Sometimes terms mean certain things and belong to certain groups of people and are not meant to apply to people outside that group. And that is on purpose and valid. You can make your own terms to describe your own experiences, you don't get to take terms from other people, especially people more vulnerable/less privileged than you. If multiple people tell you that the term is not for you, respect that.
When terms get used for many different situations they get diluted and trivialized. Remember "trigger"? It was a specific medical term and is now used to mean "something that pissed or upset someone". Brain fog is now turning into abled people just being a little sleepy or out of it, not literally a clinical term for brains not functioning correctly due to various illnesses. I tell someone I have brain fog and they say lol me too XD no you fucking don't. "Spirit animal" was taken from indigenous peoples so white people could make funny haha relatable t-shirts. Two spirit almost got taken by queer white people as well (although I think most people have backed off on that hopefully).
Not everything needs to apply to as many people as possible. You don't need to and can't relate to everyone. We can still support each other while respecting differences.
(Edited ver)
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You have closed all my paths, you have melted in you all my impulses and all my desires, you have erased for me the rest of the world that is not you; but the insatiable thirst still burns me and the race continues, more dizzy than ever. I want everything from you, and the more I am given, the more I demand with all my strength.
It is true that we still lack many things, but I wonder to what extent and if a few months or a few years ago I had been asked to make a wish which, if granted, would justify my life in my eyes, I would simply have wished to be one day closer to you than what I am today. You must not regret anything and you must not worry about me. I spoke to you in the letter that gave rise to the scruples that you are telling me today, about the children that I could have had. It is certain that sometimes I think of them, of our children, with a painful melancholy, but, believe me, I did not know enough about the happiness that they could bring me to really miss them and I desire them much less as my children than as yours, as ours.
The very impossibility of realizing this dream exalts and nourishes it, and if I had to give it up forever in order to live with you for a while, I would not hesitate. Yes, I wish that with all my soul, and no matter how hard I look, I can't find anything that can console me for our fate, that can reconcile me with the lack that our distance leaves in the happiness that was given to us. However, if I search well, if I really look, if I disguise myself from all these veils with which I want to wrap myself, then... I must confess that a common life which would neither bring nor take away anything, that once acquired, other deviations, other more serious gaps perhaps, would come to take the place it now occupies in my imagination, where it serves now a backdrop between far more irretrievable separations, ever impassable distances, and my inexhaustible need to abolish and bridge them.
So, you see, near or far, at this point, we can say that we have won, and whatever life has in store for us, it will have been very merciful. But if all these days spent preparing, thinking, creating those that will come and that would not be what they will be - if events had been different - had been offered to us in a way that we could have enjoyed them together and without torment, what would we have done with them? Are we sure that we would have taken them in such a way as not to lose a minute or even days or even months? Oh! I know! You're going to tell me that I'm doing the philosophy of a janitor or the psychology of a lamppost; but... it's necessary... it's necessary from time to time.
And, in any case, if you don't think like a lamppost and if you don't dream too much about mosses while reading this letter, you will perhaps feel that I am giving you one of the greatest proofs of love that can be demanded of me, by confessing certain things that I hardly dare to reveal to myself. Now you can let me speak when it happens that I escape again towards horizons of quiet happiness and peaceful life.
Go! I can still talk. And now you know that I know that you know what is deep, deep inside me. This does not prevent the spring from blooming what it touches, and my heart, my body, my soul from crying out after you, from suffering after you, from dying, from screaming, from laughing. And there is something that cannot resign itself to your absence, it is my poor little body that stretches out in vain towards you, that writhes, that whimpers and cries after you, my sad little body that stunts from day to day and that asks unceasingly to blossom, to warm up, to beat, to quiver.
Oh my beautiful, my dear love! Oh burning! O my sweet pain! O my life! Here I am filled with shivers, mysterious undulations, delicate and secret sounds. You wanted my letter to bring you a little warmth! It has awakened in me again all that dark and intimate zone that I love so much to feel just in my center, in my middle, that vibrating zone that moves me as much as the presence of a child in my belly, or even more, knowing it better. She has touched that tiny point in me, but which you know and love, and I tremble all over. Happy, oh yes, happy. Happy and overflowing with love, desire and tenderness. I am waiting for you every day. I run too; I run unceasingly towards you. The coast is coming to an end, my darling. Soon the sight of the sea, and then the beach and the waves.
Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, Correspondance, February 10, 1950 [#182]
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