He asked me what my biggest insecurity was. Fidgeting with the grass, pulling it up between my fingers, I struggled with the words. So I let a soft “no” leave between my lips. I wasn’t comfortable telling him. I stared at my fingers, my insecurity felt so obvious to me. I didn’t understand how he didn’t notice. Everyone did.
They had to.
They ask me why I couldn’t change what was bothering me. And I do. I constantly spend money trying to remove this and that. Picking at myself when I’ve gone too long. My fingers grab at self hate. These nails scratch the surface, digging deeper and deeper, leaving cuts and reminders. Awareness that they can see what I hate. I break down under the pressure. Tossing and turning in bed, as if it’s too hot in the room and this comforter is suffocating me, wondering how I could continue on like this.
I know that I’ll never be enough for myself if I continue on this way. I try to remember that I’m more than this. I’m all these positive things people say I am. But it won’t change what I hate. Simply dull the anxiety when they notice.
When we stared in each other’s eyes I looked away without thinking. I wouldn’t allow him to think he knew me.
When people look in my eyes suddenly I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, my mouth goes dry, and I can no longer maintain contact. And it’s not just a glance. They stare into my eyes as if trying to see into my soul. I feel naked. I know they can see every regret, fear, and dream I hold dear to my heart. I can’t ignore the way I shift my weight from hip to hip in hopes of discouraging the eye contact.
If I’m being honest
I’m scared that if they find the secrets I keep close to me, they’ll no longer want to talk to me. They’ll disappear because I’m not who they thought I was. So I don’t open up to people as much as I want to. I remember him holding me, tears coming down my face, as we talked about why my ex wouldn’t talk to me. Why seeing him on Facebook with his new girlfriend hurt so much even though I was falling in love with someone else. Why that boy from Florida moving on without me hurt as if he had broken up with me.
Because it meant that this personality I had taken time to develop was imperfect. That I was not someone who could be trusted or loved or that I was enough. And I’m afraid people see through me.
As we stared in each other eyes, he slowly closed his, taking time to find the right words, “You know, your eyes are beautiful. Right?”
I think we should stop being friends for awhile. I know, it’s so sudden and I just saw you last week. So why now? Why after all the support and love you’ve given me, what more can you do for me keep you around? Nothing because you’ve done enough. But you aren’t enough. If that makes sense.
As you confide in me, there is joy in knowing she’s hurting you. Giving you one more reason to leave so I can tell you that it’s okay not to want to stick around. You carry the weight of the relationship on your shoulders. Or, what you think is the weight and I continue to make suggestions so it becomes heavier and heavier. You can’t bear the weight any longer.
I find myself wanting more of you. More from you. These “I love yous” are getting scary and gritty and I’m losing track of their meaning. I’m hoping, almost wishing, that one of these days you’ll come to me with your heart in your hands and tell me she did it, she finally crossed the line and you are able to be mine.
So you’re not enough because you don’t want to be with me. You continue to enjoy your relationship and that’s okay. You deserve better than what I can give you.
I’ve been trying to love myself. Showers after work to lull me to sleep. Washing my hair to remind myself that although my beauty is skin deep, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to look pretty on the outside. I slathered myself with coconut oil, warmed in my hands. Leaving me slippery and soft.
But the smell makes me sick. Fear creeps into my chest as I try to figure out what is bringing these memories back. That as I lay in my bed or walk around these confined spaces, I smell the reminder of disgust and self hate. That regardless of how I may feel that day, no matter how much I love myself, I will always be pulled back into that time.
I’m self conscious as I remember scabs forming. Hard and difficult not to pick at. As I spread the oil on myself, they softened. Same as my will to live. Easy to peel away. I couldn’t get rid of them no matter how hard I tried. Another growing where fingers dug into my skin; they were harder and more painful than the last.
I slept with ice packs and prayed this feeling to go away. That this nightmare was really just that. That I’d wake up, grateful I could sleep it off. But I couldn’t. This was mine to keep.
Ice doesn’t remind me of restless sleeps and numb fingers. But every day as I attempt to love myself, I’m reminded of mistakes and regrets. Gently tearing myself apart with this scent.
“You accept the love you think you deserve.” I struggled through trying to figure out how we didn’t fit in this equation.
This is the first time I’m not wondering if I’m enough. Because I’m use to men who love to kiss girls like me. Men who think girls like me are cute for short term flings. But don’t want to build other things. Because the last guy who laid in my bed, whispered sweet nothings in my ear, and still told me about girls who didn’t look like me. And I wasn’t sure if I was jealous because I liked him or just ashamed that I wasn’t worth his affections. Acting out as though that would change his mind. Thinking that if I take on her personality and he’ll love me more.
But I worked hard on me. To try to figure out who I thought I was meant to be. I focused daily trying to build this self esteem. Repeating that I’m light and love. Even when I felt dark and alone. Reminding myself that I should be enough, if only just for me.
And that’s just a cop out because now even though I know I’m enough, I realize I may be just too much for you. When he spoke those words, I shook my head instantly connecting it to us, not wanting to accept the fact that I’m settling. I shouldn’t need a quote to tell me that this isn’t my ideal situation but I do. Accepting the things you can’t change is cheesy when I could be holding another man’s hands. So I remind them that the heart wants what it wants. And I’m going to stick around until “I love you but I love me more.”