I trust nothing anymore.
No one. Myself least of all. My history is less than reliable, and my instincts clouded by years of traumatic response. Why should I believe anything that I interpret to be true? I’m eternally hopeful, wretchedly searching, begging for the scraps of love that any careless encounter might accidentally offer. It means less than nothing. The promises that I find in their eyes are a figment of my boundless imagination. They are not to blame. They did not ask for my lofty expectations, bestowed in a moment’s notice.
They did not ask for my love, and yet I hate myself every time they reveal that they don’t find it precious.
But why would they?
I declare that I know my value, but it’s difficult to guess from the way I barter away my treasures for a smile and a kind word. Intelligence ignored at the hint of a flirtatious opportunity is intelligence wasted.
I am so terrified of not living up to the delusions of my own grandeur.
Maybe I’m not a genius after all. Could that be okay with me? Could I exist simply, day in and day out, without the massive ideas and sparks of inspiration, fraught with desperation, never brought to fruition? Could I be ordinary? The word leaves a nasty taste on the back of my tongue even as I assure myself that the association is a construct of a toxic society.
I wobble between assured belief in my unique gifts and self-condemnation. I’m either gold or dust, nothing to be had in the middle, a blank open useless space. Always searching for that magic man who shines the light of his benediction on my insecurity and creates a muse where there was once only me.
Unfortunately talent seems to get nowhere without hard work, vision, a determination that frightens me as I shakily pull my dark cloak of obscurity tight over my shoulders. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I read all the fairy tales and I somehow forgot my reason, forgot that no one was coming to rescue me. I knew, and yet still hoped beyond hope for a miracle. The miracle of the lover who protects me from stepping into the fire of becoming myself.
I am afraid of my depths. I am afraid of my power. What could I do if I tried? How far could I fall if I rose as high as I secretly hope? Keeping myself small is an instinct born of a crushed childhood, assuming the weight of life much younger than I deserved. Now I do it for comfort. I design my heart, my hopes, my existence to stay comfortable. All the while railing against normalcy. All the while screaming inside, pounding furiously on the prison bars of my ribs. I only want to be trapped on my own terms.
Release the beast. Let it fume. Let it create. Let it fail. There is no shame greater than hoarding my light, muffling my gifts, keeping them from those they can serve. If they exist, that is. Or maybe this is a farce and someday I’ll wake up, relieved that I’m not actually this twisted and tumbled in mental disarray.
Love is coming to save me. Isn’t it?
Funny thing is, the love inside me constricts my throat, strangles my heart, waiting for me to wake up to myself. Any day now, surely. Surely any day.
Nothing is coming to save me. I trust nothing. Suppose I trust myself, and save myself. What an idea.
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