I have been in a state of depression for about a year now, and it’s getting quite old.
…and my own optimism is beginning to grate against my nerves.
When I was a child I imagined great wondrous dreams and visions of a happy family life–failing that, a happy pairing between myself and a love. Not once did I pray or dream of being alone. Never did I desire to be a singularity. I would always be a part of a whole–the equal portion to a unified existence of a greater love and understanding.
Now, here I am, mid-thirties, with half a heart, three children and not much else to speak of.
I try to convince myself that I will discover a love worthy of pairing to mine own–that there is a woman out there that would be willing to take on my idiosyncrasies and incomplete family.
“Maybe this is the morning that I’ll meet her–the one who will help make me complete,” I say internally, as I shake the sleep from my head when I wake. And at the end of day, as I bed down alone, I repeat that phrase–with a “yeah, right” sort of nasally huff preceding, and revising the statement to “…maybe tomorrow morning will be…”
It’s wearing on me.
And I can’t say that it’s entirely for a lack of trying–I’ve attempted to make contact with people, and have made numerous revisions at the sad attempts at selling myself on varied and numerous online resources for singles. I either go unnoticed, arrive too late, or simply do not fit the desires of those women that are out there. So, I repeat to myself that these simply aren’t the women that I’m looking for–that there is someone in particular that I am supposed to find, and for one reason or another, she has not shown herself to me yet. Some omniscient force or power knows best.
Still, it’s quite depressing to be sitting alone, waiting.