I find it funny how I can write what I so desperately want to tell you and can’t convey when we’re face to face. It’s as if I have a school girl crush on you and I suddenly get so shy and unable to speak. You can read me, so I’m sure you know this, but for the sake of confirmation, I’ll state it regardless. And so I have to ask you:
Do you want me to be honest? A silly question, I’m sure; for when would you not want me to be honest with you? In this context, however, I’m asking: Would you like me to be truly honest? Bluntly, unquestionably, perhaps unreasonable honest? About why I’ve been acting how I have and why my behavior is so erratic? Again, I’ll assume, perhaps fool heartedly that your response would an unequivocal yes.
Which is a little ironic because I feel like it would be an exercise in futility. Because I already know what you, in your logic and knowledge of this world, will say: I’m making stuff up in my head. I’m obsessing. I’m illogical and emotional and you know what? You’re right.
Logic and rationality escape me, as we both know. Rarely, am I able to have the ability to talk myself out of ideas using facts when I’m feeling an entirely different way. I let my mind run untamed; I don’t have excellent self-control. I’m fantastically impulsive and my coping skills are a by-product of a dysfunctional childhood.
But what I’m not positive you recognize, at least not entirely, is that my mind is slipping, bit by bit. I wake up in the dead of night and I’m with you in your room, but you don’t feel like you and the room doesn’t feel like yours and I feel like I’m out of place; an observer. I’m lying in bed unsure if you even know that I’m awake and expecting actions that are probable, yet implausible. But that knot in my stomach won’t leave and that feeling of insecurity rushes back again and I lay awake, pretending to be asleep, studying you, trying to recognize you, and watching what you’re doing and feeling terrified and out of place at the same time.
I’ll become emotional and you’ll be preoccupied, and I’ll feel disregarded, and suddenly, you’re not you anymore and I’m not in your room and it all looks the same but it’s NOT the same and you’re not you and I’m not the same and I get scared and confused and react on emotion and don’t know who you are. All by feeling of course, and then, I don’t know who I’m yelling at anymore; then I come back and you feel like you again and I’m confused and all messed up and don’t know how to say anything about what just happened except that I’m sorry, but you’re mad and I don’t know what to say except repeat the same, “I’m sorry” mantra; hoping that you’ll somehow know that I wasn’t yelling at you, and perhaps, feel that I was somewhere else and somehow understand.
Selfishly, I get mad because you don’t allow me to use the coping skills I’m so used to, which is unreasonable because this is what I asked for but inside my head, that voice is screaming that it’s unfair to start experimenting; trying to find healthy skills that could handle something of this magnitude. And the voice; that illogical, irrational, self-protecting voice, is as a devil on my shoulder, and it’s indignant that I can’t do the quickest, easiest, simplest method of self-preservation, and I so hard want to not hurt any more. Yet I know I will and nothing will fix this but I can’t help but contemplate something that could numb myself or at least take my mind away for awhile. Something that could make me feel good instead of feeling this constant, constant, unrelenting misery.
And my thoughts keep coming back to this coping skill that’s always provided a measure of comfort and distraction to my fucked up mind and it’s odd because it isn’t so unhealthy and makes me feel real. And you’ve probably assumed that, like so many other things, I’m talking about sex but before you think this is a request, it’s not; I just ask for you to read it through. Drinking and drugs numb; cutting and punching distract and shock me back to reality; and screaming exhausts me. Sex makes me feel complete and like a person again and I think that’s one of the reasons I’ve used it as a coping skill. Physical contact, intimacy, feeling close to someone; all comfort, console, distract, and heal in a way.
However, it’s not really sex that’s the coping skill.
Please, take this at face value when I say that I feel closer to you than anyone; I hope you can feel that I’m in love with you. Retardedly in love with you. Unequivocally in love and more than that, you’re one of my best friends; one whom I’ve confided in and told random stories from my day to, just because I wanted to share something with you. Since we first started talking, I’ve felt foolishly close to you.
And we differ in strange ways, as you know. I get my comfort and security from physical closeness, beyond sex. My security comes from you touching me, holding hands, hugging, cuddling, having you stroke me, having you pet my head, having you rub my arm as I fall asleep listening to that same familiar song as I lay on your chest and feeling how warm you are when I almost always feel so cold.
I can tell you’re making an effort to do that more, I think, for me specifically. And knowing you’d consciously do something you wouldn’t necessarily in another situation makes me appreciate that more than you know because I’m sure you can feel how I react when you do; calm and in the present. And when you do something that causes pain; causes a shock, causes an intake of breath, forces me into the present as the endorphins kick into overdrive and I get a masochist high that makes me feel closer to you than I did the second before.
Then there’s the self-doubting, timid, part of me that gets inhibited around you; when I can’t say these feelings and thoughts to your face because I just KNOW (and “know” is used completely relatively in this context) that you’ll see me as stupid and a child and lovestruck, and that you’ll brush it off as an attempt at seeking attention or being idealistic. I feel apprehensive writing these feelings because it’s probably all things I’ve already said or something during a moment of weakness or a late night fight, or you knew these things because you heard them in my mind, but I need to get it out and I need to make sure that I know, that you know.
I need to feel grounded. I don’t know if you already understand how important this is to me or not, but it’s a necessity. I’m tired of floating. You’re the only constant I have and to know that I have someone whom I can hold onto and who won’t turn take advantage of me, or use me and discard me, or convince me of something that isn’t in my best interest but is something they want… My trust is unstable as I at times, not because of anything you’ve ever done, but because of what I’ve experienced in prior years, as you have as well.
So I may be a little more clingy and a little more annoying and childish, but it’s because I feel like more of a child than I did as a child. I feel young, stupid, and unattached to reality. I feel like I’m completely alone, and like you said, I am, but I can be alone if I can at least come to you and have you wrap your arms around me for a minute so that I feel as if I’m actually *here* as opposed to everywhere, or in the past, or in the future… When you hug me or touch me, I feel in present and it’s a nice feeling to be here with you.
Just know, my dear, that I will be able to do this by myself, at some point, perhaps not soon, but eventually. And I don’t know how to say this really, but I need you. To be around, to be with me; I’m not a real person yet, and even when I am, I’ll still need you because I don’t want to ever be without you.