I had a lovely, wonderful Shabbat in Brooklyn last night. Spent a great evening with fantastic people in a warm shul and fantastic Israeli restaurant.
And then I came home, to an empty apartment, and felt miserable.
Why do I get like this? I LOVE living alone. I LOVE that I made it to Brooklyn successfully for the first time. I LOVE that I spent Shabbat just as one is supposed to, with good friends, prayer, food and feeling. But I came home feeling so shitty.
And then I started thinking about Andrew and what might have been if he'd responded to me differently. And I started thinking about the reasons why he rejected me and why I wasn't good enough. And then I felt even worse, so I read some Naomi Levy and went to sleep.
I feel a little better today, as I have plenty of homework to keep my brain occupied and barely any food in the house to mindlessly snack on. I want to put my new suit on to remind myself of how far I've come and how much I've changed since the whole Andrew saga went down. I might even put on makeup and look pretty for myself, to convince myself of all he is missing because he's an idiot who couldn't then and won't ever see how awesome I am.
I think this is just one of those moments where a roommate, or a boyfriend, or even a mom or a friend would come in handy. Just so I don't have to be all alone in this empty apartment.
I wish I had a "person" here. It sometimes feels like all of the people already have their person, and I'm on the outside, desperately seeking and unable to connect with anyone.
Welcome to my "I'm feeling sorry for myself and need to write about it to get it out" post. Pathetic, I know.