It’s a terrible feeling, living through your days sharing intimacy with the feeling of isolation. There’s a certain dread that surrounds it, one that tends to cling to your chest, making it hard to be productive on the tolerable days and hard to breathe on the more difficult ones.
To bouts of loneliness, I’m no stranger.
I’ve cried and I’ve cried. I’ve spent days in bed, unable to get up, and I’ve dreamt of days where tears were reserved for a crisis and not for the rituals before bed. I know what it is to be sad; I knew, and now, I am so very grateful to say I remember.
There’s the notion we’ve all heard before, claiming you must love yourself before receiving the love of others. I’ve come to believe the worst act of injustice is depriving yourself of a good friend. I’m sorry for every day I turned my back on commiseration. I’ve since learned to revel in companionship, even on the days I felt I didn’t deserve it. To have relentless emotions is not to be undeserving of affection.
Thank you to my old roommates, who held me when I cried and celebrated me when I no longer felt the need. I loved you all when you told me you would always be there to comfort me, but I love you more now that I no longer need to be comforted. I’m not afraid to cry in front of you all, it’s just a coincidence that they happen to tears be of laughter these days.
Even at my best, I still have my incessant doubts. Even as I write, I question every thought in my head, every word that I type, and I wonder if everyone else is equally as cruel to themselves. Supposedly, you are your own worst critic, but is it even considered critique when it’s turned into plain animosity? Some days more than others, I wonder why I do the things I love when my pride is near nonexistent.
Yet for every critique I have, you challenge me so quickly, the perfect argument readily available as if you mean it — and you do. You believe in me when I don’t, and always leave me more appreciative of myself than I was before. You praise me not for praise’s sake, but because it’s rightfully earned (or so you’ve said many times, which I find myself believing as I type it even now).
Thank you to my best friends for being my most important round of revision, for reading my works and seeing the good in them. You always believe in me, and I trust your opinion so much that I’ve started believing in myself, too.
The worst feelings are the ones of uncertainty, especially when they blend with insecurity and leave you questioning your nature, uncomfortable in your character. I love to talk (I’m a writer, it’s my nature), and I could do so infinitely, but when you’re met with looks of disinterest and annoyance, you move forward questioning every word and whether they need to be said. I love to talk, but sometimes I’m scared to. Am I too much?
You don’t think so. You tell me you love my voice, the cadence that’s a clear tell of passion. And you mean it—I’m sure of it when I look at the time and realize we’ve been talking for hours. I ask if you’re annoyed with me yet and you tell me that you don’t think the day will ever come. Thank you to my boyfriend who lets me talk and talk; thank you for liking my character and leaving me no room for doubt. I used to be afraid that others would see my character and label me “too much,” but now we’re together and you tell me I’m never too much. And just like that, I once again love to talk.
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