reaching out, into the void…

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(not my image)


I can be a hermit. It’s not easy for me to “reach out”. I fear bothering people. I expect rejection. But I try. I reach out. And I keep coming up empty handed.

I am not having success making friends in the city I’ve been living in for almost 5 years. I would give up, I might just give up, but damn, I need a friend. Where I live. I have some wonderful friends who I continue to be part of my life despite us being miles and miles apart. This is something I’m so grateful for. And I also feel the huge hole in my life here without a friend to hang out with, go do stuff with, etc.

I just feel like crawling under a rock and disappearing from existence right now. I’m struggling with chronic pain. With perimenopausal discomfort and emotional over-flow. I need some support. And I feel all the worse when I reach out for some and no one’s there.

I guess I should just get better at supporting myself. Ok. I can do that. But I’m so tired. Tired of trying and not getting anywhere. Trying and not connecting with anyone. Feeling like I’m just on my own. Life is meant to be shared. Maybe mine isn’t worthy.

So many things are overwhelming. Impossible problems that I can never solve. How can I fight misogyny, climate change, systemic racism,  if I can’t even make one fucking friend? Maybe I’m just destined/doomed to be a solitary loner most of the time. Maybe everyone will be SO glad when I stop reaching out so they can stop finding nice ways to rebuff me.

I am capable of being pretty self sufficient. But it’s getting really, really lonely.

Spring is blooming all around me and I just want to stay in bed and cry. Maybe I should just chalk it up to perimenopause hell. But it feels like a failure. Failure to be a good human.

If life is short, why does it feel so fucking long?


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not my image, found on google image search for “failure”


I don’t know how to feel optimistic these days. I’m failing at pretty much everything I’m doing, which isn’t even very much or remotely ambitious.  I’m even failing to come up with any decent thing to write about. So I’m writing about failing.

So many cliches come up when you google search “failure”. I fail to find any of them comforting or aspirational. I just feel tired. Exhausted. Apathetic.

I’ve been launched into outer space in my relationship, no idea if it’s even still a relationship or if I’m just awaiting being dumped. I will find out, but my natural instinct is to brace for the worst. That’s usually how these things go.

I’m trying to stay open. To be patient. To not feel stupid for having felt hopeful about anything. I won’t say I’m completely succeeding, but maybe I’m not failing completely.

A huge part of me wants to just say “fuck off, then.” To bail before I’m left looking as stupid as I feel. But I’m not doing that. But I’m already feeling like I’ve been dumped on the side of the road, a familiar sensation. Holding onto hope is far more terrifying. I’m trying. And yeah, mostly failing. But not entirely. I haven’t just said fuck off.

I would like to feel like I’m making progress in my career, if I can even call it that. I would like to feel that I’m getting better at relationships. I would like to feel like I’m doing something other that scraping by, month by month. Like I’m building a life here that has roots and some buds popping up, future flowers that will bloom someday. But I don’t feel like that at all. I feel like I’m standing still, watching everyone around me moving forward, creating wonderful lives that while also difficult, are clearly full of success, joy, love.  The only thing I managed to create this week was a batch of my bone broth, which I’m hoping will help my mood improve, as my depression really lifted when I started drinking it regularly.

I hope spring is around the corner. That is a hope that I feel safe in having. I have other hopes as well, but I feel embarrassed by them, they seem so easy to achieve for other people and still so far beyond my capabilities that I wish my heart would lower it’s desires. Some days getting out of bed is beyond my comfort zone. I guess I should feel like it’s a success that I’ve gotten up anyway.

I have no idea how to shed this sadness. How to build a life that feels full enough but not overwhelming or unmanageable. But I think I’ll be able to manage to get out of bed tomorrow and go teach a class, if anyone shows up. Maybe if I keep going through the motions at some point I’ll feel enlivened again. I thought if I started writing I’d get to some poignant idea or clever conclusion, but nope. I got nothing. Sorry.

Hermit Friday Night number gazillion.




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Space. Elskan min needs space. Great.

We had a very stupid fight, and now I’ve been given “space”.

A vast void of space.

I’m not lacking in space. I’ve got way too much space, in fact. Space I’d love to build a life and a love with.

But I’ve fucked it all up. Again.

Apparently I’m aloof to his problems. And I “nitpick”, which I know I can do, I try very hard to not do so, and still I have destroyed this relationship despite my efforts.

I’m not aloof to his problems, though. And I felt like I did many kind and thoughtful things to try to help him feel better when he was stressed. Again, clearly a massive failure on my part.

And I just feel so stupid. Stupid for thinking I was capable. Lovable.

Maybe I need to accept that I’m clearly shit at relationships. At 46 and single yet again it would appear that is true.

I don’t think I can handle dating again.

I needed to write and now I just don’t know what to say. What do I have to say about anything? I feel mute. Numb.


I’d love to find that some space helps, and maybe it will. Time will tell. Great, I love waiting around. I’ve certainly got lots of practice.

But right now any hope I had feels dead. And embarrassing.

Spinsterhag fails again.