Will I ever get any better at this?
It’s been a long day. Seems like most of the days are long days these days. Even the ones where I sleep 10 hours.
I feel the heat that gathers behind my eyes when I’ve been crying or am on the verge of tears. Exhaustion concentrates in my orbital area, complimented by a subtle burning. I feel the tears begin to well, formulate, get into formation in anticipation of yet another act.
I think of him reading my words, and I wonder if it’d make him appreciate me more. I hope so.
I recognize that revealing myself in this way, through writing, has become one of the most intimate means I have of sharing myself. And now, after a long day of turmoil, tension, anger, sadness, frustration, redemption, reconciliation, I feel desperate to be seen.
And after all has passed and the dust has settled, I obsess over why he hasn’t called me. How could I want him so terribly in this moment without inherent reciprocation on his part?
I find myself in a place I’ve avoided at all costs — the person who wants it. Who wants love, care, affection, affirmation, acceptance. I want it so desperately that I’ve tried my hardest to push it away. Because not getting it might destroy me.
His acceptance breaks my heart. Cracks me open and puts me back together like someone finally adjusting a frame that’s been off-kilter for years.
I can’t let go of this rawness. And frankly, I don’t want to. I struggle to put a word to it. Because it isn’t the fight. Or the making up. It’s something in-between, enmeshed in it all. It’s something resembling hope — a belief that maybe there’s a chance for me. To find someone who loves me in a way that I’ve desperately craved and vehemently denied.
I don’t think anything has scared me more, has been harder than this — allowing myself to be loved?
I’ve had men claim to love me while never revealing the parts of myself I deemed unacceptable.
And I’ve had many men reject me, a convenient confirmation of my un-lovability.
There’s something about this time around that’s intangibly different.
I reflect on previous long-term relationships and a decade of “dating,” and I wonder if any of it prepared me for this. Or if, instead, it’s actually working against me — that well-honed force field I’ve maintained for years has become the only barrier between me and a black hole swallowing me whole.
Dare I… choose to be seen? Truly. Deeply.
Is love ever truly about the other person? Or am I just doing it wrong?
I will my eyes to continue to cry. I crave that high that came earlier in the day, cut short by the reality of well, reality, commitments, the mundane details of life that interfere with my romantic fever dreams.
It was in that moment when I finally decided to break, when my walls began to crack like a dam about to give way that something shifted inside me. A moment so pure, so honest, I could barely see myself in it.
I cry and I speak of why I want this, him. This person, this relationship, this partnership. And I explain my reasons with an ease and passion that proves their authenticity in this effortless flow from deep inside my being as I lose track of whether I’m saying it for him or for me.
Even after he forgives me, after we’ve made up and the relief crosses his face and becomes something resembling joy. Even then, the tears continue to build inside me. And although they are an indication of something beautiful and uplifting, they are also an embodiment of my fear: my fear of fucking up again, my fear of discovering proof that I am in fact not okay, my fear that he might actually stick around.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I truly, truly don’t. How is it that falling in love makes me feel new in a way that’s both invigorating and terrifying?
He asks me, “Were all your relationships this hard?”
I pause, considering how my exes might categorize their time with me.
And then I realize something both moving and jarring — I’ve never revealed this much of myself before. Not like this.
There’s something being uncovered within me that I’ve yet to reveal to another. I feel safe, secure with him. And if he only knew it was hard because I cared so much. Because I’m scared. Because I am dead-set on imploding this before he can ever truly hurt me.
God, I’m a walking cliche.
But still, I tell him why, why it is I want this. And it warms his heart, softens his features, brings tears to his eyes. What was once a cold sternness becomes a soft willingness. The transition is stark and touching. And I question if I deserve it.
How do I accept this love that I so deeply want but feel completely unworthy of?
My mind casts me as an abusive partner. I question if I’ll become the one who promises to never hurt him again only to betray his trust right when he’s lulled back into comfort.
I question my ability to trust myself. I question if he is safe with me. Because there remains a deep desire to hurt him for caring for me. For daring to care for me.
Who is he to make me feel worthy of love and affection?
