And chronologically speaking, it’s been two months, and your absence during the last month while you were away on vacation has not made me care less.  We haven’t had much time together so far, no, but it’s been long enough for me to know how I feel.  I didn’t tell you that I’m in love with you only because I knew you weren’t ready to hear it.  But really, the ridiculous things we put ourselves through just to avoid saying those words: I have feelings for you, I care about you, I want you, you matter to me.  All true, and all stupid fucking euphemisms.

Please.  Don’t tell me I’ll easily find someone else.  I haven’t had sex in four and a half years, and that was a one-off pity fuck two days before I started chemo.  You have no fucking idea what it’s like for me.  Relationships, play, intimate human connection may find you easily, but I am fucking invisible.  Don’t tell me I’m not; don’t tell me they’ll be lined up down the block for me.  I live this every fucking day.  I’ve lived this my entire fucking life.  And you have never experienced anything like this, I promise you.

This deserves a better chance than you’ve given it.  I deserve a better chance.  It’s been rough but scheduling will help to smooth things out.  I won’t be begging for your time if I know I’ll have it.  And yes, sometimes you have to sacrifice some spontaneity in favor of making sure things get done. That’s what time management IS, and if you want to get better at it, that’s one way to start doing that.

I’m not asking you to sacrifice important things for me.  I’m just asking to be important enough to be worth letting go of some unimportant things.  We really do have good things between us, and we could have a lot more if you’d quit stressing about “time management” and just do things with me.  I have no idea why you’ll set aside two hours for me but still freak out that we have no time to play.  We don’t need the entire day!  We just need to do it, to connect with each other, during the time that we do have with each other.

God, god, god.  I hate being stuck in this position, yet again, where the only thing I can do is beg.  But I will, because you matter.  And because I deserve better than the shit my life hands to me.  Good god, don’t tell me I’m not even allowed to be temporarily happy.  That’s the least of what I’m worthy of.

Please answer.  Please consider what I’ve said.  For god’s sake, if nothing else, at least tell me no.

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.