And so it starts again. Sitting on the bus, thoughts peppering into me as I tiredly slump against the window. Thinking about what to get for dinner. Maybe something from the shops. And then, suddenly, as clear as anything: I don’t need food. I need love. Your love. I don’t want the love of anyone else but you. Nobody else can fill that hole, nobody else will do, I have people to fill it but I know it’s not enough. It’s not the right shape. Nobody else has a key to unlock it. And that makes me tremendously sad. I keep thinking, I am not being honest. I can’t be honest. All these words spilling out of me, all the time, to you; thousands upon thousands of words, and I can’t actually say any of them to you, to your face, because I am terrified. Frozen.
I even went to the chapel tonight after work. I read about it in the work magazine and remembered that I’d seen signs for it before but that I’d never gone. It’s beautiful. A lovely, calming, welcoming space. Warm and scented, from the candles burning. I felt so at peace and a little emotional. Reading the notices that people had put up. Feeling bad but unable to hold back sniggers at someone writing about ‘Uncle Boob’. Welling up at some of them, especially the one by a child written to their nan, hoping that she was enjoying heaven. I felt moved.
I prayed. Twice. Not to god, as such. I don’t believe in god. Maybe I prayed to myself. Maybe I prayed to you. It was a prayer, though. I asked for everything to be ok. “Please let everything be ok”. I even wrote it down afterwards and stuck it up on the notice board, alongside Uncle Boob and the dead nan. I needed it to be heard. Heard, but not seen; I tucked it under another prayer. I also held a stone and said it, putting the stone into the pile afterwards. I guess that means I prayed three times. When I held the stone, I also asked if I could be brave. “Please let me be brave”. I know I need to talk about this. I don’t feel able. I don’t feel brave. I feel mute: silent and unable to speak.
I wonder if it’s difficult to hear something if you can’t see it. I think it must be. I think that’s maybe what part of the problem is, was. That day (‘that day’, I can’t refer to it as anything else). I remember we touched upon it very briefly afterwards. I can’t remember much because I think that might have been the session where I couldn’t be there. But I remember you saying something like only being able to see one part of me. And I wonder, then, if because you could only see that part, that you couldn’t hear me. I didn’t feel heard at all. That’s where all this anxiety comes from. Not that you didn’t hear me as such; there have been plenty of times that you haven’t heard me, haven’t understood me, and they haven’t been as damning. This does feel damning. I felt damned. Like that is how you saw me but I felt like I was more and you couldn’t see me, as a whole, you couldn’t see the other parts. That’s like, rejection on a whole new level, isn’t it? You almost predicted how I would respond, before we even had a chance to properly talk about it. And then…well, you predicted it right, I guess. Your initial prediction, that was wrong, but that dominoed into this. Slightly. It’s not the same as originally. I haven’t erased all the good with the bad. Rather there is nothing now. I can’t feel any of it. I can’t let myself because it feels like when it goes wrong it is so agonising, so devastating, and the pain is so intense that I have to shut down. And I know that’s the wrong response. That I need to just be brave and talk about it. I try…and then when I am there, when you are there in front of me, that’s it. It’s automatic, it’s an automatic function and I don’t know how to override it. It’s like there’s a switch that I can’t access, it’s being activated and I don’t know how to flick it back, back to what it used to be. When I could be honest, and open. When I could talk. I think, I think that it took me so much to talk that day. It took a lot of courage to say those things. That for you then not to hear them, to almost deny them…it was too much for me to cope with.
Recently, I am constantly fluctuating between thinking you are not good enough, that actually you have no idea. No fucking clue. That you have let me down so much, so severely, that that’s it now, that I am done, or at least I will be as soon as I can speak again to let you know it. And then I think that maybe you are good enough, that I just need to try you again, but that seems impossible. A gargantuan task, an amalgamation of stupidity and futility with a side order of AS IF. I feel like I did try you and it was the most epic fail ever, so much so that I could have made a stupid internet meme out of it, if I’d just had a picture of the two of us that day, ready to emblazon EPIC FAIL across.
I am tired. I am tired of this, going on in my head. I am tired of not being able to talk, because the only way out of this is to talk, and I don’t know how anymore. I am tired of missing you, of feeling like you aren’t there anymore, that what we had doesn’t exist anymore and that maybe it never did if it could be broken this easily. I am tired of feeling like I broke it, that it is my fault, and tired of then reversing into HULKSMASH mode and feeling like you are the one who has picked it up, hurled it at a rock and shattered it beyond recognition. I am tired of feeling like I don’t understand what happened. I am tired of feeling like I need to know why it did. I am tired of everything, of having to struggle so hard all the time, when I didn’t used to have to struggle this hard with you, so at least I had that. And now we’ve had this epic struggle, this locking of horns, that I still do not understand, it feels like I can’t struggle anymore and so I have just shut down. I am so scared, I am so, so scared that whatever I say now will be challenged, fought against, and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear anymore cliched psychoanalytical interpretations. I can’t bear any more sitting in silence, or forced, fake conversation, when all I want to say is, I’m scared. I want you to be gentle with me and I’m scared you can’t be anymore. And if you can’t be then that’s it, I feel so fragile that any further knocks feel like they will damage me beyond repair. I feel like I can’t take that risk, and yet I know that I have to, that I need to. I don’t know how to get to a place where I do that, though. And your comment keeps coming into my head, floating in like a malevolent ghost, when you said that maybe I wanted you to change. Maybe I do want you to change. What then? What if you can’t? What if you can’t be flexible and be gentle with me when I need it, because it’s not what you think I need, or what you think is right? And then when does it start becoming about you rather than me?