It’s dark outside. I walk towards the lights. I’ve arrived. I am standing outside a glass building surrounded by the forest, I watch people inside laugh, touch each other, share love with an ease that is unknown to me. I can see everything through the windows, but getting in feels almost impossible. I wait and wait and wait. And when I finally do make it inside—once every couple of years, maybe—I am quite miserable. I get drunk very fast, because deep down, I know the party won’t last. And so I overdo it. It usually is very brief, and that will be one of the reasons why I feel like a failure, because love—if it’s real— is supposed to last.
This is how I explained what dating feels like to my therapist last week.
Isn’t it so fucking miserable?
After years of feeling like I was constantly failing the monogamy/polyamory binary, I am writing to say: I am done with the couple, too.
