Do I Have to Remain a Stranger?

Yes. Because otherwise I must fall in love. And he’ll find out how ugly I am. And then he’ll divorce me. I must never let this tragedy happen! I must not go through heartbreak again.
I must crush all hope of my having intimacy on purpose. I”m scared. Inside, I have no inhibitions. I am pure fertility itself.
So, I must remain a stranger. Americans are the loneliest people on Earth. TV, computer, smartphone. I’m talking about myself. Foreigners have more social connections. In real life. But do they have it any easier than us?
Nevermind. Be specific. I sit with two long shelves of books stretched out on either side of me. Two large wooden tables; two power strips. Attractive young African-American couple in front of me. They kissed. She leaned into his shoulder. I’m glad for them. I pray I am never part of a couple. I don’t want my boyfriend to see how ugly I am. Deep down. Too many tears left uncried. My dead cat. Sampson, I miss you. My 17.4 pound anti-depressant!
I see more shelves of books. I want to cry a bridal veil of tears. I want to let my husband see me cry. I want to let my husband see me weep. Weep without shame. Weep without being yelled at. Weep without being medicated. Just bawl my eyes out. I know there’s no such thing as sexual fulfillment without grief. That’s why I eschew sexual fulfillment. There. I’ve said it. A terrible secret.
Inanna weeps for her dead Tammuz. Someone was afraid he would be King, and she would be Queen. I see light falling on this iPad. I’m grieving for my unborn chkildren, the family that never was, the woman I know I’ll never be. I’ll never be a wife or a mother without dying first. I’m gonna turn 49 this July. Then, I hit 50 next JUly.
A woman who is afraid of her own power. That’s me. Suicide is not an option. So, I must live. Live… and stagnate? I haven’t stagnated since last July.

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