I’m no poet. I can’t paint with words. Can’t cast imagery or create art out of pain. All I can do is write it how it is.
I’m not an easy person to befriend. I have a constant need for validation. To know that I’m still doing things right. It’s my own flaw. A deep flaw. As ingrained into my character as a scar in flesh or a gorge where a river once flowed.
All my life I’ve been so afraid that I would drive away my friends that I would cling to any I had. Constantly trying to engage.
I would send texts after texts for fear that if I remained silent and distant that they would forget about me. Or perhaps that they would think I didn’t care.
I would over think every little thing that I did. If I were to receive a reply I would scrutinize it to the point of paranoia. “What were they feeling when they wrote it?” “Are they mad at me?”
I tried so hard that I drive people away. Ultimately I end up driving everybody away.
I have become a burden. A nuisance. I’m so enveloped by my fear of failure that I have lost my ability to consider what others might be feeling or need.
Now I’m here.