As I said in my previous post, Chanc spent the weekend at my apartment with his girlfriend and his step-daughter. They went to Six Flag on Saturday and so I didn’t see them most of the day, but we all slept in on Sunday morning. I got up and went into the living room and saw little Melina curled up next to Chanc. She was holding onto him so tightly as if to say, “Don’t ever let me go Daddy.”

When I saw Chanc curled up with Melina for a moment I slipped and let myself feel. I let myself hope that I could have that someday, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head knowing full well where that thought can lead – depression.

It isn’t that I don’t think that I will have kids someday, I believe I will, it is the not knowing when that is the hardest to deal with. I think it is the same for everyone who is still single by the age of 30. By the age of 30 you have had enough time to complete college, to find a decent job, to buy the things that you have wanted, to enjoy your solitude, and so the only accomplishment left is to get married and have some children. Your friends start having babies and buying houses and settling down and it seems that everyone else’s world is moving along nicely and yours isn’t.

You start to wonder when you are sitting alone at home on your couch if this is where you will be in 30 years. Alone. On a purple couch. Blogging. Reaching out and touching someone, but never feeling more than the keys of your keyboard. Never holding on to someone that you cherish so much that the thought of losing them would rip you in two. Never having kids, never being loved. Never being challenged by chicken pox and doctor bills. Never being talked back to. Never having grandchildren.

The questions come at you hard and quick, jabbing at your insides, probing for your weaknesses. It hurts. It erodes away hope. It gives way to fear. So you push away the pain by building up walls. Nice heavy-duty walls to protect you. Walls that say, I don’t need that, I am fine by myself , I won’t be alone forever. Over time the walls become cracked and you have to patch them up with fresh lies. Lies that you make you believe that you can go on one more day, one more year, one more decade without somebody to love.

It’s a form of self-preservation. One that works flawlessly until someone wonderful comes along… then you are in trouble. You have to decide to let down your gaurd. To love like you’ve never been hurt. To hope against hope that maybe this one will be The One.

It’s a rough journey, a pilgrammage of sorts with a final destination in mind. A destination that is made all the more sweeter because of the work it took to get there. Besides, I don’t even know if I want to get married, 0r if I want to be burdened with children, who needs love anyway? It’s way over-rated.

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