Something of a realization.

Tomorrow will have been one year since I came back to the city.

I thought I would be a different person by now–a better person.  I thought that I would find peace with myself, be happy with the kind of life that I lead, make friends and be outgoing, maybe even have someone new who could love me the way I have known myself to love.  I thought this year would be different; not that I’ve invested a lot it making it that way.

I know I have changed in some respects, and maybe I am a lot more outgoing because of working at Starbucks, but whatever self-affirmation I carry myself with in front of a stranger is something I know all too intimately to not be true at all.

I do not love myself.

It’s something I have always known, but the weight that this understanding bears becomes more and more significant with every passing memory.  I indulge far too much in what I hate about myself, and I acknowledge far too often the reasons I will never see myself fit enough to truly be loved by myself, much less someone else.

The other day a friend jokingly told me in passing that no one would ever want to date me… and it was then that I knew there really was no façade.  I wasn’t fooling anybody.  I’m not worth the attention and the love from someone who has learned to embrace their own faults and love themselves first and foremost.  I am not capable of sustaining myself and appreciating my means of doing so.

I find myself to be useless.  Unattractive.  Incapable.  Unlovable…

And so I finally deleted all of my online dating profiles.  What is the point of having them, really?  Finding someone to acknowledge me has consumed me this past year.  And only once every few months I actually go on a date with someone.  Every other one of those dates I meet someone I generally regard myself to be interested in.  And after the first, sometimes the second date, I become sad and insecure and never talk to them again.

And all the time in between?  I observe other’s profiles and picture what my life with them would be like.  I look at their pictures and read about them and insert them into memories of my ex.  Because they are memories I don’t want to change.  They are memories I want to relive.  And ultimately it doesn’t matter what any of these men have to offer, because I only want them to offer one thing.  I want them to offer me my past.

That is disgusting.  I am disgusted with myself, and it is over.  I am willfully choosing to be alone, like the way it should be.  If I can do one thing good for myself, it will be this.  To be alone by my own volition, and spare myself the agony of feeling abandoned by anybody else.  I am so sad.

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