insecurities

Thoughts on my emotional insecurities

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While I was with her I could convince myself I wasn’t in love
Because if I was in love I would lose her
As I’ve lost all those I dared love

Some would point to the one person I walked away from, but she betrayed us. She decided she liked me to chase her more than she liked having me. Always a step further, a step away, chase harder when I was already running full speed.

But back to the point, intellectually I know that if we’re not right then one or both should decide and move on. But emotionally? It feels like a dull echo of when Morgan died. Like I’m being left, lost and forlorn. Which, let’s face it, isn’t very attractive since it leads to bad decisions. There is a series of scenes in the movie Groundhog Day where Bill Murray is wooing Andy McDowell and after the initial good play thru he fucks up by trying too hard, you can feel the desperation. Thankfully, I only have that problem when I think the relationship is slowing down, perhaps ending. But that’s a problem in and of itself, it accelerates the decline if it was going that way or plants the idea that if I think it’s ending maybe there is a real reason (maybe but generally it’s in my head). I guess that’s my next project, learning not to hold on so tightly that I strangle the relationship. It really never ends, the human brain is the ultimate fixer upper.

Emotional shotgun

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I’m wide awake, killing time between one ill-conceived action and another. Don’t text, don’t email. Just the interminable waiting to hear back. Waking from intense dreams of my dream lover and our inability to see each other. Not enough time and we’re ripped away. Consciousness beats heartbeat on my eyes and I sit here writing. Don’t email again, it seems needy. But you just want to talk to someone and everyone you know is asleep. So you sit here writing and talking to yourself, anything to not make that smothering mistake. People see the insecurities and think that’s no kind of master I know about but I’m not a master at all times, I’m a switch and not a sociopath so I feel. It doesn’t mean I can’t be the top you need but I have never limited myself to being one thing and I won’t be doing that now. How much truth is enough truth and stepping over the line in a game of emotional chicken don’t play with me. I use your actions as the gauge for my own because unless it’s extreme to me, so very little these days, I will match you step for step until we are both plummeting off the cliff. But I’ve done this before and know how to land, so stop the Game it’s not worth it. Ask for what you want, be clear, and stop with the games. Or play games but know I only play in earnest. And still I write to not say the too much that lurks inside my head, hoping something to be said is what you’ll need to hear. But it’s a game of liar’s dice and you’re playing against yourself. Better to not play but there’s no one to talk to in my midnight’s rambling and I can’t quite the thought that the next thing I say will tip the balance. I should have my life together now, right? But I’m just starting to and who wants in on the beginning, but those are the stories I love the ones that tell you how they become as they do. This all too human figure become accessible, lovable as the icon was not. And I want to talk about archetypes and their place in our subconscious and I want to lose myself, my time in intense conversation about Black Books or who your Doctor is. But I’m just sitting here alone wondering if my kink and its frank display is what keeps you away or is it that I’m just restarting my life after the wreckage of my past. It’s the people who are there at the beginning that are held closest because they are through the wars with you. But I can’t know and I can’t ask because what if your day just sucked and you don’t want to strike up a conversation with this weird new person but maybe later but not if they push and I’m the weirdo overthinking and it just won’t shut off. I’m going to end up watching the sexy and damaged Patrick Jane on the Mentalist and go to work tired and ill prepared. And it’s inevitable, and should just give in. But I’m still writing, and though I’m winding down, I can still say something stupid. I feel like one of the plates I’m spinning is going to fall and I have a preference but if one falls might they all. And they are not plates, they are people and I can only be me and it’s out of my hands except to keep being and hope it’s enough.

Though maelstrom

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I wonder about everything in my life, all the time. It’s not anxiety, it’s the result of developed professional paranoia that has long since become worthless. But it is a habit so deeply ingrained I find it hard to shake. At least I’m no longer jumping at shadows or becoming suspicious if a car follows me through too many turns.

However, the leftover pieces are that I exam every interaction, everything said, the way it is said, the body language, what questions aren’t asked that I think should be, which questions are asked, and what isn’t said.

It’s this constant war of second and third guessing, of being uncertain how my words are received, of not knowing where I stand. It is my Achilles heel in any relationship. People don’t react well to someone who needs reassurance in some respects and in others very confident. They wonder which is the real personality and, for the most part, can’t reconcile that the answer is both.

Even when someone is OK with it, my brain likes to self sabotage. It says that if they accept this thing about me then how into me can they be? As if the only way to accept me is to not care deeply enough to care about it. Which is completely mental. Yet it is a feeling I can’t seem to shake, this thought that the only way to accept my flaws is to, in some way, not love me enough to care.

Even worse is the darkest thought, the one that feels like I’m betraying them. That if you love me, what horrors are you hiding, that you could love someone like me.

Someone so flawed and broken. And I feel like if I bring up these feelings that the ones I love will see the truth, that in some way my exposing my insecurities will convince them that, yeah he is messed up, can’t believe I ever liked him.

Its a hard place to live, especially when I spend so much time there.