Vulnerable
there's nothing much to say.
“It’s not like that!” he yelled, sweeping random things off of his desk in frustration.
“I just… sometimes it just gets to me, and I can’t hold it in anymore. The words just start coming out and I hate it! In the moment, when it’s happening, it feels so cathartic, so freeing, but later on I feel like all I did was paint a huge target on my back with the words GIVE ME ATTENTION spray painted across it.
“I’m not doing it for attention… or I am, I don’t know. I just feel like everything is ending soon, that the time is quickly coming where, no matter what I do, I will end up alone, sitting in this room, nothing to look forward to except the next time I open Scrivener to write a story only I’m excited to read.
“I feel like I missed my chance to make friends, or meet someone special, and after the injury, and with my disability, there aren’t going to be any more chances. Why would anyone choose me? It feels really fucked up to ask yourself that and be unable to come up with any good reason why anyone would.
“I can’t go hang out with anyone because of my leg, and asking anyone to come here would be a waste of their time. I can’t do like the VR stuff people do nowadays because I can’t afford it because I can’t get a job because of my fuckin’ leg.
“I’m trying to relearn to walk, and I’ve made great progress, but it’s not fast enough! That’s the problem, it’s just not fucking fast enough. I’m crawling down the road while everyone else is in a fucking Ferrari. They’ll be at the finish lines of their lives while I’m stuck hobbling around turn number two.
“It’s agonizing going around and seeing people hurting, wanting to reach out to them and comfort them or console them, but being too cripplingly afraid to do so. Do you know how guilty I feel? My heart hurts for so many people I’ve never even fucking met because I see pain in their art or their writing and I want to scream You are not alone! I feel the same way! I am here for you if you need to vent or scream or punch or curse!
“Because at this point, just being someone’s punching bag would be preferred.
“I just miss people. I miss talking to people, I miss spending all day going back and forth with someone in chat. I don’t know how to get those days back, I don’t think I can get those days back. I think they are gone forever and there is nothing I can do to get them back.
“I fell so deep into depression and isolation when I got injured, and I look back and so many people I used to talk to before the incident just aren’t there anymore. Where did they go? Why did they leave? I needed you. I still need you.
“I really, really miss you. And I’m afraid that, while I could never forget you, you’ve totally forgotten me. And that hurts. It really does hurt. I don’t expect anyone to have wanted to stick around while I was that depressed - it makes sense to bail on me, I don’t blame you - but it still hurts. I can’t even reach out to you now because too much time has passed. I don’t even know if you remember who I am! You’ve been living your lives, I’ve been in the same box for four fucking years.
“The tiniest bit of contact I get from anyone drives me insane. It’s unhealthy, I recognize that it’s unhealthy, but I cannot help it. I get a comment or someone adds something to their favorite list, and my mind goes fucking ballistic:
Could we be friends?
Could I reach out?
Should I reach out?
Would they want to talk to me?
Would they want to be my friend?
Am I weird for wanting to message them?
I shouldn’t message them.
They wouldn’t find me interesting.
They wouldn’t want to be my friend.
They don’t want to talk to me.
I shouldn’t reach out.
I’m too afraid to even try.
“It is so fucking agonizing. I feel so guilty. What if I’m wrong? What if they do want to talk, to reach out, but they are too afraid just like I am! I feel so angry at myself. Why does my brain do this to me? Why do I bully myself? Am I just that scared of rejection?
“Yes. I am.
“Not even trying at least leaves a hopeful open end to the question of Could we ever…?
“Getting rejected is a finality. The final page turning. The book closing. The light shutting off. The pencil snapping. The pen running out of ink. The record scratching. Death rattling the ribcage in one, final breath.
“The fear of not knowing does not outweigh the agony of being rejected.”