Wounds Never Heal

I sit here, nearly idle, with a cup of coffee that tastes
strangely like nuts, and I contemplate.
My hair is pulled back messily, the heater
is on right next to me, because
the basement is cold.
My phone keeps vibrating
loudly
against the wood of the computer desk,
and I debate about which tone I should
use to answer
the insistent texts.
I’m exhaling.

Goo Goo Dolls & Staind are my
backdrop.
My chest feels tight with
the anticipation of freedom. . . .
though I’m nearly sure
it will dissipate as the
reality sets in, making
a nest, burrowing in.

I do not regret opening my eyes
even if the world is a bit too harsh and bright
sometimes.
Everyday I learn more about myself,
my mistakes,
how to handle other people.
Every day I learn to laugh more, worry less.

Sometimes I’m still swallowed in
a hole of anxiety.
Sometimes it’s scary, like I’m facing my fears alone..
…which I am.
Sometimes I want to rest my head on something warm,
something solid,
and cry until I run out of water, out of blood, out of liquid.
Until I’m as dry and empty as my heart feels sometimes.
It’s not that people don’t love me,
because I’m accepting that they do.
But something’s missing.
I just don’t know what.

Maybe nothing’s missing.
Maybe I’m just uncomfortable.
Because, you know, life isn’t always comfortable.
Sometimes you have to relinquish your control,
sometimes you have to TAKE control,
sometimes you have to run away from the power struggle.

I told Dustin the other day that
I keep making him out to be someone he’s not.
He looked at me, eyes filled with questions.
I didn’t say more.
But the truth is that I romanticize him.
During our relationship,
I put him on a pedestal… I think to punish myself.
I whined and carried on about how I was "always the one fucking up",
but I made myself that way.
I made everything else look so much better than me,
and gradually, it all became better than me.
It was a way for people to pity me,
to offer support.
It was my way of eliciting sympathy, love, time, support from people.
And Dustin? I made him out to be the Big Prize,
the epitome of all that was good, perfect, ideal.
To this day, I do that. I make him out to be some kind of superhero,
the "perfect" man, the ideal future boyfriend/fiance/husband.
And the minute he becomes fallible-an overeager caress, perhaps-
I gasp in horror and go into a twisted version of female hysterics.

I have to close the gap.
I have to start taking control.
This life is mine to fix, to ruin, to make as unique as I am.
I’m going to try.
And try and try and try and try.
Until I get it.

Love,
Amanda