Thursday, May 16, 2013

I'm hurting.
I feel sick.  I feel anxious.  I can't sleep.  I'm exhausted.  Physically.  Mentally.  Emotionally.

It all comes around this decision, the decision if I should lock you out of my life for awhile.  Let you draw away, let you stop caring about me.  The moment that happens I fear my heart will break completely.  I don't want to give up on you, and I don't think I ever will, not really, I'll always be willing to give you a chance.  But I don't want to date others (I'm too afraid, the desire isn't there).  I just want to see if it can work with you.

A lot of it is about safety.  You make me feel safe, emotionally.  In a way that I've never been able to feel in my life, before.  That it's okay to feel the way I feel, and you'll accept it.  What I dislike is that you're trying to change the way I feel by saying you're still discouraging me.  I don't like you trying to change the way I feel.  But I guess it's fair game.  I haven't tried to change the way you've felt, this time.  I understood it.  I told you it seems like you have some thinking you have to do-- because YOU said you don't know, YOU said maybe.  And the only real discouragement you can give me is by saying an actual no.  By not wanting me.  And instead it feels like a part of you wants that future with me, too, where we're retired together in Colorado and we hold hands on a porch swing and laugh about how stupid all this was.

Because this is stupid.

But it also makes me anxious, and sick, and feel horrible, and I don't want to never talk to you again because you make me feel safe.  And I don't want to feel completely alone in the world again.  And like clearly I'm not worth it.  And I am afraid of dating again, because I think it doesn't matter how long it is, but if someone else dates me, and breaks up with me, I won't be able to handle it.  The nail in the coffin.

I can take it from you.

I know that no matter what you and I still like each other, we still come together.  I've stated that.  You've said that seems to be true, too.  So what, in another six months you'll be in the same cycle, not saying you discourage me, wanting to rub my feet, feeling lonely and horny, and then what am I?  Am I just some lady you fuck when you feel that way, or is there more-- are you scared because of feelings you have inside of you, or what I did?

I know I have put too much pressure on this.  I do want it to work.  I care a lot about it.  That's all true.  I still want to try.  I still think you're worth it.  But I'm also terrified of anything else.

I do hate this situation.

Everyone thinks if I stop talking to you then there will be space and you can figure out what you want. I'm trying to give you space and talk to you only when you talk to me.  I went to your show, and I'm waiting for you to ask me what I thought about it, and guess which sketch is yours, because otherwise I'm not sure if you care to know.

I think you do, I'm sure you'd want to know.  You forget easily.  But also, you are trying to distance yourself from me and not care about what I think, and that hurts me terribly.  Its the last thing I want, you know, for the one person who has cared so much about me to stop caring about me.

I feel used.  I feel sick.  I feel stupid.  I feel unloved and unworthy.  I also feel like you look at me and I'm the Queen of the world-- of the jungle-- of everything.  I feel like, in your eyes, I can do anything.  And if I stuck with it, I could be with you.  But I realize you have to come to me.  It's the only way you'll know you want it.  Even if you are the one who starts cuddling, snuggling, kissing-- you START all of that.  I sit by you and try to respect your boundaries and go with your flow every time, and every time you freak out.  And every time you blame it on me.  I could not talk about your anxieties and what you're doing with me and just let you use me, but I respect myself too much to be used and then thrown away when your anxiety gets too much.

This is your stupid cycle.

But it's hurting me.

And I don't know what to do.

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