A couple of months ago, I read a book at my therapist’s recommendation called Daring Greatly. There were quite a few passages I underlined throughout the book, one toward the beginning that drove the sword just a bit deeper through my heart. 

“When we spend our lives waiting until we’re perfect or bulletproof before we walk into the arena, we ultimately sacrifice relationships and opportunities that may not be recoverable…”

I was given the moon and the stars in the sky in January, an incredible gift that I lost because I stayed behind the walls I had spent so many years building up. Because I had told myself I was unlovable and not enough. I didn’t trust what my eyes were showing me, what every fiber in my being told me I needed to take a risk and say. Because I was afraid if I said I love you to the one person on this entire planet that should hear those words from me, I would be rejected. And just like that, the spell was broken. I waited too long. Let his doubts and insecurities shroud him in infinite darkness. I’ve never felt so hated.

Sometimes I feel and sense things. The last few days, it’s been strong. I know something is terribly wrong with him, and there is nothing I can do to fix it, no comfort I can offer, because I contributed in some small part to whatever pain and hurt is plaguing him. 

For my own well-being and sanity, I severed our ties on facebook, though I could still view his profile. I was honestly surprised he didn’t erase traces of me first. Out of anger and hurt, I suppose I wanted to beat him to the punch, so to speak. So I did what I knew he would inevitably do. He forgot all about Instagram, though, but he never posted. I assumed he just didn’t use it. It’s not a platform I devote much time to, either, but tonight I noticed he’s vanished there as well. Maybe it’s vain of me to think it’s because of me. He simply could have unfollowed me and made his profile private. He took it to another level.

I don’t know where in the world he is at this moment, but I am still connected to him in some way. I thought I was on a healing path, that I had accepted the loss and would learn from my mistakes. Our mistakes. I have to keep telling myself this, because surely I could not have singlehandedly destroyed the relationship we were building.

This is the baggage I carry with me. It’s heavy, and I believe it will never be too far from me. This is why I have walls. Walls that now have extra layers and height, and mazes with so many false finishes. 

I am the opposite of perfect and bulletproof, but I want to be so desperately. Because then I’m capable of being loved, and hurt and loss cannot penetrate me. But that’s not how this cruel world works.

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