Longing, Loneliness, & the Cry to Feel Seen

There’s a room in my mind where they all live: the women I’ve craved, aside the feelings I try to keep dormant. Every now and then — when the hunger becomes too loud, I suppose — the beast rears its head. There comes the recognition of a viable subject: somebody warm and interesting, who reignites the ashes smoking deep within me.

I don’t always see it coming but I feel it when it kicks in (a single flame ignites). 

It starts with the way she looks at me; the way she listens. I feel like a topic of interest — of intrigue, even. 

Maybe I imagine the depth of her attention. 

Nonetheless, there’s a spark. And it hooks me immediately.

There’s S. 

S prodded the beast when I was seventeen, in the early days of learning these feelings of mine.

I saw her first. My knack for seeing beyond facades allowed me to notice the red marks lining her forearm: symbols of heartache beneath the loud, comedic persona she was known for. I had red marks of my own, and I saw the way we belonged, like members of a secret sisterhood of broken souls.

I approached her one night at a house party I was throwing while my parents were away. We were both several drinks in (the party was a banger), but that didn’t prevent me from looking at her with absolute clarity. 
“I see the marks on your arms,” I said. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

I reminded her of my offer a week later, my big, beautiful heart inviting her in.

What ensued was a flurry of late-night texts. We opened our hearts to one another, speaking dark truths we had shared with few others.

It didn’t take long for the fire to build. Soon, a wildfire raged within me, one I could barely contain. Whatever it was she lit in me — attention, purpose, a sense of being wanted — I needed more. I wanted it so much that the longing began to eat away at my insides.

Do I regret her taking me up on my offer? I’m not sure.
The connection served me for a while.

That is, until she dumped me.

“I can’t speak to you anymore. Goodbye.” 

She wrote that late one night. It broke me so hard I downed a bunch of pills and ended up on the phone to Lifeline. 
Whoever I spoke to was useless, and I gave up on the cry for help within about five minutes. 
Eventually, I slept — waking the next day to extreme nausea, the throb of heartache, and the secret of my failed overdose.

I never told anyone about that night, or the way S broke me.
But I still carry the shape of it in my mind. 

After S, there came others: women who awoke something wild and starving within me. 

Some left me on the phone to Lifeline again, broken and bleeding. 
Others drifted away before they had the opportunity to do too much damage.

Regardless, they all left their mark. 
They live in my mind as reminders: witnesses I had for a time, but failed to hold on to. 

Some, I believe, genuinely loved me. 
Others clung to me for the same reason I clung to them: the feeling of finally being seen. 

So, what is this beast? What does it want?

I know it as a creature of intense longing.
It’s an addiction. A desperate urge to become intoxicated by devotion.
A mess of unfelt emotions. A stray dog, crying in pain on the floor of a dark cellar.
It longs to be touched, to be held. It craves an intimacy that penetrates the soul.

Sometimes, it brings me terrifyingly close to the edge — so intense is its longing, so sharp its grief.

Mind you, this isn’t about being queer (it runs a lot deeper than that).
It’s about visibility; the aching need to be witnessed. 

This beast was built from a lifetime of feeling like I don’t really matter.
And I suppose that’s what it desires most: to feel seen. To be chosen. To know it is relevant.

Over the years, I’ve learned to try and tame it. But the only way I know how to keep the fire at bay is to cut myself off from intimacy altogether (to keep that door locked). 
It works, in a sense; I cast those dark needs aside. Sometimes, I even fool myself into believing I’m healed. 

But in truth, I’ve only entered a period of dormancy…

If I were to set it free, I believe the beast would reach for my subject, dig in its claws, and refuse to ever let go. 
“Take me,” it would beg. “See me, love me, hold me. Take me with you and never let me go.” 
I rarely let it loose, though. Not anymore. And maybe that’s why the pain intensifies the way it does.

As a self-aware adult, I try to rationalize. I try to work with the beast, to find a happy medium.
I don’t want to scare people away, or disrespect their boundaries.
I don’t want these women to flee, leaving only their imprint behind.

But the beast doesn’t take well to reason: It pulls harder. 
It tells me I’m dying — I feel deprived of oxygen. 
Tears fall freely for the loss of a love I fear I’ll never be able to possess.

I grieve, knowing I cannot satisfy the beast in the way it craves.
I cannot give it what it wants — what I want — because we cannot control how others are able (or unable) to meet our needs.

And maybe that’s the point. 

Maybe fulfillment was never meant to come from them — these women who leave their impressions on my mind — but from a place within me. 

Maybe the home I’ve really been crying for all along can only be found within myself. 

End Note:

Sometimes, I write about heavy things. I’m not afraid of the darkness, and I believe it helps us to talk about it. 
I want to reassure you that I am okay. I have faith in my journey and adequate support. 

If you are struggling, know that there are people out there who want to help. You are never alone. 
A list of international services for mental health support can be found here. 

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The Death of My Hollywood Dream