The hardest part was never laying bare
my soul; it was asking others to look.
There was no one around to listen.
There could have been; I had more than my share of invitations for
the day. Six different requests for my presence, from parties to
quiet nights in, to one-on-one adventures, and what did I settle on?
Wandering in solitude on a quest for something – anything
– that felt right, only to end up lonely and unfulfilled.
The
last thing I wanted was to be around people, but an extremely close
second-to-last was being alone. No, what I wanted was something I
didn't have; a companion, someone with whom I could be vulnerable and
intimate and talkative and silent and honest and weak and me.
I didn't want romance, or sex, or any of that nice but ultimately
unfulfilling “intimacy,” I wanted someone with whom I could pour
out my heart without expectation or fear, someone with whom I could
physically be close, whose very presence is a comfort. And I wanted
someone to whom I could provide all of that, and more, someone who
would be an extension of my heart, my very self.
But
it wasn't all about an as of yet fictional partner. Really, the
anxiety just brought that out, and it in turn exacerbated the
anxiety. No, this ran deeper, some persistent shroud clawing at my
psyche. I became a series of contradictions.
I
didn't want to be around anyone, but I didn't want to be alone.
I
didn't want to do anything, but I didn't want to do nothing.
Nothing
sounded good, and nothingness sounded worse.
I
tried to figure it out and never made any progress, yet when I
attempted to focus on anything else, it was all I could think about.
The
thing that made it most frustrating was the lack of definitive
source. I'm well accustomed to anxiety from social situations, or
stress, or any number of sources, and I know how to either address it
or endure through it. But when it comes on without apparent cause and
refuses to leave for weeks on end, affecting every aspect of life,
how are you supposed to correct it?
I
couldn't talk about it. Mostly because I couldn't talk about the
cause, but even accepting that, the anxiety plagued me such that I
could never mention it when given the opportunity. I couldn't reach
out. No matter that I felt it would be ineffective to discuss since I
couldn't identify what I needed to work through, I couldn't even make
myself say the words when I was in a safe place and had every chance
to do so.
Nothing
was working. Nothing helped, nothing made anything better, I skipped
out on all of my plans because I panicked thinking of each one, and
instead I wandered aimlessly all day until I ended up alone in a park
at midnight.
But
I wrote about it.
I
wrote about it,and put it out there for all the world to see. Not
seeking sympathy, or pity, or support. Not seeking anything, really,
except to get it out. To be proactive somehow. To take that little
demon and get it out of my head, even if it's only long enough to
shine a light on it before it worms its way back inside.
If
I can't make myself talk about it, I'll write about it. Because I
don't have any fear of being seen; my only fear is that no one will
care to look.
