Safety; the myth

They’re so lucky, those who’ve found their place, those who’ve found their safety. They’re so lucky, those who are in the safety of their home; they know when to eat dinner and when to eat lunch and what to expect for tomorrow and what to not.

They’re so lucky, those with the stable routine and the weekly outings. Those who ride their bikes in the morning and finish their days in the afternoon. They’re so lucky, those who know where their place is and where to find it.

I find myself looking at photos of friends having breakfast, or a married couple finishing governmental papers, or a fifth-grader getting off the bus and running towards their house, or a taxi driver listening to the morning news and complaining about the economy. I find myself looking at those happy and unhappy faces who may not be having the perfect days, but they have found their safety.

Do you remember the feeling of when you lose, or when you think you’ve lost, your mum in the grocery shop? The coldness, the unfathomable fear, the tears you’re too proud to let out? This is how I feel, all the goddamn time.

I’m 22, almost 23, and I’m always cold and scared and feeling like I’ve lost my mum at a grocery shop. I never know where my mum is, no matter how much I run about or how much I search; I always seem to search in the wrong places because I could never find her.

The feeling goes back and forth, but it mostly stays lingering most of my days. I have some distractions, there are some places and people where I have bliss and where I try my best to shrug the coldness away, but it’s all very temporary.

I’m cold again the minute I step outside, the minute the people leave. It’s some drug, a really good one actually, but it’s not my place. And even within this drug, I’m so scared I might lose it.

I call this feeling a lot of things; anxiety, existential crisis, attachment/detachment disorders. I don’t know how it started, but I’m begging for it to leave me. A lot of people have found their peace and security at my age, why can’t I?

A lot of people, my age, younger, and older, have stability, and are leading a stable life. It doesn’t need to be happy, it just needs to be a stable life where they are not scared all the time and where it’s okay. Where it’s just okay.

It’s just that I’m scared. I’m very scared all the time. I’m walking an endless road, barefoot, and I can’t seem to know where I’m walking to and where I might reach. They keep saying that we need to go through some pretty bad things to reach our actual euphoria.

Can someone tell them I’m the weakest? That I can’t take this feeling of belongingness, this coldness?

Guess tomorrow is another mascara day for me.

She said, “What if I tell you all the things I’ve done? Would you run away from me?”

How easier could it all be if we were just honest, if we didn’t hide behind a mundane pride and a million shards of dignity.

Suppose you could tell me how you feel or what you want of me. Suppose I can only tell you what I really need, what I really want to say. If I could be honest about everything, if I could only share with you some of the storms happening inside of me, instead of the unbearable squeaky silence that screams from within. Instead, I keep saying so many different words, without meaning any of them.

How easier it could be if I could tell you what I’m thinking of right now, and if you could do the same with me. If we’re all plain honest and straight forward, if we stop hiding for a day or two and show ourselves, show our hurricanes. How horrible could it really be?

The heaviness of my world-and words-is crushing my bones. The bleakness of this pit is taunting me, and I’m finding it hard not to let myself fall. Yet, I can’t tell you. Why can’t I say all of this to you?

What if I couldn’t find my safe place anymore, and I can’t but wonder if I can find my safety with you? Why can’t I say all of this? How come I can write it, but never say it to you?

I’m not saying it will be better if I did, I’m just saying that it could.

I always brag that I’m always honest, that I don’t go around in circles, I’ll shoot you straight, and I’ll tell you everything you want to hear. I always brag about being most honest, but I swear I couldn’t be more of a liar.

I’ll never tell you, because I am too afraid of letting you in. When you’re close, you’ll see that I’m much more vulnerable than I might show, and you’ll break me. You won’t see me the way I want you to see me. You’ll see me weak and shaking, and you will either break me, or leave, which will break me even more.

So I’m stuck. I’m stuck between my fear that you’ll break me, and I’m stuck that you might leave if I weren’t honest, and I don’t know what to choose or where I stand in all of this. I just know that it’s maddening to hope that you might understand, if only the scenario in my head can happen, if only everything goes my way and you say what I want you to say to me, without me being honest.

How hard could it be? To be honest?