Lots of Things or Ones

In trying to get my appetite back, I’m beginning to feel like a desperately lonely ex. I try to coax her out real gentle–treat her right. Reassure her that we are safe here together. That she’s super hot and I only want her. 

But alas, the thought of eating makes me queasy. My appetite just buries herself in the work of being an illusive bitch. 

It’s fine, though. We’ll work it out, her and I. Our relationship has been a rocky one, but we need each other. 

So I’m eating. I’m writing too, because if I don’t do something with my hands I’ll think in too many circles. 

Plus, it looks like I’m busy. Less people are inclined to speak to me if I look engrossed in work. Or gross in general. Could be both. 

This is not really me—looking aloof. And for good reason. I think it is so much more pretentious to pretend not to care about things–about people. Everybody is a fucking nerd for something, or someone. Usually lots of things or ones.

I find no value in being aloof.

I work at a tourist-dominated kite store. People from all over come in—tourists and people on road trips to the Grand Canyon. It’s a whole mess. But I like speaking to people. 

The only bit of my job that I like is speaking to people. 

I’ve said this before, but I think I have the kind of eyes that let people know I’m ready and willing to hear their shit. Or maybe it’s because I pronounce the whole of a word when I don’t need to. Or that I ask questions and really wait for answers. 

How do you gather yourself in one place so that someone can look at it and trust you? I don’t know. I’ve done it I guess.

I guess that’s a part of me I like. 

You know what else I like about myself? Cause I don’t.

I’m kidding, though. I like a bunch about myself. Plus I know insecurity isn’t sexy–it is another thing I’m insecure about.

I’m very very tired of feeling inadequate. I will compare myself to death, I think, needlessly–it doesn’t help me at all. Just makes me feel like shit. And I know I’m the kind of person I would want to be around–I know I am–I just struggle to remember why sometimes.

If you’re here with me, dear reader–and I hope you aren’t–what are we supposed to do? What am I supposed to do with this?

I’ve tried to make sense of it, but instead, I chose vices. I tried again and chose Zoloft. I tried a-fucking-gain and realized there’s not a solution I didn’t already know and believe to be impossible.

The only answer I’ve found is, essentially, to choose to believe something else–just choosing to believe that the person I am is somehow good enough. I have to make this choice about a thousand times a day, and it is a herculean effort. Holy shit is this hard. 

I am very very tired of telling myself all the reasons why I am not good enough. That I’m not tall skinny blonde funny brave smart successful whatever enough. So I’m not going to do it anymore. 

I don’t want to. Can’t make me. 

I was speaking to someone the other day. They said I have a habit of, “misplacing empathy.” 

Dear reader, I don’t think I do, though. I think it is a hard and scary fucking thing to be real in any capacity–and to be real in front of everyone, all the time, is near impossible.

I want you to know that I am not “misplacing empathy” when I say I’m so sorry if you’re hurting. I’m so sorry if you feel like you won’t be enough in the end. You are, though. You’re just scared.

I love you.

You’re not empty or helpless. You’re great.