i’ll write you love letters from my bedroom. because i don’t know how to tell you this stuff anymore. not in person. not in that uncanny moment, when my eyes meet yours, and for one split second i am forced to confront the fact headfirst… that i’m only human.
and i’ll flinch when you touch me. because i don’t know what else to do. because your pounding vein hits mine, and i am reminded that i am nothing more than one messy, bleeding wound. and for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. that you’re right beside me, and yet somehow, i still miss you.
and i’ll type it up on a text message. i’ll stare at it for ages. wipe the tears off my cheeks, and mumble happy birthday like everything is fine. when it isn’t.
when i am a post-apocalyptic building, the beams just barely holding. when i don’t let myself breathe in the dollar store; as i am slowly swallowed whole by my own dark humor. but for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. and i love you.
and yeah. i know i’m not exactly great at this stuff. but… i promise, that is true.
It’s one of the most terrifying experiences for me. To be open. And I don’t think that that’s something I’m in alone in.
I’ve always had trouble with the little things. Holding my mom’s hand while crossing the street. Being touched when I wasn’t expecting it. You know what I mean.
I don’t know why that is. Because all bullying that happened to me as a kid was mostly emotional, I was rarely physically hurt by anybody–not enough that you’d think it’d justify a whole complex about ever letting myself be intimate with anybody. But, I guess something must have happened to cause it, because here we are, terrified of eye contact and cuddles.
Obviously, almost four months of quarantine really didn’t help with letting myself be intimate with family and friends. I spent so long working on letting go of my fear of letting down my guard, and now it’s like I’m starting right from square one. It’s hard not to be mad at myself for that–even though it’s not like a global pandemic is my fault, obviously.
It’s not that I’m scared of other people, I guess–for the most part, although being touched by strangers or acquaintances is another story; in that case I definitely am scared of people. But with those I love… I’m just scared of myself. Scared of hurting them. Scared of getting too close. Scared of losing myself. Scared of letting me down. Scared of how finite I am, how completely and utterly irrelevant. Scared this is all a lie, somehow, and I’m going to wake up someday, and remember how terrible and unlovable I am. And it’ll all be over.
I’m working on it, though. I am. Really, really fucking slowly, but… I am. I’ve overcome this before, and I can do it again. Yeah. I have to believe that that’s true.
Lots of love,