It’s only moments when I feel something that I can write. Truly write, that is. Have the words flow out. I’m thinking about my ex. The one that never loved me. It’s weird how powerful unrequited love is. Maybe it’s because you love the pain; after all, my ex did tell me I was a glutton for punishment. And he was right.
But I’m finally starting to forgive myself. I can only punish myself for so long. Maybe the rejection, the criticism, the feelings of unworthiness attracted me. I was a masochist for a while, only in the subtlest of ways. I didn’t think I deserved happiness. I wanted to be as messy and complicated as I sometimes felt on the inside.
I was never simple. I only tricked myself into thinking I was. I never wanted a simple life. I was always drawn to discord, to darkness, to the Big Picture with no answers. There are no answers sometimes, and that’s okay. I’m still curious. I’ll probably always be curious.
I love when I can bring myself to tears. When I feel something — truly feel — I feel real. This is a cliche (probably The Cliche), but it’s true. What is it to be Human if not to feel deeply. Not to be numb, to conform, to forget about the noise. Sometimes it’s beautiful to confront the Noise. But it’s never never easy.
But after a while, the searching, the quest for answers, the quest for meaning, it starts to wear on you. You’re only human, after all, and there are things you aren’t meant to understand. And that’s OK. Those of us with anxiety will never truly embrace this, but we can try. We can only try.
We have to try to accept love. And love is never a cliche. The thing is: Love is actually extremely complex. It’s never simple, the way it may be portrayed in romance novels, the media, your imagination. Love is messy and painful but the Most Beautiful thing all the same. It’s okay to lean in.
September 17, 2019, 4:30 AM