Yes, that’s my grand scheme; a strategy to combat the melancholic surges that I could no longer control (nor stand), and seem to come around more often than before.

“Will leaving help you find yourself?” A worried friend asked when I disclosed to him my plan.

“I hope so.” I answered, but with much uncertainty.

My friends understand, though that it’s not them I’ll be shying away from. It cannot be denied that in countless occasions they helped me make things fall into place. And I do admit that getting silly drunk with them and crying like some mad man until my eyes are all puffy have its perks. Nonetheless, it just won’t, can’t, always work. I think that this time, it’s more than just a listening ear or a supportive hug I need. I have to hear myself talk… sort some things out and get to the core of the issues that I usually just brush off but incessantly come back and haunt me.

Then you’d ask me what’s wrong.

I feel extremely lonely, that’s what’s wrong. The culprit? Don’t laugh now, but believe it or not, it’s my love life. Or its utter non-existence. And because I cannot put a finger on a concrete, surefire solution, I do not know how else to better my situation. Used to being in control, this predicament has left me feeling lost, empty, and out of place.

How come other people have it so easy? It both angers and saddens me how some could play around with relationships when love is so precious and, therefore, difficult to find.

Just recently, someone asked what I think I’d be ten years from now. This may come as a surprise to those who know me well, but contrary to what was predicted in our high school class prophecy that I’d one day be a senator, I think I’d like to be just an ordinary working mom. I don’t know, but at some point in my life, I just stopped dreaming big. Not that I feel sad about it. In fact, I realized that glamour, or fame, or wealth is not what I want at all. There’s nothing more I wish for than a simple yet completely happy life. At this rate, however, I think I’m even closer to becoming rich yet lonely than to my Happy Mommy fantasy. It just feels so frustrating how so simple a dream could feel as unreal and hard to reach as some legendary existence.

Is it because there are plenty of aspects in me that are far from desirable? Not that I’m downplaying myself. It’s just that I’m aware of them: I always lose stuff, first of all. (Just recently, I lost my phone for the second time in five months). I have difficulty remembering where I placed this or that. I have an exasperatingly inquisitive nature. The slightest provocation arouses my curiosity, but I lose interest just as easily, save for the things I am truly fanatical about. I am a sucker for more learning, sadly to a nauseating extent as well. I always yearn for new information, regardless of significance level or triviality. Ironic, though, that only very few bits of what I absorb actually make it to my long-term memory.

Note that those irritants don’t comprise even half of the list.

Still, I’d like to believe I’m not all bad. I may be terribly impatient, but I’m terribly forgiving as well. Too forgiving to a fault, even. I love easily, and feel loved easily. I look at my dog’s eyes, and realize that I still haven’t lost the ability to recognize the unconditional love that shines there. I could laugh like crazy over the silliest jokes, cry over the slightest show of affection, and don’t feel shy or withdrawn about expressing warmth at all.

Those, too, barely cover half of the list. And it’s just so heartbreaking how it seems like nobody would ever get to see that.

As I reflect on these thoughts, I can’t help but wish I have the same disposition that I had about 20 years ago…the time when I still believed in fairy tales and that achieving your dreams is as easy as simply believing they’ll come true. Now I know that this I am no fairy tale princess living in a fairy tale world. Nonetheless, although I may not need to be freed from witches or dragons, or cruel stepsisters, I still do yearn for salvation; to be taken away from the claws of loneliness and unanswered questions that come on days like this when I just feel sick of being, well, single. I long for a place that may not promise a happy ever after, but in its stead, a life of meaning and fulfillment and connection of spirits. Plus late-night movies, sound-tripping, book-sharing, nice kids, hearty laughter, and homemade coffee as bonus.

Of course it’s guaranteed that I will still be losing stuff all the time. There will surely be occasions when I will pursue things enthusiastically, only to drop them at my whim in the end. I will be inconsiderate, and impatient, and stomp my feet when I don’t get what I want. But I will love him like crazy. And my creativity will keep him guessing at the surprise waiting for him at the next bend. I will laugh at his corniest jokes, and cry over his smallest display of affection. And I will oh-so-willingly sacrifice some nights of reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez over Rhumba Frappuccino to see the good side of techno music, disco bars, political theories (things that I couldn’t stand at present) if those are his interests. Simply put, I will just be as accepting of his own quirks and nuances as he’ll be with mine. These scenes I play over and over in my head like a movie, and I eagerly await their actualization in the same way children look forward to their birthdays or opening gifts on Christmas day. I look forward to its coming with as much conviction as Snow White had when she sang “Someday my prince will come.” And when he does, it will be a most welcome opportunity to change and be changed, to grow and let grow.

Sigh. In this desolate state, I hear John Mayer singing at the back of my head, “I’m tired of being alone, so hurry up and get here...”

Maybe I first have to resolve the issues about myself first God before declares, “Ok, here he is.” Until then, I guess I have no other option but to wait and strive to improve whatever it is about my being that could be worked on. Keep my focus, say goodbye to brooding, get on my feet and take action. While I don’t feel complete and whole, he’s not going to come. And unless I’m happy with what I am, I will be but an additional weight to another person’s already burdensome world. Furthermore, I just console myself with the thought that this is perhaps one of the times when it seems like God said “No” when he actually meant “Not yet.”

Wishful thinking now. I admit it doesn’t really help much, but it at least somehow lessens the agony that this whole tarrying process causes.

Cigarette to mouth…really long drag…one last puff….

Hmmm…what if I quit smoking? Think less, talk less…? Maybe I would no longer seem so intimidating, more lady-like…

But then again, maybe not.

Nah, that kind of change in packaging won’t cut it, if you get what I mean.

As I’ve always held, “Forcing things never works.” So I guess I’m left with not much choice other than to continue living, cross my fingers and hope against hope that ten years from now, I would cease to be this pathetic. Thus, on with the Go Hermit plan.

I light another stick.



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