Come To Me

I want the words to come. I don’t know how to make them take shape to form what I’m trying to say. I want them to be good, impressive even. I need you to think I’m interesting, that I have something to offer.

And this is a problem.

Your opinion of me is more important to me than my own feelings about myself.

And this too is an unfortunate situation.

These thoughts have prevented me from writing. I’ve been too afraid to fail. When I’m silent I’m safe. When I write I feel exposed like raw meat on display.

I fear your silence. I await your response. I have stage fright. I’m so insecure. Don’t you see it? I try hiding behind pictures, vague gestures, and made-up words to make myself sound smart, profound and enlightened, when really I’m just shame-filled and full of self-doubt.

I hesitate to post on social media. What if I don’t get any “likes”? What will that say about me? What if I only get twelve but my beautiful “friend” gets forty-three? Or what if my smart friend gets sixty-seven? Where does that leave me? Well, Unloved, unimportant and of course, un-liked, right? You can see right through me, so I stay quiet.

I don’t engage.

Jealousy, envy and suspicion are the most disgusting and repulsive of all my lesser qualities. My friend told me, “ I once had an ex-girlfriend who said she would rather vomit than feel the pangs of jealousy. It’s that gross.”

I look through the pages and posts and feel the sickness rising with thoughts like, she’s so lucky, she doesn’t have to work, and Why does she get to drive a nice car? I point out our differences, she’s funnier than I, and that one over there, her body is more cut than mine, and Oh and what about her? Her words more poetic, her politics more defined. And yes, yes, yes, that mom, she’s got it together, but I’m just an amateur, a poser; a forgettable fuck, a master of nothing. I don’t stand out, so I stand still.



There is more to this story.

This is complete horse shit, fresh horse shit I tell you, steaming, thick and from the bowels.

This stuff isn’t true; it’s the waste of my mind. It’s everything I’m discarding. It’s not the light of my being; it’s the devil’s manipulation, the thoughts and fears that pull me away from my highest self. It’s the seductress that calls my name with her ovulating-wet-urgency, “ My sweet, come, be my victim. I will give you something important.”

Oohh, it’s so alluring. It tells me that being and feeling less than somehow gives me a warped sense of worthiness. Do you get it?

So it looks like this: If I am a victim it means I’m something, hurt has to happen to something. It doesn’t happen to nothing. I feel alive, relevant and comfortable when I’m hurting. Did you read what I just wrote? Now that’s a hard-line, dick up. I don’t know how to feel lovable without the pain. This is a learned response. I didn’t get here on my own. Momma and Daddy raised me right. They didn’t mean to but it happened that way.

But fuck that noise.

I am a little dumpling now, always have been, just didn’t know how scrumptious I really was and I intend on continuing to grow in this cush space. Sometimes I forget how adorable and lovable I am, and how I don’t need anyone else to believe it to make it true.

I mean listen, just yesterday my girl-boyfriend told me she loves me because I ask questions she doesn’t have the answers to, now she meant this as a Texan style smart-ass comment, but it carried weight. I know I am an expert–to put it nicely–information gatherer. And today my children’s grandmother told me I must have been doing something right, that my children were well received everywhere they went while they stayed with her for a week. She said people commented on their manners and social-skills, (Which is hard for me to believe, you should see and hear these little heathens at the kitchen table. And the mouth on the little one sounds as bold and brazen as any precocious Disney-diva.)

So you see, I am indeed a little lamb chop in the window. I think the above said qualifiers are impressive. I feel proud that I’m able to ask hard questions. And I feel honored and humbled by my little minnows. They are by far the best of my positives.

I guess the words came to me, and I like what I had to say.

This is what I have to offer. I don’t feel safe anymore, but I am buzzing and bright. I have a smile on my face, and my eyes are smirking with a secret knowing that I did good work.

Smooch, SJ


About Runs With Tigers

I'm like air, forever flowing, moving, changing, gaining and losing myself, undefinable. View my complete profile
This entry was posted in Affliction, Authentic Self, Awareness, Confidence, crafts, crossing boundaries, love, painful childhood memories, parenting, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Come To Me

  1. Susie says:

    I started to call your bluff in the beginning…and I was right. Whew! So glad you are writing and sharing again. You scandalous woman.

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