The Loneliness of Wanting to Be Loved
My journey to healing from trauma through C. S. Lewis and lots of bad sex
I am a stray. I started as an animal bred for fighting, but escaping that just means you are a gaunt thing, most comfortable alone, in the dark, teeth bared at anything that might come at you. First, you just survive like that, no matter the price. Then, if you are lucky, you start to see that there is more than just surviving. That you want somewhere warm to lie down and rest. And when you start to understand you are not the kind of animal that ever deserves a home, you experience the agony of knowing you are a stray.
I imagine myself in an animal shelter. Being at a shelter and not on the streets is accomplishment enough, but I imagine people coming through, looking for a nice dog. It’s impossible to ask them to choose me. Everyone deserves an exuberant Lab or a sedate golden retriever. How can I expect anyone to choose a mangy pit bull — however sweet — who will most definitely freak out about strange things? Who will love you to death, but will never be an easy dog. I can’t even claim I was raised well. I can’t claim I am not like that. No, I was bred to be the worst of my kind. I can’t imagine anyone taking me home. But I am anxious for someone to want to.
