Inevitability

I wish I was braver. I can be pathetically weak when it comes to taking a stand. I crumple. No where does this show itself more obviously than in my relationships.

I should preface by saying that many of my relationships are healthy--that is to say, the established ones. There's a reason, though, why I can count so few people as my close friends. I'm awful in new relationships. I'm neurotic and obsequious. It's not that I lose myself, but in my desperate attempt to make a connection, I tend to shove myself away. I hang on tenterhooks waiting to speak to a potential friend again. It would be pitiful if it wasn't so off-putting.

I suppose most people don't consciously notice it. We all love attention and flattery, so it would take a peculiarly aware--dare I say, abnormal--person to find my behavior unappealing. Inevitably, however, this new-found connection will pass on, done with me. Don't take it the wrong way, most people don't do this maliciously. It's natural to make transitions in life, and if you find yourself becoming bored with activities or conversations, well: by all means, transition. Never mind that all those actions and words are attached to a person. Never mind that she cares so much more than you.

If I may backtrack for a moment, I want to address the nature of inevitabilities. They, in and of themselves, are not so bad, I think. Humans are so marvelously resilient. If we're thrown down, we jump back up. If we fail one way, we try another. It's the drive to never give up, to keep on against the odds, to test out limits in survival. So, then, when we face an inevitability, we aren't thrown off course. We recognize the situation and do what we must to make ourselves comfortable with the outcome. (Not in altogether healthy ways, at times, but the point isn't lost.)

It isn't the inevitable failure of friendship itself that I fear, it's the circumstances surrounding it. I hate not knowing the when, where, and why. The knowledge is so impossibly general, so abstract, that I find myself unable to move past it. When a friendship is ended it isn't just that you have one less person in your life--it's the emotional upheaval, the physical loss of presence, and a cache full of aching memories. That's what I fear, and that's what I know nothing of.

I wish I could be brave and say, "Here's my heart, don't fucking break it." That's what I want to say, but I can never bring myself to. The truth is that they can break it, tear it, constrict it, riddle it full of holes, just as long as they don't let go. Don't let go, and you can treat me how you like. I feel connected to you, I may even love you--please don't drop me.

The worst part is, I haven't found another way. When I hide myself, they move on. When I let myself shine through our encounters, they move on faster. I feel so tossed around that when I finally make that connection--when I'm able to take hold of something solid--I'm so starved and desperate that I overcompensate. I'm so fearful of losing it that I don't dare let myself show and compromise the situation.

Call it codependency. Call it neuroses. Call it low self-esteem.

I call it justifiable fear.

Guilty

There's something about being sick that brings everything into focus. You just don't have the energy to bullshit yourself. Your defenses are down. You're forced, physically and mentally, to confront everything as it hits you.

Your emotions seem to balloon to vast proportions, consuming your thoughts. The strangest part is, though, that they aren't themselves aren't any stronger. You've only opened yourself up to experiencing their full force. You feel yourself to the point of exhaustion.

That happened today, and I nearly suffocated. The tears pricked behind my eyes, and I thought I would lose it right there. I thought I would break down, sobbing, in front of my coworkers and a handful of strangers. Why?

I felt guilty. Oh, God. I felt awful. The minute he looked at me my stomach turned to knots. It felt hard, like a dead weight. It affected my ability to breathe. I wanted to run away. I know that look.

God, oh God, why? Every fucking time.

I shouldn't have felt guilty. Rationally, I know that; of course I do. But stuck in that moment, under the influence of a cold, functioning on too little sleep? Guilt. Cold, hard guilt that screwed itself into my chest until it was stuck tight. It taunted me to pull it out. Pull it out, be rid of the guilt . . . and bleed out on the floor.

I started getting flashes of other, similar faces: all hopeful, all about to be broken--because I'm a horrible person, I guess. It's the only explanation. Once is unfortunate, twice is a coincidence, three times and you're the issue. I'm the issue.

I'll have to see him again. I'll have to say, "Remember the other day?" Then downhill. I'll rip out that weighty shaft of guilt and arm myself with it. I'll turn it into aggression, into hurtful overconfidence. Do I have to? I think so. I've never known any another way.

Then his face--his face will fall and burn itself into my mind. It will join all the other faces--that wretched album of all the people I've hurt.

And the guilt will work itself back in.

I Still Think About You

by Zindy S.D. Nielsen

You hardly even look at me anymore, and it kills me. I know I was the one who made the first move, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I new you'd react this way.

You realize it's almost exactly a year since our relationship began to die? God, this month. The whole damn month was one big emotional hailstorm. I didn't want to hurt you, and you didn't want to let go. That did it more than anything else, I think. Quel suprise.

Still, I wasn't the one who drove the final nail in the coffin. That was all you. You drew away, and drew away, and kept moving until we lost all contact. Why? Because you were hurt? You could've told me. We could've worked something out.

I'm angry at you for being closed off, and I'm angry at you for leaving me. And I miss you. And I love you. I love you so damn much it hurts, and I cry, and I wish I could talk to you again--for real, not this crap we suffer through now.

The thing that hurts the most is that this is what did it. It wasn't distance. It wasn't a change it social circles. It wasn't anything that should have wrecked us so bad. It makes me think--because I didn't let you feel me up? I get eight years of my life ripped away from me because I wouldn't put out? Because I was in the wrong relationship, and you were too damn selfish to respect that?

I automatically assume the worst. That's what I loved most about you though: You knew that, and so you never did anything that would prompt me to speculate. You were always brutally honest with me. God, you were amazing. One of the best things in my life.

Why did that change? I guess the transition was too much. That's all it is, though--a guess. You never told me anything. For seven months I felt like I was running around with a mannequin. "Run" would be the wrong word, though, come to think of it. You can't run when you're stuck on a pedestal.

I stare at your picture on my phone. I think about you every single day. I'm completely inappropriate, the worst kind of stalker, but I can't help myself. I want to to come back to me, and I want us to love each other like we used to. Do you remember?

I never told you, but I used to have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be stuck with you in a room with you, and you were trying to make love to me. I felt so disgusted and forlorn that I'd hang myself with your tie. The dream came back so often that one day I had to wake up. I couldn't attribute it to an overactive, self-sabotaging subconscious anymore.

I wish, with all my heart, that I could've wanted you like you wanted me. I wish we could be perfect, and beautiful, and live happy, fulfilled lives, never taking our eyes off each other.

I wish I could say I'm sorry: I was an idiot, I was a jerk; I was selfish and insensitive; please forgive me, I love you so much.

I love you so fucking much. Why don't you love me?