The trouble is that the only person who really cares about your life is you, and people to whom you are intimately tied... partners, parents, children at little bit.
I miss that connection.
I don't mind my own company. Sometimes I quite like it. I have things to do, if I would just do them. I have a sex life of sorts, and someone who gives me affection, though not nearly often enough. But I want to come home and share the crappy things that happened in my day. The car key that didn't work and freaked me the hell out. The fact that I saw knitting guy at the store, the shawl he was making, and that I thought about asking him about piano. What happened in classes. The econ review that's upcoming. My annoyance with my honors students. And please, someone, kick my ass about the tax stuff, and what are we going to do about the apartment roof?
No one wants to hear that. I mean, it's not like they wouldn't listen, but it's minutiae, things that don't matter, the spider-silk connections of day-to-day life. My son has his own life, my lover doesn't care, not really, my friends have lives of their own. That sounds pathetic, and that's not what I mean, not the narrative that I'm telling. It's just true, and it's the thing that I lack, the thing that is making me the most crazy, and the thing that I don't know how to replace.
I have to change the story. I have to change what I'm doing and how I'm thinking about it. I have to put actions in here to make this different and better.
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