sexinthesticksandstuff

I’m feeling lonely. I had a fucking hard day and don’t know where to turn.

Sometimes I don’t feel like I have anyone to turn to. And lately, as I’ve taken a pause from dating, I’ve been realizing something uncomfortable: dating has often given me a temporary sense of connection. A false—or perhaps incomplete—sense of being seen and heard.

In the beginning of dating, there is often so much curiosity. Someone wants to know you. They ask questions. They want to hear your stories, your opinions, your dreams. They notice things about you. There is an intentionality to getting to know another person that can feel deeply nourishing when you’ve been longing to be witnessed.

And then, for a while, it can feel like a need is being met.

Dating and romantic relationships have sometimes been a short-term band-aid for my need to feel seen and known. They have offered me connection without necessarily requiring the ongoing vulnerability that comes with allowing someone to know me when things aren’t shiny and new.

I’ve rarely been in relationships where I felt like I could simply call someone and say, I’m having a hard day. Can you hold some space for me? Someone I could call with the exciting stuff. The hard stuff. The completely mundane stuff.

Someone who continues to be curious about me long after the initial excitement of getting to know each other has faded. Someone who keeps showing up. Someone who wants to know how I’m really doing—not because I’m interesting and new, but because I’m me.

I long for that kind of connection. And yet, there is something I have to acknowledge: I participate in this dynamic, too. There is a reason I lack the deeper connections I say I want.

I have a lot of people in my life whom I consider close friends and family. People I love. People who love me. And yet, when I’m struggling, I often find myself holding back from reaching out. I don’t always let people see all of me. Somewhere along the way, I became very good at taking care of myself. I learned how to self-soothe, regulate, process, reflect, and figure things out on my own. But I think the pendulum has swung too far. Self-sufficiency can become isolation when we never allow anyone else to participate in our lives.

I can tell myself that I don’t need anyone. That I can handle it myself. That I’ll reach out when I’m in a better place. That I don’t want to burden anyone. That everyone is busy. That it’s easier this way. And then I wonder why I feel lonely.

There is another piece of this that I’m beginning to understand: when I do reach out, I sometimes feel disappointed when the other person doesn’t hold space for me in the way I hoped they would. But how much of that expectation have I communicated?  How often have I said, I’m struggling and I could really use some support? How often have I given someone the opportunity to show up for me before deciding that they won’t? And how often have I expected people to intuit needs that I haven’t been willing to name?

This is hard for me to admit because I have spent so much of my life trying to make other people comfortable. In some ways, it has gotten harder to ask for and take up space as I’ve gotten older. I care deeply about creating a comfortable environment for other people. I anticipate their needs. I try not to be difficult. I avoid creating conflict. I minimize what I need when I sense that asking might inconvenience someone or make them uncomfortable.

This is one of the reasons I became lost in my marriage. I became a shell of a person—giving and giving without allowing myself to fully receive. I made my needs smaller to avoid conflict, confrontation, and disappointment. I thought I was keeping the peace. But sometimes keeping the peace means abandoning yourself. And I don’t want to do that anymore.

I’m realizing that there is a difference between being independent and being disconnected. And that might actually be harder. Because letting someone be there means letting them see you when you aren’t okay.

It means saying, I’m lonely.

It means saying, I need you.

It means allowing someone to see you messy.

It means risking the possibility that they won’t respond exactly how you hoped they would. And maybe that’s the part I have been avoiding. I want deep, vulnerable, lasting connection. But deep connection requires more than finding people who are willing to see us. It requires that we are willing to be seen.

And maybe that means taking the risk of letting myself be seen—not just when I’m shiny and new, but when I’m lonely, struggling, unsure, and asking someone to stay awhile.