The last time I felt as full of nothing was in the dark times after I lost Sara. I don’t know where or why I feel this way. I don’t understand it.
I worry that I’m losing myself again. That this sojourn into open, honest emotion is somehow coming to a close.
I worry that I will find who I’m looking for. That I’ll be disappointed when I do.
I worry that I’ll fight for someone and do us both a disservice.
I worry that I’m sacrificing pieces of myself to write. That I take more validation from people liking my work than I do in the work itself.
I worry that if I do find someone to share my life with, I’ll fuck it up.
I worry that my obvious deficiencies are why, despite looking and trying, I’m still alone.
I worry that Sara was my one chance and by not going with her that night, I failed her. I failed us. And my not finding any lasting relationship is my just punishment for my inaction.
I worry about how I’m perceived and am hurt when people see me as other than I intend.
I worry that my need for control is becoming destructive.
I worry that my desire for chaos is a sign of a lack of empathy.
I worry about my lack of guilt.
I worry that I’m drifting away from a real friend.
I worry about all of this and more.
I’m not constant in my worry, I let my subconscious handle most of it. But it’s all there, swirling in the background, even if I don’t act like it. It sits, leaden in my brain.
It’s why I occasionally wake, heart racing from a panic attack. Deep unconscious being one of the few times I’m out of control. Some of this, I just don’t have the strength to carry. And I’m approaching a time when something will either break or some of it will fall away. And I worry what I’ll lose this time.