This blog is for me.  If You stumble upon it & determine You can't live without it, well, that's just a welcome surprise.  I write for me.  Not because I enjoy it.  Not because I'm especially talented.  I write because I can't not write.  I write because it builds inside of me and if I don't let it out I'll explode.  I write because when I don't write I'm pretending to be somebody I'm not.  I write, because.

And so, I will write.

I wrote this tonight after a particularly emotionally charged (for me) interaction with someone close to me.

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One step forward, two vaulting leaps back.

“You're sensitive,” you say.

Not overly sensitive or unnaturally so.

Just, sensitive.

As if the quality itself is distasteful, irrespective of degree.

Well, maybe you're right.

But is that my burden?

Am I to sift your actions through the sieve of my insecurities

before pronouncing judgment on the interactions we share?

Somehow I feel that to be unfair.

It's the eggshell plaintiff doctrine, sister, that age-old bedrock of tort law –

treat me with kid gloves or beware.

I might break.

I'm not litigious, but is that the only consequence you have to fear?

I might smile at you forever while resenting you behind my eyes.

You don't like me. Why?

You love me, respect me, take pride in my accomplishments –

But you'd dread getting stranded with me at the airport overnight

Getting stuck in an elevator with me for hours

Going camping with me

Hiking

To brunch.

Nice to my face, relieved when I leave.

The crushing truth is that

I've come to accept this superficiality from everybody.

And the truth behind the truth? Is

I'm disappointed in the person you've become.

For years your indifference infuriated me, until

I looked into your eyes and saw it wasn't indifference after all.

It was fear.

You're desperate to fix this, to fix us – but terrified to try.

You'd prefer to keep pretending than

to roll up your sleeves and

dig your fingers into

the dirty earth of

the chasm between

your soul and

mine.

You're beyond saving.

There, I said it.

YOU'RE BEYOND SAVING.

But what about me?

Can I be whole again?

Was I ever?

Did you rip me apart before I'd attained

the muscle memory associated with

completeness of being?

This is what I have to do.

What I'm destined to do.

What I've no choice but to do.

I have to write it.

I have to write it.

I have to write it.

I will write it.

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