It’s now been over 45 minutes that I’ve been sitting with my computer on my lap with this blank screen pulled up. I thought at first that maybe my resistance just meant that I didn’t want to write a post tonight, so I contemplated saying so and leaving it there. But the truth is, I want to write a post; I just want it to be the right post. I want it to be a profound truth that heals some broken part of me and sets me free.


This again.

I find myself wanting to write about an interaction I had with a dear friend today in which I felt awkward and uncomfortable, certain there was some right thing I should say and equally baffled as to what the right thing was. I want to write about how I want so badly to be held–how at times the absence of it feels like a physical ache–and how I go through my life shrinking back from being held, even refusing it when it’s offered to me because it doesn’t feel safe. I want to write about love–how I have it in my life in the most beautiful and wondrous ways and how it just doesn’t feel like enough.

I want to write about my fear of rejection. How there’s some very old part of me that just can’t accept that people see and love me for all aspects of who I am. How it seems to be waiting in the depths, breath held, for me to say or do something often enough that causes people to turn away from me. I keep waiting to be cast off. I keep waiting to be left. I’m terrified because I don’t get it. I don’t get what people see in me. I don’t understand why they love me. And it’s not that I’m not capable of seeing my own worth, because I do. But I think this part of me doesn’t subscribe to things like reason and evidence. It just knows I’m unloveable and that anything else is a lie.

I want to write about all of this in a way that brings it all together, makes sense of it, and changes me for the better. I think the truth is, I want this process to end. I want  happily ever after. It doesn’t matter that it’s not real; that it doesn’t exist. I know this, and yet I can’t stop wanting it. I want to mend my broken heart and emerge as a kind of glorious specimen of humanity beyond the ugliness of these past few days. Who can’t be broken again. I want to be spared the suffering of my shame, my self-loathing, my judgements that are so harsh I would be less hurt if I took an actual whip to my skin. I don’t want this to be life-long. And, I think this might just be what living is.