Someone told me recently that writers tend to present their best selves in their work, so I thought today I would invite you into my crazy and publish a little peek into my not-so-great self.
Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote that her mind is a dangerous neighborhood: “I have a particularly muscular storytelling instinct, but the dark side of my gift is that my mind is also capable of generating terrible, frightening, life-annihilating stories about myself and about the world. I can scare the living shit out of myself, and—in the process—destroy my life.” I can relate to this, and often use my journal as a place to work through all my crazy so it doesn’t see the light of day. This “poem” is taken entirely from journal entries and actual thoughts I had over the span of an almost two-year relationship with the first woman I ever dated…
She called me twice; I feel so loved! She didn’t answer my text; I feel like she doesn’t care. She wrote me a card; I feel so appreciated! She got off the phone early; I feel so rejected. Does she want to talk to me? Does she want to see me? Does she want to be with me? Does she love me? I worry she thinks I’m demanding. I worry I may be too much. I worry she will get tired of me. I worry I’m doing something wrong and don’t know what. Why hasn’t she kissed me? Why is she sitting so far away? Why won’t she hold my hand? Why am I so damn sensitive? I am so sad. I am so happy. I am so blessed. I am so hurt. Why did she say that? Why did she do that? Why is she so quiet? Why did she make that face? Is she angry? Is she happy? Is she sure? Is she confused? I’m afraid I’ve come on too strong. I’m afraid I’m not doing enough. I’m afraid this is limerence and not love.
I’m afraid I love her too much. When is she going to text? When is she going to visit? When is she going to tell people about us? When is she going to take the next step with me? I worry I overwhelm her. I worry I bore her. I worry she’s only with me because I make her feel loved. I worry she’s going to leave me because I make her feel like crap. Where has she been? Where is she going? Where does she want to be? Where do I fit into her life? I want her to be free. I want her to commit. I want, more than anything, to be her friend. I want, more than anything, to be her partner. Who is she talking to? Who is she visiting? Who is in that picture? Who is she sharing that with? How do I love her as she is? How do I accept things for what they are? How do I make her happy? How do I know what to do? What does she want? What does she feel? What does she see in me? What do I have to offer? I feel like I can’t tell her anything. I feel like I tell her too much. I feel like I’m not good enough. I feel like I would be perfect for her…
If it weren’t for the fact that I’m me.
30 days of poetry, Day 25