imaginary friends

by rantywoman

I’ve been excited by a book I’ve been reading recently, have become interested in a new poet, and am looking forward to a documentary that is releasing soon.  I was posting about some of these things on my Facebook page this week and noticed once again all the status updates from friends on their children and new babies.

It’s no wonder I’m so. damn. lonely.

Finally getting through my tunnel of grief over my childless state, it’s coming into stark relief that my former “idea” friends are now consumed with keeping their families afloat.  I’m left feeling like some kind of eccentric madwoman, having conversations in my head with writers, activists, and performers I don’t actually know, many of whom, if I met, wouldn’t have time for me either because they are consumed by their own families.

I don’t have addictions, I’m emotionally healthy and smart and perceptive and a good friend, and I’m frustrated once again at finding myself (still) in this isolation tank.  I tell myself that it’s situational, but it’s hard not to recall all the times in my youth when I felt left out and disconnected and think of them now as a sign.