This year it is 10 years since I started writing here.
I have a certain number of readers who write to me and tell me how much they appreciate the sharing.
The occasional stalker occurs from time to time through the years but … ah well … whataryagonnado? It is a public journal.
But the fact is that most of my readers here are my friends. A lot of them are in far distant places were their night is my day and vice versa.
With many of my readers we go way back. But there are some that actually know me only through this journal.
Curious thing. I have made some really good friends here.
In the beginning I started by posting silly quotes and pictures and just empty angry
entries ... It was not until a couple of years later that I really got
into it and started really "writing" here.
There are those who think I write "too much" of my private life. One said to me: "you write everything in that thing. You spill your guts"
And there are those who think I don't write enough...
The fact is, I write just about "lagom". Which in Swedish means: "not too much and not too little, but exactly as it should be, just the right amount."
Writing a journal is a habit I’ve had since I was 12. I have journals filled with the tedious anguish of a teenager. Journals filled with the dreary agonies of an adult in her early 20s. And I have the general and more determined moments of a relaxed woman in her 30s. Filled with loss, death, betrayal and ugliness. But also with happiness and beauty. Nothing extraordinary. But extraordinary enough for me.
Now, sharing my journal in public occurred when I moved away from the old country and wanted to keep in touch with my friends back there, as well as with the others in all those far places. From San Francisco to London, from Ontario to Bergamo.
So, a couple of years after I registered in Live Journal I decided to let some of my entries in public. Letting out just about enough information I am comfortable with. Sharing just about enough of my life as I feel I want to share with friends and strangers.
And this is what this entry is all about!
I've had a conversation recently with a friend. About relationships, loneliness, independence, the difference between being alone and lonely, and about sharing.
So, I have jumped from long relationship to long relationship to well … relationship the last 19 years ...
Funny thing, most of my friends remember me always being with someone.
I remember me alone. Half my life I've been alone.
Counting from the moment I discovered language, communication and developed “reason”.
As a child I've been a very lonely child. I hated the first day at preschool when my mother left me there alone, amongst all those other creatures. They were as small as me, as weak as me, as young as me. But they were nothing like me. They were … the other “small” people.
I hated them. Every single one of them. I wanted to be with the big people. Those that looked like my parents. As big as my parents, as loud as my parents, even though they were nothing like my parents. But I definitely did NOT want to be with the small people.
So, I remember me growing up rather isolated.
And the more I grew the more I didn't like the small people. But I also developed a disdain for the big people, because I realized very early that they may look “big”, but inside they are painfully “small”.
As a pre-teen I made some friends who I could tolerate and control. Close enough yet far enough.
As a teenager I've been excruciatingly alone. Spending hours and hours painting, listening to music and writing.
Some quite crushing events during my teen years led me to even more isolation.
But I also developed the need to share. And no matter how much I grew to hate almost everyone around me and feeling uncomfortable in crowds. I somehow, always had hope that there is someone out there who is small like me, big like me, lonely like me, and yes, "exactly like me", who would like to share the rest of their “time” on this planet with me.
In my early 20s I decided that there is no such a person. So I thought I’ll settle for the next best thing. Someone who would accept me for what I was. Even though he was nothing like me.
So ever since, I always had someone to share things with.
However, I remember myself throughout my relationships feeling lonely most of the time.
Either because there was not enough love, or not enough interest, sexual or intellectual. Or all of the above.
Yet my goal in relationships was and still is "sharing"!
My friend told me that if you don't learn to live by yourself then how are you going to learn to live with others.
Well this is a common misconception.
Because, I know that some people, yes, some people want to be in a relationship because they are afraid shitless to be alone.
Because they know nothing else.
Because they need somebody, anybody, ANYBODY remotely resembling a human being, whether they are pretty, ugly, fat, thin, short, tall, stupid, smart, interesting, boring, with two legs, two arms, two eyes … or just anybody, anybody, anybody with a heartbeat … just to fill the emptiness. The void in their life.
To fill up the hours that otherwise seem to go by, pointlessly, wasting away. To fill the time, in their bed, in their couch, in their car, with someone other than the Cruel Cold Body of Nothingness.
Well, here lies my problem ... I always want to be with someone because I want to share my life with them. Not spend it!
Everything increases in value, when you are graceful enough, grateful enough, generous enough, noble enough, to share, really share your life with somebody. Not just anybody. Any body. But somebody who may not be big enough, small enough, fragile enough or strong enough. But generous enough, just like you, to share with you a summer sunset! A starlit sky in the country side. A song. A curious bug. A book. A poem. A sad story. A funny story. A joke. A picture. A word. A long walk in the forest. A great meal. An odd fruit. A peculiar feeling. A good wine. A movie… You name it ...
And this is my disposition towards my friends.
Yes, it is not the same exactly. It is different sharing with a partner. However the significance of the relationship is the same. Sharing.
My friend insisted that I can enjoy all these things alone, if I like my own company.
Sure! I like myself. I love myself. I love spending a lot of time with myself. Perhaps a little more than most people. She is a really cool chick myself. She has great taste in music, movies, books. She is bloody interesting and god damn she is hot.
However, that’s beside the point. The point is sharing all your good qualities. It is not the amount of time you spend with someone. All that matters is, when you finally meet, sharing something of substance. Sharing experiences and words and feelings. Sharing the world through your eyes. Whether it is a girl friend, a boy friend, a stranger on the internet who just happened to wander by, or a partner in life.
Of course I share more with some, than with others. Well aren't we all?
And the one who deserves my utter love and devotion will definitely have all of me.
I got the tendency to give more than I receive. With some exceptions in my life when I was not feeling well. I have come close to give all of me, once maybe ... maybe twice ... I'm not entirely sure. I am now very careful to what and how much I give of me after being burnt so many times. But I am still determined to share and not spend. Rejoice and not regret. Enjoy and not tolerate the little time I share with others.
However, I have left relationships and friendships empty handed ... or empty heart-ed ...
The “for better or for worse” ... hasn't happened for me ...
It is always “for better ...”
When the shit hits the fence, somehow people vanish.
Some, sooner than others.
People like you only when you are happy.
I don't want to sound ungrateful though.
I may have left empty handed, empty hearted and empty headed from most of my relationships and friendships, but during the up times we've shared enough to create everlasting memories. And with "some", everlasting friendships.
To me, it is not as important what we share. As long as we do. And if we are lucky enough we might share something as big as we are ,as small as we are, as beautiful as we are … together.
So it is not a matter of needing to be in someone’s company. But a matter of sharing yourself.
Because in the end, what is the fucking point of dragging you magnificent glorious, soon to be corpse, body on this fucking earth, if you are not willing to give, not willing to share this life.
What If you paint a fantastic painting if you don’t show it to anybody? What if you write a beautiful poem if you don’t read it to somebody. If you write a song and no one listens to it. And what if you are so great, if you keep it all to yourself?
What is the point “spending” time with others, whether it is a friend or a partner, only when you feel you must satisfy some very primal needs. Like sex. Or food. Or simply fill up an empty couple of hours in your overbooked schedule.
What is the fucking point?
I will forever remain a hopelessly cynic-romantic looking for those who might not be smart like me, stupid like me, silly like me, serious like me, big or small like me, or exactly like me ... but willing to share moments with value, or value moments by sharing them. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will meet that someone who will be willing to share the rest of his life with me, because his love will be big and strong and generous, exactly like mine.