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?

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.

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 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

spontaneously, all of his own initiative

and mean it

want

to

SCREAM

I finally feel something.  My withered soul was just starting to breathe again.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt anything enough to cry.

Clearly someone’s telling me to just go back into my hole and stay there.

I try to calm the flutter of excitement with a wait-and-see approach.  Calm.  Wait.  Watch.  Nothing is promised yet and anything can happen.

And yet there is that ease of conversation, the easy laugh, the light-hearted teasing, and the flirtation and the smiles evolve all on their own.  That flow, that dance.  I forget to hesitate, I choose to be less cautious.  I want.

I fear.

I hope.

Calling it “dating” leads to the peculiar assumption that we’re going to skip right over the “hello, we are complete and total strangers” part, and go straight for the “I can’t get you out of my head; I’ve been thinking about you for three days straight” part.

True story, that was the second message I got from this guy; when I hadn’t even logged in yet to receive his first, much less respond to it.

Creepy.

This is why I hate this shit.