Unmasked

You unmask me and I am no longer afraid.
I let my secret spill freely from my lips and I give you sad smiles when I tell you of all I've lost.
You hold my gaze and watch me, quiet, as I tell you of all the ways this world has broken me and you never look away.
Around you, perhaps because of you, I am not ashamed of my past or my broken, jagged pieces.
I am not ashamed of my fears or my doubts and I let the tears come because with you, I am not ashamed of them either.
With you, it's easy to be myself.
I don't have to put on a good face, and I can be happy or heartbroken or giddy or devastated and you support me equally in each case.
You unmask me, and I thought I would be afraid to show you who I am, but I'm not afraid at all.
I am strong and brave and fearless now, because of you, around you.
And I know that when the world comes crashing in, you will hold my hand and I will not be ashamed because you are the face I do not have to hide from.

Run Away

I want to run away.
I want to run through the countryside of a foreign country and lay in the grass and stare at the sky.
I want to laugh until I can't breathe and hold your hand, away from all of this.
I want to say your name quietly underneath the stars, and loudly from the top of a waterfall.
I want to leave this place and never look back.
I want my future to be in maps and hotels and new places.
I want my plans to be in new languages and unseen faces and in your eyes.
I want a plane ticket and a bag and my passport and you.
I want to run away from here, just the two of us until we forget our past.
I want to make up new identities and be new, and untouched by the past we both want to run from.
I want to climb mountains and buy books and sit on beaches that I've never been to before.
I want to exist in new time zones and breathe new air.
I want to run away from here with you, and I know you want to run away too.

Confessions

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how often we unintentionally lie to ourselves and to others.  I’m totally guilty of it too, but I want to take a minute to be honest with you, with me, with everything.

I’m not happy in this town.  That’s not a secret.  I’m terrified that if I walk into Walmart I’m going to run into one of the dozens of people I used to be friends with.  I’m afraid of confrontation.  I’m afraid that they’ll hurt me again.  I’m afraid they’ll walk past me like I never mattered to them at all.

I’m afraid I don’t matter very much to anyone, except my family.  I know that mattering to my family should count more than anything else, but when I look back on my life, I wonder if they’ll be the only ones who remember me.

I can’t tell the difference between genuine affection and fake affection anymore.  The minute someone starts to talk to me, I assume they have some ulterior motive.  I don’t trust anyone, even my friends to have my best interests at heart.  I’ve been hurt so many times by people who said they cared about me and loved me, that it doesn’t surprise me when it happens.  Now, I just wait for it and think “saw that coming” when it ends.

I’m falling fast for someone who probably won’t be there to catch me.  Falling for another person who doesn’t have the same feelings for me.  Falling because I imagined there feelings that weren’t really there.  Falling for someone who is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.  And I hate myself for going there with him, because I was able to keep my feelings at bay for such a long time.  And I will never tell him how I feel.  I tried that once, or twice, or a few times and I always get hurt.  I don’t want to look foolish by doing it again, so I won’t.

I don’t look forward to things anymore.  The most exciting thing I’m setting my sights on is Avengers: Infinity Wars releasing in a few weeks and after that…I don’t know what to be excited about anymore.

I have six friends.  I only talk to one of them every day and not for very long.  Most days, it feels like I have no friends at all.  No one calls, no one texts, no one wants to hang out.  Most days, I am alone.  

I realized recently that I have been changing my behavior so someone wouldn’t be mean to me or have reason to talk about me behind my back.  That sucks.  I trap myself in toxic friendships all the time.  It’s one of my few talents.

I miss singing.  I'm actually good at it.  I miss having the confidence to sing in front of other people.  I miss not having anxiety claw its way up my throat when people look at me.  I miss being able to sing at the top of my lungs, full of joy and passion and not be embarrassed that someone might notice me.

I keep imagining this future with a husband and kids and a house and endless days of sunshine and laughter, and I don’t know how to get there.  It makes my chest physically ache with loneliness.  Sometimes at night, most nights actually, I have to take deep breaths and pull my blankets tight so the loneliness doesn’t start crushing my chest.  Sometimes, the loneliness crushes me anyway.  Sometimes I cry into my pillow until my body is so worn down from shaking and silently crying that sleep finally sucks me in and I wake up with sore joints and red eyes and a raw throat.  Sometimes things are very, very bad at night.

I feel, lately, like connecting with people is too much effort.  I don’t even have real conversations with my best friend anymore because I feel so exhausted from trying to figure out what to say to him.  It's not his fault.  He's the best person I know, and still I feel like I’m a burden if I’m not all rainbows and sunshine and smiles.  I don’t want to bring him down, so I don’t talk to him much through the day.  I feel so tired, all the time, from the effort of simply existing that I just don’t have much energy for anything else.  I kind of hate myself for being that way.  I want to tell someone.  Anyone.  But I don’t want to bring them down or bother them.  I guess that’s why I tell you, faceless Internet readers and loyal friends; it makes me feel better for a little while.

I remember what it was like before my aunt died, and it was a different life.  I remember being happy and thinking all the time that I was so blessed to be who I am and have the friends I had and the family I have.  And I still feel blessed, but now it’s more like I feel blessed that the things I love haven’t been taken away.  It’s a more sad feeling of “blessed” than it used to be.  I remember being fearless and bright and open before she died. And I remember being an absolute zombie after.  And now, I feel like I’m stuck in no man’s land between those two places and I’m not quite sure what to do or where to go or who to be.  It scares me sometimes how comfortable I am in my brokenheartedness.  It scares me that I don’t really want to get out of this dark place enough to fight for the light.  But I do want the light.  I want a future and happiness and a life and a family…it’s complicated I guess.  I wish it was simpler.  Maybe then I would know what to do.

I hate that all of these honest things are so morose.  There are good things too; good, honest, real things about me, but they don’t scare me like these do.  I’m not ashamed of the good things or the goofy things.  I’m not afraid to share my good truths.  My love for glitter, my hopeless romanticism, my belief that Bigfoot might be real; none of that is buried deep inside me where no one can see.  I wear those truths proudly on my sleeves.  But the hard ones, the dark ones, the scary ones, those are the ones I had to get out my system.  Those are the ones that burn me up from the inside out.  Those are the ones I wish someone would look past the smiles and the obnoxious laugh to see.  Those are the parts of me I’m afraid to share with people.  Those are my scars.  Those are my confessions.

The Truth

You think you want the truth until you hear it.

Until people tell you how you broke them.

Until the ones you love don't love you back.

Until the wrong person is in love with you.

Until you find out why they left you.

Until you hear what they said when you were gone.

Until the truth comes out and you can't take it back.

You think you want clarity, but what if it's not enough?  What if the truth you want isn't the truth you get?  What if you made up a version of the truth in your head only to discover it isn't real?

What if the truth is a disappointment?
What if it's something you can't live up to?
What if the truth hurts everyone more than just keeping it in?

The truth you think you want is that every beautiful person you're in love with is in love with you too.  That the rest of the world thinks you're irreplaceable and magnificent.  That you're the smartest, kindest, most genuine human to exist.  That you're irresistibly wonderful.  And you are.  To someone.  But what if the truth is that you're all the right things to the wrong person?  What good is the truth then?

Waste Of Time

"She was a waste of time"

That's what I read in a two year old group text back in December.  Only, it said my name instead of "she."

I woke up the morning of my graduation party to a feeble attempt at repairing a broken friendship by restarting a group chat.  They didn't even bother to start a new one.  They opened the old one and ripped open that wound and I woke up to the words "she was a waste of time" written about me two years ago.
And no one disagreed.  No one fought for me.  No one reprimanded him.

I was doing really well in those two years.  I went from having panic attacks once a week to a softer, more gentle version of anxiety.  I still wanted to throw up when I got out of the car, but I didn't cry myself to sleep anymore.  I didn't shake.  I didn't gasp for air.  For two years, I was healing.  I was lonely, but I found someone important who was dealing with anxiety too and somehow, I think we helped each other feel better every day.
And then I woke up and saw that I "was a waste of time" to people I had loved.

It has been almost three months since I read that message and while I'm driving my brain will say "you're a waste of time."
I'll be laughing with my best friends, and in the back of my mind I hear "you're a waste of time."
I'll be dancing in my room to loud music and out of no where I hear "you're a waste of time."

I feel like I'm supposed to tell you that deep down, I know I'm not a waste of time, but I can't.  I think I know on some internal level, somewhere in me that the anxiety hasn't settled, somewhere I know that I'm not.  But wherever that place is, it's not strong enough.  So random times during my day the voice of that person I left behind whispers "you are a waste of time" and I retreat.

That's what you get when you are friends with people who don't respect your traumas.  That's what happens when you befriend people who are more interested in making you sick than making you better.

This is hard for me to write.  It's hard for me to tell you all that someone out there broke into my psyche and tore me apart with two year old words.  But this is the only way I know how to heal.
A few years ago, when I stopped being friends with those people, it was self preservation.  So is this.  Cutting off the poison and then writing about how it burned is the only way I know how to heal.  My hope, is that maybe one day, after this, I'll discover that place inside of me that truly believes I'm not a waste of time.  Maybe I'll find that part of myself and know how to bring it out.  Until then, all I know to do is tell you how it hurts and pray that it soon stops.

With Me

Drive through sleepy towns with me at 3 in the morning.
Blast music through the house we bought and dance with me in the living room.
Listen to me rave about the last book I read and rant with me about your coworkers.
Sit on the kitchen counter with me and drink endless cups of cocoa and coffee and tea.
Pose for pictures with me on every adventure.
Walk along the beach with me and soak in the sun and kick the waves.
Laugh with me uncontrollably and freely and unashamed.
Go to concerts with me and scream until we lose our voices.
Save our pennies and our dimes to see new cities with me.
Stare up at the stars from my truck bed with me.
Dance through the kitchen during sunrise hours with me while I burn the toast and spill the coffee.
Fight through the hard days with me.
Revel in the good days with me.
Tell me, tell me you're in love with me.
Fight with me and cry with me and stay.
For the love of all that is pure and good in this world, stay with me.
See the hope in me; see the future with me.
Build a life with me.
Believe in the impossible with me.
Live your best life with me.
Whatever you do, just stay with me. 
Because everyone else has left and I don't know if I would make it if you left me too.
Whatever you want, whatever you dream, just do it with me.

Old Scars

I want to stop writing about my past, but what else do I have?

Everyone is gone and I'm still here trying to sort out what happened.
The few people I cling to now are hours and cities and states away.
So I sit in an empty backyard and hold my battered heart in my hands and all I see is my past.
The heartaches.  The traumas.  The people who might have been good for me if I hadn't let them go.
All I see is myself at fifteen taking one wrong step that send me tumbling down a flight of figurative stairs for the next seven years.  Now, the falling has stopped and everyone and everything is gone.  I was left at the bottom, broken, with a head full of stories and words that I use to medicate the pain.
I guess I'm still there, at the bottom of the stairs, but I don't know what the next move is.
Move out? but where would I go?
Fall in love? but with who? who would want all of this?
Be happy? but how? how do I even begin that process?
I don't know.  I don't know the answers to any of it.

Instead, I sit in solitude and pull at old scars and stitches until they bleed out onto the paper and leave me empty again.

Stuck

The sky here isn't a bright enough blue.
The air isn't warm enough to stave off the shivers.
The sea is too far away.
This town is too small, too old.
The roads wrap around me, holding me back.
The memories of these places crash in my head until I can't see anything else.
The faces of these people haunt me in every store, at every light, waking and sleeping.
And I can't escape soon enough.
And I've got no one and no where to run to when I go.

I Imagine

I imagine what might happen if you were the one for me.
I imagine us sitting on the roof, watching the sunset.
I imagine that when I tell you about my fears, they don't scare you away.
I imagine that instead you take my hand and reassure me.
You would listen to my stories, and tell me your own.
We would laugh and things wouldn't feel the way they do right now; all mixed up and wrong.
You would look in my eyes and see the truth and nothing in my past would be too much.
You would find the beauty in these scars that I can't see and the hope that I have buried deep inside.
And on the rooftop in the dying light, we might come alive.
And you might be the one I prayed for.
And I might finally fall asleep happy.

Friends to Live For

There are two types of friends.

There are ones who seem nice for a time, but slowly, make you feel more and more alone when they're around.  You smile more than you speak.  You nod and listen to the stories.  You watch them make plans in front of you that don't include you.  You find yourself thinking about how irrelevant you are, how much more fun they'd have without you.  You think of the age gap between you and question your own maturity.  You realize no one is listening and let your words trail off and slip into a silence that feels like choking.  You feel like you're watching them in a TV show and no matter how loud you try to interject, the sound won't go through.  You force out laughs that feel like knives in your heart and lumps in your throat and when the night is over, you feel so much worse than you did when it began.  And you can, you should, do without them.

But then there are others.

There are ones where you laugh until your face hurts, and the laughs are ugly and genuine and whole.  Your chest aches for air in between the laughs and the stories and the talking because you haven't stopped to breathe.  Your breaths feel like magic filling your lungs.  Your veins are full of sunshine and fire you feel silly and loved and crazy in all the right ways.  The night is dark or the morning is young and even when all the stories have been told and you're worn out from laughter, you sit side by side in a wholesome silence that fills you peace instead of anxiety.  You are lightheaded with the joy of the future with these people, and with the possibility of this moment.  You don't have to say the right things, or do what makes sense because everything is so incredibly messy and beautiful already.  And the world somehow feels both huge and tiny but in a way that brings goosebumps to your skin and a smile to your face for days to come.  And for every one of the these friends, you thank the Lord a dozen times because they make you feel like the world belongs to you and like you have a home here.  And that is beautiful, that is what you live for.