

Ok, thats a lie, of course I like it.

But it feels dangerous to me. Scary.

Yet I don’t want to live in fear.

I abhor fear.

I detest and despise it, because its the sin that tore through me and the great love and stopped us from being what we wanted to be.

I know i am going to be okay, but this constantly ‘strong independent women’ grinds me down. I don’t want to be strong independent and alone. At least, not all the time.

I am okay though. Actually. I’ll have you know.

Compared to how i’ve been.

I’m freakin fuckin fan-bloody-tastic. I’m a fricking queen.

I realised the other day that this must be what it feels like for normal people. To feel stable. Emotionally on a level. It felt. Well. Emotionally on a level. Good might be a stretch. But Nice, would be real.

I keep thinking about being in his arms. Its like a drug, love – right? Or would that be lust? Dangerous. Or a gift? It the universe being kind to me, giving me something i’ve not had in a while? Or will it all backfire, am I ignoring the red flags, ready and waiting for yet another lesson to be learned?

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