I need help. Last year, it was the staunch flaunting of brokenness that embodied the spirit of my summer; this year, it is the sober acceptance of knowing that I can't go on like this forever. I still have buckets full of anger. Most of the self-loathing has fallen by the wayside, which is a positive thing, except for the fact that I still don't know how to function in an emotionally intimate relationship with someone who is not a platonic friend. That is it. I love myself; I am incredibly proud of myself for achieving all I have and for continuing to work diligently toward my goals. What I need to work on is all this hatred for men who want to get close to me. I don't understand them, I am incredibly skeptical of their motivations, and I hide behind humor as a means of avoiding vulnerability. Sex isn't what it used to be, either.
Essentially, my circumstances remind me of this Yeats poem, which I will now share with the class:
| WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep | |
| And nodding by the fire, take down this book, | |
| And slowly read, and dream of the soft look | |
| Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; | |
| How many loved your moments of glad grace, | 5 |
| And loved your beauty with love false or true; | |
| But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, | |
| And loved the sorrows of your changing face. | |
| And bending down beside the glowing bars, | |
| Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled | 10 |
| And paced upon the mountains overhead, | |
| And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. |
