I'm making my queen-size bed for the um-teenth time since I could make my bed. I watch as the sheets fall across the white canvas. It's a lonely art. An art that only I will appreciate by myself. It hits me out of nowhere that this might, in fact, be my future: making my bed for myself, and myself only. I want to be secure and happy and sure of myself. I want to be one of those amazing, self-assured women. But I'm not. I feel alone and I hate all the times I've been told by my married friends “Oh I'd love to live alone!” or “Oh how I wish I had my own apartment!” They will never understand the lonely, cold, silent nights.
This is not the night for more than one drink and a chick-flick. That would spell disaster. However, I'm already on that path. I woke up in the middle of the night again last night. I eyed those mysterious pills tucked away on my dresser and I considered taking one so I can sleep for a night. They're just muscle relaxers. I just want to sleep. I wish I could start over. Would I go back to 22 or would I just go back to mid-February?
I doubt my every ability – I don't think I'm attractive enough, I don't think I have enough of a “wow factor” to keep someone intrigued, I worry that I sleep with people too soon, I don't express myself enough, and I don't shine the way I want to. Like how I shine with close family and friends. Instead I freeze, I stammer, I don't say what I'm thinking. I am my own worse enemy. I will not get what I want most out of this world and it's all my own fault.
I am loved. I have wonderful friends and family. But I don't know if I can keep the one I love. I only have what I've been given and I don't know that it's enough for anyone.
