Broken Doll

We talked, and sorted things, and while we’ve agreed to leave things open-ended, he has agreed to see me again.

And is it okay to admit I’m still afraid to hope?

Is it okay to admit that I’m still afraid that I will never be that important… to anyone?

What if I really am unlovable?

And so it goes on, again, as it always does.

I only get true and aggressive interest from those who see me as an object instead of a person.

For the others… those I really connect with… well.  I’m good enough to fuck, but not good enough to love.

Morgan.  Jason.  Now Sean.  I’m too much work.

And what was my crime this time?  Wanting to work in time to see him into a very busy weekend.  Trying to organize our schedules in advance.

God forbid I should tell him when I’m busy, when I’m not, and saying that I want to see him whenever it would work for him.  God forbid I should try to give him all the scheduling info at once when I had time to do so because I was about to run off to a fucking wedding.

For that, he has stopped responding.  Just a “ooh jee, busy this weekend, how about next week?”  And now, nothing.  Not like he didn’t see my message saying that was fine.  Not like he hasn’t had time to even write one lousy sentence saying yes, no, busy, later… or even “I changed my mind.”

Nothing.

Outside of my own head, that’s all I’m ever worth to anyone.  And I have no fucking idea why.

Dearest Lugh — when you tell me that love will find me (in May, mind you), you know damn well that love means actual love, not “I’ll fuck her as long as she’s not too annoying.”

You know what I’m looking for.  You know the hole in my soul.  You know what I need.  You know damn well that lying to me about “finding love” only makes this shit worse.

When I was 23, my father tried to kick me out of the house for the crime of getting up from the dinner table before he did so I could look for work.  This was a culmination of a lot of bad shit in my life, including though not limited to a lifetime of verbal abuse from him.

I locked myself in my bedroom, took out my razor blade, and slashed my thigh open.  I screamed.  The pain in my head was so intense that I didn’t even feel the pain in my skin.  Blood flowed like water and I couldn’t even see it.

And then I stopped, and held the razor blade to my wrist.  I meant to do it.  I wasn’t even afraid anymore.

Except I realized that I didn’t want to.  For the first time in memory I wanted to live.  I wanted to prove him wrong.  I looked at myself, and saw a turning point.

Years later, I’m not so certain it was.

Years later, I’m still trying, and failing, to find someone who is able — and willing — to love me.  Years later, I’m still trying, and failing, to make an impact on the world.  Years later, I’m still trying, and failing, to succeed at the things I work so hard to achieve.

Years later, whenever I make an intimate emotional connection with another human being, he changes his mind, cuts me off, pushes me away, and feeds me the pretty little lie that we’ll still be friends.  But not the kind of friends that talk to each other, mind you.  Years later, no matter what I do, I am never Good Enough.  And whether I choose to trust, or not to trust, it is always, always, the wrong choice.

Years later, wanting to live is no longer a feature of my daily life.

Is it my fault, then?  Should I not expect someone to understand that when I say I want a serious relationship, I really do mean that I want a serious relationship?  I didn’t ask because I thought he understood where I was coming from and was okay with that.  I had said it, after all.  So is it my fault?  How many times, how many ways do I have to say it?  When am I finally allowed to believe that they really do understand what I’ve said?

There is always that question that I don’t think to ask.  Saying what I want and what I need and what I expect isn’t Good Enough, so I have to think of all these questions on my own, have to remember to ask them, even though there are hundreds of these potential questions and I have no way of knowing which one of them that it’s absolutely vital for me to ask.

Is the entire burden on me then?  I say what I want, but I have to check and double check that I was understood, and try to figure out — try to guess at — which damn question it’s going to be this time? I am damned no matter what I do.  I can’t possibly think of everything.

It’s my fault then.  And that is fucking one-sided; and it is fucking not fair.

Years later… nothing really has changed.

I don’t know if I’m going to make it. The gears of the Universe appear determined to crush me.

I would give anything just to have someone to say that to.

so let go, just get in
oh, it’s so amazing here
it’s alright
’cause there’s beauty in the breakdown

i just want someone to tell me i’m pretty

spontaneously, all of his own initiative

and mean it

i am small
and needy