I haven’t published anything on here in awhile because I’ve always been a big proponent of writing about what hurts. I guess I was sifting through the hurt for too long and forgot how to write about what doesn’t.
For years I’ve been told I’m “too intense.” I feel too much, too fast. I’ve also been called distant. I try to be more for them but I fall short and end up feeling nothing at all. I either pour myself into someone until I’m empty or I pull back and give them a version of me that I think they’d prefer me to be. It’s hard to imagine that part of who I was – the girl who knew how to pretend.
I am afraid of animals that are unusually large. I have dreams about a burning house and even though I know the house is empty and it’s close to collapsing, I keep running back inside. I lied on my resume about understanding Quickbooks and frankly, I struggle with spreadsheets too. My thoughts are busy and frantic and chaotic but I procrastinate anyways. With a hot passion, I hate vinegary foods and sour beer and the way my hair looks nearly every single day. I used to pretend to care about sports and played it cool to the point of complacency. These are a handful of things that came to mind when I thought about the pieces I hide. It’s been five months since a switch flipped and I no longer wanted to hide a thing.
I think of him and the way falling in love with him feels a lot like falling in love with me, too. The waves of emotion that crash into me every time I look at him feel good and finally love seems like swimming instead of drowning. He always looks like he’s thinking. Sometimes I watch his face change and in that moment all I care about are which thoughts he’s playing tug of war with inside his head. On the nights we lay awake in silence, I’m curious about the worries or excitement or fears that are holding him on this side of consciousness. I hold my tongue because if I interrupt he might lose focus on how my hands feel on his chest.
It’s things like this that make me aware of how different my heart is because of him. What used to control me has now been taken over by thoughts as simple as the way he sounds when he sighs. Each time his smile grows across his face, I feel an overwhelming urge to watch his hair go gray and his skin wrinkle over the course of the rest of my existence.