Bad Friend

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.

Progress

So I joined…again…because 3rd times the charm or was it my 5th. Maybe more like my 6th. Not out of desperation or loneliness. At least that’s what I told myself.

And he asked why I had joined because he feared my need for attention would force me back into the arms of guys who only wanted to put me in compromising positions as I contorted to their needs. Talking and fucking aren’t mutually exclusive and he didn’t want me to confuse the two. That while he can love to whisper sweet nothings between my legs, it’s possible to do without seeing a future with me.

I tried to explain that I wasn’t going to allow myself to be set back knowing I had made strides forward. But he hasn’t been single in awhile and loneliness is different to those who no longer have to suffer. That if he recalls, forcing yourself to accept what you can’t have only leaves the taste of iron in your mouth. Attempts to swallow your pride only brings up bile because you can no longer force down the bullshit that this all is for the better. And it’s not like I don’t understand his concerns because I’m nervous I’ll fall back into old habits.

I’m showering, eating, and getting enough rest. On my hardest days I wake up and do the things I don’t want to do because sometimes self care isn’t fun. It isn’t always bubble baths and girls nights. It isn’t buying a new jacket only because I think it’s cute and I’m a little sad. But I forgot that attempting to slide into his DMs is a form of self harm. Asking him to love me when he can only find lust in his eyes is a form a self harm.

I can no longer accept that if he comes over he’s putting in effort and that Chinese food from the spot is a date. I’d rather curl up in a ball and comfort myself through endless nights than fill the room with moans and funk.

A Few Pounds

They keep telling me it’s okay. That this isn’t the biggest thing in the world and of course I’m still beautiful.

I never said I wasn’t. The words never left my mouth where I suggested my beauty was only surface level. That you couldn’t swim in a pool of my self esteem, nearly drowning from the depth in which I loved myself. This is just different. A new experience that I don’t know how to navigate.

So I call my mother for guidance. But sometimes I can only reach my sister who I’ve seen cry in fitting rooms as she struggles to find pants that fit. As she focuses on the number they’ve given her instead of how she feels in them.

And her struggle isn’t mine. But I can understand why she couldn’t focus on how she felt as the number swirled around her head. Now her words are laced with suggestions of eating better and exercise. She’s not wrong. But I don’t need that.

I just…

It’s just…

The space between my thighs closed months ago. I cheered and proudly showed off the lack of gap. My ass is finally coming in and I can go to the club without feeling self conscious. They mention how I’m getting thicker and I shake my ass in celebration. But now when I try to slip into pants, I find they no longer fit.

And I’m not sure how to deal. I keep saying I’m tired of buying new pants. Am I really? Because I joke about how I love spending money. I’m headed to buy emergency jeans right now…so is that the difference? Emergency jeans means I don’t have any other pairs.

Or maybe I’m no longer sure how to envision myself. Gaining weight doesn’t hurt until you try on clothes.

Maybe I just need to stop putting on pants from last year because this is this year and this year I’ve gained weight.

Rotten

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.

Soft Regrets

I hate writing.

I hate the way I express myself through finger tips instead of tongue. The way I can only tell you how I feel when my face is to the screen and you only hear my voice echo off the virtual pages. That voice notes even cause me to stumble because that’s one step closer to you hearing my voice crack and shake.

I hate writing because it forces me to be real and honest and sometimes even pure. Things I’ve tried to run away from with no success. Before I share a piece, my breaths are shallow, anticipating whether I’m sharing too much. As these words hit pages, as they are read aloud, as they affect other people, the consequences become real. Doubt arises to question if this is the right decision because I can still back out but there’s no healing in running away. 

Forced to write with honesty as I sat in a creative writing class, I wrote about you. It was the start to my healing so I would no longer carry the …burden of you on my shoulders. She had us read our papers to the class and through a shaking voice, I found my strength. I’d no longer allow you the power to control my self esteem.

But I still hate writing.

Because I expected that to be the end but here I am. Still writing about hurt feelings, honest fears, and the things that crawl deep within my soul.