And I’m not talking about the-get-good-with-yourself-sort-of-loneliness—the kind that people always reference because they think maybe you don’t like yourself and if only you did, then you’d never be lonely again.
I mean loneliness of the variety that has seen my entire adult life in New York City, where I have faced nearly everything alone.
So when the time came to leave my studio apartment, faced with boxes and cleaning supplies and the daunting task of resolving the previous two years, I stood in that small space with a paintbrush in one hand and a blank wall before me, and I sobbed.
Because I felt so tremendously alone.
Because it was yet one more thing I had to do by myself.
And as my shoulders heaved and my chest rattled there was the very physical need to be held.
The soft animal of my body wanted nothing more than for someone to take me in their arms, press their face into my hair, and whisper small words, full and good.
And that need, that desire, was so physical, so immediate, and so totally consuming that it was a very real sort of terror.
This is what I believe to be true: A person can be happy and content and with a very good life and want someone to share it with.
(thank you) Meg Fee, on wanting (and not needing) a man
I need this to be here so that I don’t forget that other people feel this too.(via complacenciesofthepeignoir)