How old do I have to be? How many times does it have to happen?
No matter how many times I finally decide to let my defenses down, thinking this time it might actually be okay. This time my emotions won’t be trampled to dust. I always end up chocking back the awful things I’m made to feel. Drowning in my own misery, while plastering on a smile for the world to see so no one knows the damage going on inside.
Could I be the only one? Am I silently commiserating when there are others just like me?
Hard to know when I’ve become so closed off, so emotionally abused, that it makes it impossible to reach out to others and find out.
I live a fairly secluded life, or it has become that way. Over time I have discovered, adventures that used to be exciting when I was younger, now cause anxiety. Knowing I have to venture out either into uncharted territories, meeting new people, or going somewhere alone raises that fight or flight level immediately.
This in turn gives people the image I’m a cold, uncaring, or an unaccessible bitch. Instead what I am is socially awkward, shy, terrified, introverted, a huge nerd, spacey (because I tend to spend a lot of time in my own head) and just broken.
It has taken me more than half my life to realize that life is cruel. As much as I want to live in the romance novels I pencil, real life is a gray,stark reality and no one, no hero is going to come rescue me.
Any hero or heroine that will come riding up on that great white stallion, sword drawn, blazing to my rescue, will have to come from inside me. I will have to be my own hero. Stand up for myself. Every new chance I take terrifies me to death. But if I stay stagnant, I may as well die.
The last man who was the real hero in my life is already gone. So again I say, if I can no longer grow and learn from each fall, misstep, backstab, painful misplaced trust, why not lie down and simply give up. Forsaking the rest of this wretched life.