I’m going to be painfully vulnerable with you.
You are probably thinking that it isn’t possible, right?
I mean, I spill my guts out on the regular, how much more painful can it get?
I’m terrified that I’m not going to find anyone else who loves me the way he did.
Before I go on, save me the whole, “that’s not true, there’s other men out there” spill.
I’m not looking for reassurance or fishing for compliments.
I know all of that already.
My heart just doesn’t believe it, so it feeds me these fears that fuck with my mind.
So I figure if I purge myself of this fuckery, if I acknowledge it in a public and embarrassing way, maybe I’ll be able to fight it off a little easier.
It’s worth a shot.
Here we go.
I’m terrified that I’m not going to find someone else who sees me, flaws and all, and think I’m all the more wonderful for it.
I’m scared that I won’t find someone I’m insanely attracted to mind, body, and soul again.
That it doesn’t exist outside of him.
I’m scared that I found my second chance at love only to lose it.
I’m terrified that I’m going to be alone forever.
That I’m going to be sitting in this exact chair, typing on this computer a year from now, with nothing changed.
Having wandered around my world invisible as I’m so accustomed to being.
This scares me.
I’m terrified that the loneliness I feel is a permanent installment.
That the one man who loves me and finds me unconditionally attractive is married somewhere and that love will die alone with him.
Or worse, his love will fade and he’ll forget about me and what I once meant.
I’m scared that I won’t be able to trust someone intimately again.
That I’ll forever be subjected to warding off assholes that just take and never give.
That there’s a reason why the single men my age are still single.
And all I have to look forward to is being alternatively objectified or completely ignored and dismissed.
I’m weary that I will forever be the outsider looking in.
Always trying to understand why it works out for everyone else and not me.
I’m scared that my eyes will grow dim with time and I’ll become complacent in my routine, ignoring what I desire for so long that I become content without it.
An old maid.
I told you I’m pessimistic.
Did I mention neurotic?