May 2021
I deactivated my Instagram account last night in a fit of tears and self loathing. This morning I'm compelled to share my feelings on Twitter because there's no one specific I can turn to. It has taken a breakdown and 8 months of therapy to recognise my sadness stems from loneliness. And that's a dangerous thing to be during recovery - lonely. It makes the impetus to get well harder to see. I'm happy alone but cannot sustain happiness on lonely. I can't give up and leave my love with the burden of my lacking commitment to life. I can't move on until these traumas no longer knot my nervous system and corrode my sense of self. I can't heal in isolation.
Shouting into voids through screens and pixel bits is the cry for help with no destination, no intended audience, no necessary acknowledgement.
Having no friends, only casual acquaintances, was safe until it wasn't. It wasn't by design. I leak desperation wherever I turn. If anything my carnal need for connection, positive reception only worked to put distance between me and love of others. I think that's why I cannot comprehend his love. He gives so freely, unaffected by my jagged edges and fugly design and my insides coated in tar. Still he collects me on his lap and holds me together as my body threatens to crack open with violent shudders, my core destabilised as tectonic plates surrender to mounting pressure of my past and present. Great fissures marking lifelines and more pain than is acceptable for one lifetime.
My greatest fear is by being too weak to let him go. My deepest hate is my selfishness as I force a life of loneliness on him too. Those who tolerated me before have set in place their boundaries - I'm glad they're putting their own needs first, of course, and the pattern repeats with painful recognition that I am the problem. But now it's not only me who feels cold in the distance, he is left astray as well. My heat insufficient to warm us both. I should untether him from me. I should let him be free. From responsibility, from duty, from guilt, from the crushing weight of knowing me and loving me.
If you love him, let him go. I should. I should. I can't. And that hurts more than all the isolation. Selfishly too, because if I let him go I could be free of this. I could slip away unnoticed and not hurt anymore. Living is pain. It demands so much. I am empty. I have no more to give.
Love might be a losing game, but life is a cruel irony.
Shouting into voids through screens and pixel bits is the cry for help with no destination, no intended audience, no necessary acknowledgement.
Having no friends, only casual acquaintances, was safe until it wasn't. It wasn't by design. I leak desperation wherever I turn. If anything my carnal need for connection, positive reception only worked to put distance between me and love of others. I think that's why I cannot comprehend his love. He gives so freely, unaffected by my jagged edges and fugly design and my insides coated in tar. Still he collects me on his lap and holds me together as my body threatens to crack open with violent shudders, my core destabilised as tectonic plates surrender to mounting pressure of my past and present. Great fissures marking lifelines and more pain than is acceptable for one lifetime.
My greatest fear is by being too weak to let him go. My deepest hate is my selfishness as I force a life of loneliness on him too. Those who tolerated me before have set in place their boundaries - I'm glad they're putting their own needs first, of course, and the pattern repeats with painful recognition that I am the problem. But now it's not only me who feels cold in the distance, he is left astray as well. My heat insufficient to warm us both. I should untether him from me. I should let him be free. From responsibility, from duty, from guilt, from the crushing weight of knowing me and loving me.
If you love him, let him go. I should. I should. I can't. And that hurts more than all the isolation. Selfishly too, because if I let him go I could be free of this. I could slip away unnoticed and not hurt anymore. Living is pain. It demands so much. I am empty. I have no more to give.
Love might be a losing game, but life is a cruel irony.
