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| I am plagued by the fear of inadequacy. I can't handle rejection, indifference makes me manic. What if I'm not enough? If I'm not perfect, if I'm not everything that he wants, he'll just find it in someone else. Someone prettier, smarter, funnier, skinnier, happier, more capable, more sociable, just... more. But maybe if I dye my hair, cut those bangs, lose a few pounds, make my skirts a little shorter, pick up a few more bad habits, abandon myself completely. Maybe then. Maybe then I will finally feel like I am enough, once I am no longer me. Once again, I feel as though I have disappointed him somehow. Something about the real me did not align with the idea of me--the fantasy of me--that he has painted up in his head. I always come back to certain things about myself that stray from the idealized version I assume he has in his mind: my hair is the wrong color, I don't listen to the right music, I don't have enough piercings or tattoos, I don't wear glasses, my voice probably doesn't sound right, my stomach isn't flat, I am thoroughly insecure and profoundly unhappy, I don't enjoy parties or big social gatherings, I don't like the feeling of being high (it gives me panic attacks), and I don't think I'd really like being used the way he wants to use me. I want him to love me--me--not my body, but who I am when I'm not trying to be who I think he wants me to be. |
| I think I tend to oversexualize myself when I fear that he is getting bored of me, that he is pulling away. I fear that if I do not strip down for him--my clothes, my soul--he won't want me anymore, he will realize that there is nothing remarkable about me, nothing he can't find in any other girl. But then I worry about showing too much--too much skin, too much... me |
| My dearest whatever, I cannot fathom why you would lie so; "One day, one day," you convince me to stay, with promises of love you cannot keep. "I ache for you, I long for you," or so you say. You say that I am yours but never that you're mine, so why must we go round and round and round and round until the end of time--or at least until we tear each other apart, or you tear out my heart. I'd tear it out myself and serve it to you warm and fresh and bloody with my love. I'd do anything you asked me to, for you, my sweet, the one I bleed to love. Unfortunately, Yours |
| In the blueness of the in-between, when anything and everything seems possible, that's when I fell in love. That hour when the day bleeds into night, the night into the morning; when dreams are born and love is made and forever seems a lot closer than I ever could have imagined. The static bustle of a restless city turns white noise into poetry. His steady breathing is slow and melodic, keeping the rhythm of our hearts and the pace of our minds. Silence. And he smells like browned flour on a rainy afternoon, chopped celery and fresh-baked cookies. Lavender and cigarettes, tobacco and fresh rosemary from the garden; he smells like home. And the rough scrape of his calloused finger pads against my cheek as he plays connect the dots, using my freckles as his guide. Silence. There is nothing to say, nothing to see in the darkness where the twisted fingers of the daylight cannot ruin this--cannot unscrew the solidity of this moment. |
| you, with tar in your heart and charcoal for lungs. You, with your vacant eyes and meticulous tongue, fill my naive head with hollow promises and affirmations and assertions of your longing--how you ache to be near me, to touch me, to kiss me, to hold me, to fuck me. And I fall for it, all of it, every last word, again and again and again and again. You act like a boyfriend and you treat me like a girlfriend, but you never say that's what we are; and you say that I'm yours but never that you're mine, and I'm afraid afraid to ask because I'm that you'll actually tell the truth for once. I don't mind being lied to if it means that I get to be loved for a few hours a day. |
| When I peel back the layers of skin, flesh, soft tissue, all the dark red, fibrous matter that weaves the entirety of my body, all the way down to that calcified frame that I loathe so horribly, it still won't be enough. I want to gnaw on my bones until I can suck the marrow out, taste the bitterness of my most innerworkings and spit it out onto the pavement, smear it beneath my shoe, and wait for the sprinklers I used to run through as a child in the summer mornings to wash it all away. I want to unwind and fray every thread, tug it, watch the whole thing unravel like a shitty, moth-muddled sweater neglected at the back of the wardrobe; let myself unravel into an amorphous heap on the side of the road, amongst the broken bumpers and dented debris and shattered glass, blend in with the wreckage. |
| I feel dirty. All the time. The kind of dirty that cannot be scrubbed clean; it's under the surface, under the skin, woven within the fibers of my flesh, seeping into my bloodstream--I am dirty, I am tainted, I am ruined. You have ruined me, stripped me of my sanctity and honesty and dignity and sanity, and I just can't get myself clean of you. I am a junkie, I need my fix, but you have cut me off. And I feel as though I am walking around with this open wound, this gash in my core, and I am stumbling around with my entrails cradled in my arms like an infant, blood foaming at my mouth, gurgling, begging, pleading, but I just can't seem to die--you won't let me. And I wish you would just let me die. I wish you would just put me in the ground and move onto the next girl, put my picture in a locket and a lock of my hair in your wallet, and just let me fucking die already. |
| I would have carved my heart right out of my chest and bestowed it to you, still warm, still beating, still bloody and full of life--full of love--if you asked me to. If you asked me to, I would have changed everything about myself: I would have dyed my hair, I would have changed the clothes I wear (but you wouldn't have wanted that, that was what you liked about me, the subtlety of my longing and the innocence shrouded in darkness, peaking shyly through the runs in my tights and the shortness of my skirts). I was perfectly willing and eager to let you mold me into whatever you wanted me to be, your definition of perfect, your prototypical girl--not woman, no, you didn't want that; you got off on the fact that I am just a girl, half your age and untainted by the hands and the essence of any other man, pliable because I was inexperienced and naive and far too eager for my own good to please you--a man, not a boy. And I liked the idea of an older man wanting me--me, who couldn't even grab the attention of any guys my own age. |
| I am sick with apprehension for a future I cannot even envision |
| "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice," … she said, thinking her life was a total wreck; the girl dared to seek out the unknown, hoping the danger would be more fulfilling. I offer a factoid from an old guy without any condescension implied or inferred. I am from your grandpa's generation. And tell you, none of us felt any different than you. I loved, lost, crashed, and burned so many times over the years it is a wonder I didn't evolve into some kind of weirdo. Wait, they say, I am one of those… okay. But at least I didn't become Manson, Dahmer., or Bundy. Although I did really like the girls back in college, luckily, they liked me too, so there was no need to take after Jeffery. Listen, girl, the first rule of life… it often sucks. And it will for a very long time… when we are kids, our parents shield us from life and its troubles. Then we go out into the world and get blindsided. (Note: you must spend time on a football field to truly understand that old meme.) But the above notwithstanding, as you mature (the polite reference,) your opinions change… but you never feel different, even though you find new interests. As hard as it is to accept today, things will get more comfortable. You learn to appreciate the things you have and the people who share your spaces in life. (Like us here on WDC.) You will wake up late and stub your toes as you run to shower, dress, eat, fight traffic, or catch your Uber. But you learn not to waste time crying over bent, blackened toes and appreciate all the times you managed to clear the bed frame without jamming your toes into the caster at its foot... And don't get me started on affairs of the heart. I was 24 when I met my wife. I chased her for two years before she caught me… but before her, I was in love a dozen times and even dated and fell in love with a Playboy Bunny. I was crushed when the Navy sent me to England in 1979, and she said no to my request for her to come with me. But then I met my Sherry the next year, that was 43 years ago. To quote an old song… "Life is a funny, funny riddle!" but there is more good stuff than bad. We tend to remember only the bad shyte that stuffs up the pipes, making cleaning a mess. Continued on next page... |
| Continued from the previous page... If you don't like your view, don't cry about it. Get up and move to a new seat. Hopefully, it's not behind a fat guy who talks the whole movie. (Unless he is old, rich, and complaining, he can't find anyone to share time with. Well, then you'll know what to do.) Until then, know you are not alone in the fight for sanity. Start more conversations in the world and here, too. You may be surprised at how many kindred souls you may find. Oh, and Schnujo's NOT Doing NaNoWriMo   is an incredible friend and, like many here on WDC, very well-versed in the realm of crazy shit happening in one's life. Don't let the bastards get you down! Reach out, and we can wrestle them together... there are plenty of us still in therapy. Look at this post. What better proof do you need of expertise in depressing insanity? |
I also recommend counseling. Most of us need it at some point in our lives and some of us, myself included, need it for a good bit longer.  |
| sometimes I wonder if I will ever feed this hunger inside of me—if I will ever dispel the pangs of my own body feasting upon itself, gnawing on the bones of this pathetic desperation to be wanted. |
| I just want someone to remind me that I am fucking alive and opaque and real, and not just this flimsy, amorphous idea that I feel like most of the time; a simple misconception, nothing more than a few rejected thoughts discarded into the ether, aimlessly searching for somewhere to reside, somewhere to belong. The most frustrating part is that I don't want to mean something to just anyone anymore--I want to mean something to him. I want him to hold me, kiss me, stroke my hair and my cheek and look me in the eyes when he calls me "my girl," and I want him to hold my hand and watch terrible, terrible movies and laugh with me. And I want him to run around in the rain with me. And I want him to slow dance with me in the dark, to ramble about nothing and everything that matters to him at 2am, and to feel his hands on my waist and on my thighs and in my hair. And I want to give him all the love and affection I have to give, even if he may not deserve it. I want to be the only girl he talks to and fantasizes about and wants to impress--I want him to want to impress me still, the way he claims that he used to. I want to on car rides where he keeps his hand on my knee because he just needs to touch me and I play all our favorite songs, and I sing and he doesn't tell me to shut up, and we roll down the windows and it feels like we're in a John Green novel. I want him to love me, to be in love with me, together. I don't know if anyone will ever love me. |
It sounds like you need to practice some grounding exercises. You can find some on YouTube.  It also sounds like you could really do with a good counselor.    Good luck! But remember that what you want/need and what another person can give aren't always the same. Sometimes, as much as it will hurt, you have to move on because it's the right thing to do.  |
| Sounds like you can stay with him and communicate your wants/needs, or leave the relationship and be all of those things you noted above to yourself until the right person comes along. And in the meantime, write how you feel, so you can get those emotions out. |
| I always feel like people are mad at me or just plain sick of me. My friends all come up with excuses on why they can't see me, leave me on delivered for days, weeks, months. I can feel the tone shifts like tectonic plates shaking the earth and though I try to ignore it, it rattles me to my core and I am tossed upon the floor once again, ducking for cover from the wrath of a storm I am somehow being blamed for. Again. |
| lately, I don't feel like myself. I feel detached from my body, like I'm watching myself do and say things through a screen. I feel lightyears away. I look in the mirror and I don't even recognize the person staring back. There is something so dreadfully, unnervingly wrong with the image--that thing, is it even human? I don't think I know who I am anymore or why I even bother. I've felt invisible for so long that sometimes I forget that I am a real, tangible person and not just some flimsy, incorporeal misconception. |
It sounds like some grounding exercises might be of use to you. You can probably find some on YouTube. But you also seem to need some mental health services. It's okay. Many, many of us here struggle with mental health issues! It seems to be a writer's thing...or an artist's thing...I guess.  Anyway, you don't have to live that way. Seek help! And if the first help isn't that helpful, find another person. Not every counselor is good for every person. |
| sometimes I just want to crawl out of my skin and let my raw flesh melt into a bubbling puddle on the asphalt, let myself dissolve into tar, let the crows and other rapacious foragers gnaw on my bones and use them to build their homes so that I can finally be of use |
That is beautifully written!  If this is your real feeling, I strongly encourage you to find some mental health services. If this is just a bit of description you came up with that you wanted to share, awesome! Either way, this is very well done, but I do hope you know you are valuable to us the way you are.  |
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But whether this is real or not, you're definitely talented. 
Time to cut your losses and move on.