feeding the hungry

Today I find myself feeling somber about the starved men around me. So many of them are in want of an outlet for emotional communication and so rarely do I see them finding it with other men. They are bursting at the seams with the desire to talk about their emotional problems, past rejections, failures, and traumas, but seem to be such horrible recipients for each others’ needs. I could talk about toxic masculinity and the root of the confusion between communication and love/lust, but at this point I am just watching them starve and know I do not have the ability to feed them without ruining myself at their expense. I barely have the energy to write about it.

The lunar eclipse tonight makes me think about how in touch I am with my own emotions and how horrible I feel when I lose touch with them. I cannot imagine living without having constant conversations with my loved ones about how and why I feel the way I feel about things. Friends and family support me in this way. I have supported various boyfriends in this way. They, however, always seem to have a different need than I do. They need me to carry the entire weight of their emotional health and that, to them, is a healthy relationship. How did we get to this point? Where heterosexual love equates to the feminine power carrying the entirety of the emotions of both partners? No wonder I continuously get exhausted and have to escape these otherwise loving and healthy relationships.

Sharing a deep connection with someone and talking about your emotions does not have to be a precursor for love or lust, it can just be as it is. We all share the human experience; there is only so much emotion we can scientifically feel, someone you know has most likely recently felt the way you feel. We all like to think of ourselves as unique, existing outside of other beings as our own perceived entity. Yes, sure, we are all different, but we put unnecessary weight on these differences when we are all just a working part of a whole organism, a whole community, a whole species.

I’m tired of feeding emotionally starved men. I’m tired of feeling guilty for not doing so, or for doing it at first and then stopping (which according to my exs is basically one of the seven deadly sins). I’m tired of writing about it. I’m tired of thinking about it.

I cannot feed every hungry mouth, even though there is nothing more I’d rather do.

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