Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmacology, and finally finding a doctor who seems to give a rats arse, I am managing my depression, and the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day. These days, when I say that I like myself, I can honestly attest that I still mean it twenty-four hours later. I know what I want from life, from myself and from the people around me, and that is immensely reassuring...except when it isn't. I know I can't even consider resuming the search for 'The One,' (pardon my Meg Ryan moment there), until I'm at least eighty per cent healed, (I'm nothing if not a realist about it), but that doesn't stop me from wanting it. This is going to sound uncharacteristically wistful coming from me, but I miss the comfort that sharing space with another human being can bring. Despite my oft-discussed determination to live for myself first, I must admit that it would be really nice just to cook for someone again. Relax; I'm not metamorphosizing into a fifties house-Frau, I just miss that gorgeous feeling that used to come over me whenever I did something nice for someone, just because I loved them. That's not to say I don't feel some satisfaction whenever I do things for my son, but parental love is an altogether different animal and besides, it'd be nice to cook for someone who appreciates the effort that goes into a good hollandaise sauce, and doesn't turn his nose up at anything that isn't flat-packed and delivered.
Creating an appetising meal for someone, nourishing them body and soul, is as much an act of love as sharing your bed, your breath, or your blood. Perhaps that's what I really miss; the notion that there is someone in the world whose existence I value to such a degree that the idea of sharing something of myself with them doesn't seem at all like a sacrifice.
And yes, it'd also be nice to have sex again while I still remember what goes where.