Dating, Slice of Life

Singleton.

I’m not always lonely, so let’s not go down that rabbit hole. I fully enjoy being single and living on my own; I love my independence. Being able to pack up and go whenever I want is incredibly precious to me. The only thing I have to consider is my pocketbook and Amelia. Otherwise, I do what I want at all times. After Earnest, I can’t think of a single reason to give up even a piece of that freedom.

I’m proud of owning my car, paying my own rent, collecting furniture, always having favorite foods in the cabinet, and my bills paid.

The godawful truth, however, is that for every lovely thing about being single, there is an equal and opposite ugly thing.

As isolation continues, I find myself yearning for physical touch. Not only because it’s my main Love Language per Gary Chapman, but because I can’t even hug my own mother at this time. I haven’t gotten so much as a high five in over a month. It’s difficult to feel this level of physical distance at all times. Nights are worse. After completing roughly 40 days without physical anything, a gross yearning to be cuddled creeps in. Although that desire flutters in and out on a weekly basis, it usually doesn’t stick to my ribs as hard. Nowadays, I can’t shake the yearning.

That in and of itself makes me feel pitiful. It mines away at my self-confidence and replaces it with desperation. Is that the right word? Probably, but I’m not willing to compromise on a single standard in order to fulfill a temporary need. I’ve outgrown those “urges” (I’ve always cringed at that word, so wanted to loop it in somehow).

I’ve also been suffering from a strange phenomenon that I can’t explain: I can’t watch people kiss. Life, television, porn, whatever. I cringe and look away, waiting for the moment to pass. Believe me, “Sex and the City” was a live mine field. I probably only watched about 60% of any given episode. I’ve been reflecting on my inability to witness this particular type of affection for a good while now. It’s not new; I first noticed it mid-2019, though I’d probably been unconsciously looking away for a while before I realized it was happening. What gets me, though, is even after I realized I was doing this, and recognized that it was odd, I didn’t stop doing it. Rather, I couldn’t stop.

I’ve got a couple theories, though neither feel hearty enough to explain why I do this.

1.      I long for that particular intimacy to such an intense degree that I can’t stand to witness and not participate. In truth, none of the guys I dated seriously would kiss me the way I needed to be kissed. Granted, two of the three relationships were still jokes, but the one that mattered grew awkward sexually and we stopped all physical touch in the end.

2.      Kissing is just an awkward thing that’s never been particularly pleasant for me. I like it, don’t get me wrong, but no one’s stuck around long enough or been open/vulnerable enough for us to talk about it and get better for each other. (re: theory #1 I’m terrible at relationships).

It’s definitely more 1 than 2, but I’m still unsatisfied in the reflections. Usually I can dissect an emotional issue until I understand it logically and can tackle it straight on. But I’m at a loss for this solve: it’s pure loneliness and I don’t have the power to fix this one.

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