Irony?

As I sit at my computer screen, with plenty better to fill the void of time I’ve simply decided I wish to kill, I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. On my computer, more specifically on facebook...hoping for a message, a wall post, a poke. Anything. Something. Someone. Someone to remind me that I still exist. Like an artificial high – I live in these current moments for connection to the world. Any part of it. So excited I was to open my inbox to three notes on my wall. Only to crash and burn when I realized my replied wall post was not going to replace an actual conversation.

When was the last time I had a real conversation? Not an exchange of “how are yous” in the hallway. Not me telling you when my next doctor’s appointment it is. But a real conversation – talking about things that actually mean something...a chance for me to spill my heart about things that matter and listen as you respond. About anything! I can think of very few of these conversations since school started...A handful tops in the six weeks I’ve been here...if you count the general discourse you would expect out of any moderate friendship (my roommate’s bothering me...calculus sucks...)

And furthermore, for as much as I would love to talk, I long to be touched. I crave touch. Isn’t that weird? Especially from me. Anybody who knows me AT ALL knows I spent almost 6 years of my life totally encased in a bubble. Hugs were a definite no-no. I didn’t like them. From anyone. I didn’t have friends and it transcended to even my family. Getting something as simple as a hug meant I’d have to reciprocate and I wasn’t willing to give emotion to anybody – because anybody who held my emotions could destroy them. If I rejected you first, you would never have the opportunity to reject me. And it worked. But I opened myself up for the kill... And in the process I found for as awful as it hurts – for certainly some of those I have allowed to hold me have also dropped me – I can’t ignore the feeling of being held. To know...if only for a second...that I mean something to someone. That another human being values me and is willing...if only for a second...to keep me safe. I’ve been hugged twice this week...I think. Well one was a loose side hug... And I’m sure there are some out there dying for a hug and a half a week. But how do you wean yourself off of people who care? How do you spend a year and half - almost two - basking in a life of community to be ripped out all too suddenly and placed into a familiar but foreign land?

I love that blogs are like over grown diaries – journals for the world to read. And yet, I post this completely convinced that no one actually reads my blog. I don’t normally. Anything I post is something I am completely “o.k.” with the world seeing. Am I “o.k.” with the world knowing these things? Things I don’t know if I’ve ever told people before – not my closest confidant – at least not in so many words? I don’t know. And for, perhaps the first time ever, I don’t care. I have no idea why I post this now. Perhaps because I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. Of knowing I’m posting something almost private for the world to read...all the while knowing no one will read it.