Here's a VERY poorly written...VERY rough draft of something I'm working on. This is not from my fantasy story...but it's another project that is very close to my heart...and it just happens to be the only thing I've written since I started my fucking job (that's now I will refer to it from now on)...enjoy...or don't...like I said, it's poorly written.
The truth is, my family thinks that I’m a complete failure. I don’t cook. I don’t clean. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have a house full of kids. Because of these irrefutable facts, I am a miserable, lonely failure in the eyes of my family. The truth was, any misery I felt about my life could be traced back to the fact that none of them ever even tried to understand who I am. They always treated me as an outsider. My brothers were the favorites, undeniably. My younger sister was as perfect as she was girly. She got married right out of high school, and proceeded to pop out a new kid every year or so. She was feminine, could cook a dinner designed to feed an army, and didn’t desire anything outside of being a wife or mother, therefore she was a shining example of what my family thought a woman should be. Me, on the other hand, I wore an awful lot of black, didn’t see the point in ironing, and had no desire to squeeze a human being out of my vag. With my voice and with my pen I had spent years in support of women’s rights, which caused everyone of them to make comments questioning whether or not I was a closeted lesbian. My assertion that sexuality was a fluid concept did nothing to drown their fear. To each and everyone of them, I was a nightmare and a failure.
Death seemed like it would be the best option. It would bring an end to it all. All the loneliness, all the feelings of inadequacy, of never being good enough for my family. I wouldn’t have to worry about the bills not getting paid, or spend years in a job that I hated, or spend every single day knowing that there was no one who cared enough about me to see that the loneliness was eating away at everything I was. Oh, they all claimed to care when the moment was right, when they were sure to be seen by others as the caring, compassionate, long suffering family and friends. When I needed to unburdened myself, when I needed a shoulder to cry on, they made absolutely certain to make me feel a like lunatic and an annoyance. So, I withdrew further and further inside of myself, inside of my daydreams, into the stories inside my head. They all wanted to share in my accomplishments, but never offer so much as a kind or sympathetic ear when I needed to talk. The loneliness experienced while surrounded by all these people who professed to care for me, and yet don’t understand even the simplest little facet of who I am, was exhausting and so miserable that I longed for an end to it on an almost constant basis.
As a young girl, I always envisioned love as another person who cared for you so deeply that they loved the dark aspects of who you are as much as the light. They would naturally want you to feel as if you could open up to them, share the things that were going on inside your head, inside your heart. Love would be interested in who you were. Love wouldn’t make you feel as if you were crazy for wanting to be treated with affection and respect. Love would listen when you needed to vent, even if it was over the simplest, silliest little thing. All the movies and books spoke of love as if it were the most amazing thing, and to a young girl who had spent her childhood feeling out of place, unwanted, unloved, never good enough, and extremely lonely…this is the what the most amazing thing in the world would look and feel like.
Imagine my surprise at finding myself in relationship after relationship with men who cared very little about the inner workings of my mind ,or who I was or why I was the way I am. The girl who craved affection, who needs it like oxygen, continually found herself in relationships with the unaffectionate, or with those who withheld affection to assert power over her. The loneliness and inadequacy that I felt growing up with my family was always there. I began to feel as if it was just me. Maybe I lacked some component needed to live a normal life. Perhaps normal people didn’t feel this unending, aching need to be understood or wanted. This need for affection, the longing for the comfort of being enveloped in the embrace of someone who was not shy about letting me know how much they cared for me…maybe it wasn’t normal. Other people didn’t seem to be crippled with a loneliness beyond baring. Instead, they all seemed quite content with a life of repetitious work ,and I began to become more and more convinced that perhaps I was the freak my family thought I was.