And I'm a clingy, neurotic, bitch, and I hate it. But I'm lonely, damnit, and I can't survive on my own. I'm too social, even if I'm not very good at being sociable.
Maybe I'm just nuts. I wonder, sometimes, why I can't be content on my own. I'm okay when there's something nifty for me to do alone, (especially if I'm travelling/commuting/wandering an art museum with my eclectic tastes/woodswalking/playing the penny whistle/etc) but I can only recall one time in my life when I felt that I *needed* to be alone. That being at the end of a ten-day trip to Italy and France in high school, where we weren't supposed to go off on our own, and though the two people I'd ended up chumming around with were really cool, they weren't close friends, and everyone wanted to shop more than I did. So I finally managed to go back to the hotel a little bit before everyone else, when they were stopping at a mall on the way back (in Paris), and that was enough to cool me off.
Basically, the rhythms of any reasonably normal human existance contain *more* than enough alone time for me. Like, say, an hour or so per day. There are times when I might claim a need to be left alone -- those, usually, are shorthands for "I need to not be around person X or social group Y because of tension Z", and/or "I'd rather be alone than be with anyone available, since I'm upset about something". Is that crazy?
And one of my uncles is dying of cancer. (I shouldn't say it that way -- he's going down fighting, and I do respect that, but *I* can't summon false hopes. If I were in Chicago visiting, I'd fake them, but I'm not, and my family won't read this, so I'll be blunt. He's lived far longer than they expected, and he will most likely continue to do so for a while, but he's not going to recover. It's far, far past that point, now.) I spent most of Tuesday worrying about him, since he was in the hospital, on a respirator, and occasionally feeling guilty over being more upset about him than about the thousands of dead people I didn't know.
And the F16's spent most of yesterday, it seemed, flying over my apartment, and I turned into the scared little girl who never expected to see her 18th birthday because Reagan was going to get us all bombed back far past the stone age, and trembled every time she heard airplanes. (My parents occasionally try to apologize for the fact that I was warped by their deep involvement in the Nuclear Freeze movement, but I don't let them.) I freaked, somewhat, when I turned 18, because I suddenly had this whole life stretching out in front of me that I never planned on having.
I'm lonely, scared for my sanity, my uncle, and the world I live in, and I want my mommy and I want to go home and I don't know why I'm this depressed but I hate it and I want it to stop and I want to go home and I don't know where home is anymore and I don't know if I'll ever have a home again and I want to be either less or more of an idealist and a romantic because then either I'd see everything through rose-colored glasses or I'd never have dashed hopes because I wouldn't hope for anything.