I've wondered all my life what it's like for people who are comfortable in their bodies, who don't feel sheer terror at the thought of sharing themselves with others because they might be humiliated or rejected. I wonder about people who enjoy intimacy, instead of panicking anytime they realize that somebody might have an interest in them.
Is there a time when you can comfortably call your body "home"? When you can live in it and not feel like it prevents you from being fully human? Is there a time when your mind won't race back to the slights and belittling in the past...those transactions of relationships when you realized how much they liked you and wanted to be able to find you desirable, but the inability to get to the latter negated the former?
Is there a moment when you aren't friend-zoned? Is there anyone who might want to fall asleep beside you and wake up next to you, and not want to gnaw their arm off to escape the fact that they did? Is there anybody you might actually trust enough to let yourself just...I don't know...be?
Should it bother me that the man I've had a horrific crush on since I was a teenager feels comfortable making sexual innuendos around me, because I'm that friend, you know, the guy at the D&D game who happens to have tits?
It's depressing, too, when the server asks how the check will be split. I can handle it more gracefully by quietly saying, "These will be separate," but having him announce, loudly and without tact, "Those are separate!" as in, "God, NO, I'm not WITH her, do you think I'd lower myself to that? Do I LOOK desperate?" makes me want to crawl under the table and promptly die.
Bottom line, I set myself up for it, I suppose because it's safe- and although I won't be pressed for intimacy, I also won't be offered any because I'm undesirable. I should just quit hanging out with him...but then I wouldn't have anyone with whom to go anywhere. I'm afraid of a real date (but nobody's exactly asking, are they?), and I'm so weary of these fake ones, too- just world-weary of driving home late at night and wondering, over and over, "What's wrong with me? How am I so defective that nobody wants me?"