Do you ever stop talking with someone only to realize, five minutes later, that you’d both been having two parallel conversations—that is, they’d been misunderstanding you as much as you’d been misunderstanding them, and yet you both still somehow continued speaking to the end? I feel like this happens to me all the time…
In calmer hours, it’s easier—I turn it over in my head so many times, with the well-worn mantra following close behind: what the hell am I doing. I should stop; there’s no time for thinking-twice, no time for being a coward.
I need to begin starting more of my sentences with a positive. I need to start eliminating the vague fear of fallibility from the end of every statement, and killing every detestable suggestion of self-loathing from my emotional vocabulary.
Maybe I can start with “I will.” I will become a stronger person. I will stop being so afraid. I will stop trying to run away all the fucking time. I will do it for people who give a shit about me, so fuck the rest of them. There’s really no other way.
Is it possible to emerge unscathed—when everyone puts on their faces of “deep concern” and their voices of careful solicitude. Is it possible to live in a movie, or in a dark room—on the other side of the world, no one will look twice at you, and no one will try to fix you. No one will know of your anxious wasting, of your slow disappearances.