The first time I wrote on here was almost two years ago. I feel like I’ve floated in and out of characters so many times since then.
I read recently that over-explaining is actually a sign of trauma. It’s a coping mechanism. One explains too much of what they (think they) feel, who they (think they) are, why they (think they) are the way that they are. It leaves no room for anyone to get to know them, under the calculations of how they want to be perceived.
In writing this, I’m really just pleading with myself to let people know me.
Since I can remember, I’ve had a fear of people seeing me sleep. I felt like it was too vulnerable, too intimate. That’s when you’re dreaming, sleep-talking, moving, and you really have no thoughts about it or recollection of it. It’s like a deeper part of you.
I joke about having “intimacy issues” now, but it’s honestly the thing I’m most insecure about. Every single important (but quiet) moment between myself and someone else, I ruin. I don’t let words hang for long enough…I explain away the gaps in conversation where they could tell me they love me, or that they don’t. In the gaps, I find my voice going and going, telling stories of traumatic events with an edge of humour, willing the person to laugh with me in place of concern. I’m just not sure how to stop that.
In my head, if I can perfect every way someone views me – by not trying too hard, but looking nice, by being smart, being familiar, listening, understanding, validating them, seducing them, pillow talking them…they’ll never see the real me, which…if I want to hide it so badly…I must kind of hate. That’s pretty depressing.
I wrote in April 2019 that I’d find peace in sleep whenever I could. Perpetual escapism. That’s been a theme in my life for as long as I can remember.
Now, I don’t sleep even when I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. My dreams lately have been saturated with lost people. The past year has been a year of loss.
Despite all of this, I’m hopeful now that I’m getting better though. I try to write. I try not to obsess over the image of myself I’m putting out there. And I’m trying to write until it comes more easily to me. Maybe I’ll see myself between the lines.
Always with hope,
Mel