What It Costs

If you've ever felt unseen or misunderstood—diminished in any significant way—then you might understand my current state of mind. I couldn't tell you what single moment in my past caused me to feel so removed from the rest of humanity, save for a handful of people carefully chosen. You know, quality over quantity. And I would say I'm empathic almost to a fault, but still somehow managed to be perplexed by the majority of humanity.

To be honest, the only reason I'm even reflecting on all of this is because I woke up one day completely bored of every other craft, subject, and topic I'd nearly mastered, and decided to become a writer. Whatever. If I could learn to do all the things I can do now, I could learn to write a damn book.

I tried my hand at dark psychological romance, which ended up being dark psychological fiction with mildly explicit sex scenes. The handful of friends and family I convinced to read it said they liked it and seemed genuinely intrigued. Personally, I think it's just the sex. The explicit scenes served a literary purpose, but they felt gratuitous. No one was falling in love. I eventually got the ick, felt stuck, creative juices depleted, and decided to try contemporary romance. Coming up with the story, the characters, the plot—all good. The ending? Abysmal. I can't stand the cliché we-are-so-in-love, look-how-blissful-post-romantic-life-is bit. I realize now that I simply cannot write a happily ever after. Everything started to feel forced.

I needed to write something real. And real might not be happily ever after—life never just resolves into contentment and bliss. But did I really want to rehash my past? Not in the slightest. I might have to a little. But what I am willing to do is talk about now. No better time than the present, as they say.

Truth is, even with all my blessings, I feel so alone. I have three beautiful children, a husband who cares in the way he knows how to care. I don't have to work. This is what I wanted all my life: to be a cared-for housewife and homemaker. But I'm fucking miserable.

You can hate me for it. That's fine. It sounds ungrateful. But I went through hell to get where I am today, and you would think that makes all the difference. It doesn't. Not in the way you might think. I was beaten, bruised, and put down—physically and verbally. The light that my friends used to say they saw in me was smothered and gone. I no longer feel like I light up a room. And believe me when I say I've been trying for the past five years to get it back. How does that light rekindle? How can I feel so large and bright and bottled up, with not a single ember left to catch?

I get told that I do so much. That what I do is so great: take care of the house, the kids, homeschool. I'm the nucleus of the family.

Well, this nucleus is sick and sad and lonely. I feel it in an ever-present vigilance. I feel it weigh down on my back like I'm carrying myself as my own burden. Like even the small space I allow myself isn't earned. And it's fucking exhausting.

I see the why and the how and the noise in the background. I know what people are saying without them outright saying it. I can recognize discontent, loneliness, and misery from across the room, even under the best-worn disguises. And this ability to see the patterns woven through the fucked-up tapestry around me alienates me. Or maybe I alienate myself so I don't have to always read a room. So I don't have to constantly scan.

The moments I feel it most are around people I've watched flourish. And although I'm so happy for them, I envy the ease with which things come to them. I feel it standing at the kitchen sink for the umpteenth time that day, washing the handwash-only cups my daughter uses to take her medications. I feel it when wiping the piss dribbles off the toilet seat from my son. I feel it when folding clothes, remembering when I offered to fold my husband's clothes before he was my husband, because my two daughters and I needed a place to stay that wasn't a skeezy shelter for abused mothers and their children.

Again. Yes. I'm blessed. But that doesn't change the fact that the decade before my marriage fundamentally changed who I am. Even so, even though my abusive ex extinguished my light, I still love the parts of me that cause my loneliness. I love that I can read a person or a room. As exhausting as it is, it's a skill not many possess.

God. If I had my light back… it would be me owning the room. Me commanding respect and attention with my mere presence. Me doing something monumental for the world, or at least for mine. Me being someone everyone else would have to keep up with. Someone everyone else would want to know or be. Me bringing joy to those around me without trying. And still, all the while, I would read the unseen and unspoken and know it all.

Patterns—threads of logic that reveal all of life's intricacies. Using those patterns to make something unforgettable and beautiful. Seeing because I feel unseen. Understanding because I feel misunderstood. I would be powerful. But then also dangerous.

And then here we are. Back to where I started. Unnerving those around me because I know more than they gave me permission to know. Because I see what they try to hide before they realize they're hiding it. Because they will hate me for being bigger and bolder, unapologetically. Because although it's a gift to feel and see the why and how and when, it's not without great cost. And ultimately, that cost is loneliness.