Insecurities.
sorry.
I'd invite you over, but that would allow you to see how messy my room truly is, and I don't think I want you in the one space that's truly mine in the entire world. I don't want you to see the reflection of myself that is those four walls and stained carpet. I don't think I want you to see the posters and pictures on my walls, or my collection of cameras that extends beyond just what I've displayed, or all the clothes I'm too lazy to put away, or the torn sheets on my bed. I don't want your head on my pillows, making the cases smell like your shampoo. I don't want you in my space.
I like you, but not enough to make you dinner, because that requires me to put effort into something, and that also requires judgment on your part. This isn't a movie you can criticize, or a piece of art in a gallery that you can pick apart and try to find meaning in. This is spaghetti and I suck at making it. I really don't want you to see that I can't cook. I'd much rather get fast food and harm my arteries and not eat all of it than make you dinner and eat it awkwardly when we both know I didn't cook the pasta long enough and the sauce is cold. I'd rather avoid that situation entirely.
I want to see you for a longer period of time but I don't want you to pick me up from work because I hate when people see me in my work clothes. They smell bad, like grease and bad food, and my hair almost always smells like bleach and other assorted cleaning products. It's gross. I hate it, it makes me so uncomfortable. I hate the way my sneakers feel on my feet, too. I hate sneakers. I hate shoes, to be honest, and pants, but you'll figure that out later (if there is a later). That's not a secret. But really, don't come get me at work. Don't walk in and surprise me. My appearance is embarrassing enough, and at work it's even worse, and I really don't want you to see me like that. Just wait until I shower and smell like cheap perfume and cigarettes again. I'm more comfortable like that anyway.
No, you can't stay over, and no, you can't come over when I'm showering. You're not going to see me without makeup, you're not going to see me when I just wake up, you're not going to see me unless I'm fully prepared to see you first. You're not going to catch me in the vulnerable position that is me with wet, messy hair, and a pale, blemished face. I don't like the way my eyes look unless they're decorated with eyeshadow, and eyeliner, and mascara. I don't like the way I look, ever, period, but I feel a little more comfortable when I'm hiding behind a mask of some sort. I'd rather you see me behind a cigarette-smoke-screen and at night time, because I feel okay when you can't make out my facial expressions and make fun of me for them. I'd rather you see me in a dark theater all the time.
It's not you, it's me.
I'm comfortable with kissing you in your car in your driveway past midnight. I'm okay with being high and holding your hand when you can't see my face. I feel better fully clothed, with my eyes closed, and I guess we can cuddle but it's weird for you to touch me. I don't know how to say any of this and not sound rude or wrong or mean but I'm not comfortable with you. I'm not comfortable with me. I'm just not comfortable. My skin always fit a little too tight for my standards, and my brain was always working a little too hard. Relaxing has never been an option for me. I'm sorry.
I'll be apologizing to you a lot more, don't worry. You'll get tired of it and you'll find someone else, a girl more comfortable and more talkative and less afraid of life. You will. You'll get tired of my antics, my retreating back into my shell, my constant agreeing to avoid confrontation. You'll get upset, and frustrated, and when I shake your hand off of mine, or roll over to get away from you in bed, you'll probably get hurt. It's not you, though. I swear it's not you. Don't take anything I say or do personally. It's not you.
If I were you, I'd leave now before your image of me is soiled entirely. But you won't. They never do. No one ever listens, and they think that it's all okay. They think they can put up with me, and my bullshit, and my psychological issues, and my overbearing personality. They think they can put up with my meticulous placing of things and my overwhelming need to check and make sure the door is locked three different times before I can leave the house. They think that this will last, or that if it doesn't, we'll still be able to be friends.They think they can climb this wall I've built. But no one can. I can't even climb it. I'm stuck inside. I stopped trying to get out years ago. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry doesn't cut it anymore, though, does it? When you pack your bags to leave me, when you tell me lies to get away, when you go into hiding, when you tell your friends that I got "weird" or that I'm "crazy" when they ask what happened between us, sorry won't fix shit. Apologies are meant to fix things, and there's certain things you can't fix. Like my brain. Like our relationship. Like my shitty car that doesn't run. Sorry can't fix the fact that I'm insecure and you're a horrible judge of character. I'm apologizing beforehand because I know that this will come up later.
But there isn't going to be a later, is there?
No. There isn't.
Because I refuse to allow there to be one.
I like you, but not enough to make you dinner, because that requires me to put effort into something, and that also requires judgment on your part. This isn't a movie you can criticize, or a piece of art in a gallery that you can pick apart and try to find meaning in. This is spaghetti and I suck at making it. I really don't want you to see that I can't cook. I'd much rather get fast food and harm my arteries and not eat all of it than make you dinner and eat it awkwardly when we both know I didn't cook the pasta long enough and the sauce is cold. I'd rather avoid that situation entirely.
I want to see you for a longer period of time but I don't want you to pick me up from work because I hate when people see me in my work clothes. They smell bad, like grease and bad food, and my hair almost always smells like bleach and other assorted cleaning products. It's gross. I hate it, it makes me so uncomfortable. I hate the way my sneakers feel on my feet, too. I hate sneakers. I hate shoes, to be honest, and pants, but you'll figure that out later (if there is a later). That's not a secret. But really, don't come get me at work. Don't walk in and surprise me. My appearance is embarrassing enough, and at work it's even worse, and I really don't want you to see me like that. Just wait until I shower and smell like cheap perfume and cigarettes again. I'm more comfortable like that anyway.
No, you can't stay over, and no, you can't come over when I'm showering. You're not going to see me without makeup, you're not going to see me when I just wake up, you're not going to see me unless I'm fully prepared to see you first. You're not going to catch me in the vulnerable position that is me with wet, messy hair, and a pale, blemished face. I don't like the way my eyes look unless they're decorated with eyeshadow, and eyeliner, and mascara. I don't like the way I look, ever, period, but I feel a little more comfortable when I'm hiding behind a mask of some sort. I'd rather you see me behind a cigarette-smoke-screen and at night time, because I feel okay when you can't make out my facial expressions and make fun of me for them. I'd rather you see me in a dark theater all the time.
It's not you, it's me.
I'm comfortable with kissing you in your car in your driveway past midnight. I'm okay with being high and holding your hand when you can't see my face. I feel better fully clothed, with my eyes closed, and I guess we can cuddle but it's weird for you to touch me. I don't know how to say any of this and not sound rude or wrong or mean but I'm not comfortable with you. I'm not comfortable with me. I'm just not comfortable. My skin always fit a little too tight for my standards, and my brain was always working a little too hard. Relaxing has never been an option for me. I'm sorry.
I'll be apologizing to you a lot more, don't worry. You'll get tired of it and you'll find someone else, a girl more comfortable and more talkative and less afraid of life. You will. You'll get tired of my antics, my retreating back into my shell, my constant agreeing to avoid confrontation. You'll get upset, and frustrated, and when I shake your hand off of mine, or roll over to get away from you in bed, you'll probably get hurt. It's not you, though. I swear it's not you. Don't take anything I say or do personally. It's not you.
If I were you, I'd leave now before your image of me is soiled entirely. But you won't. They never do. No one ever listens, and they think that it's all okay. They think they can put up with me, and my bullshit, and my psychological issues, and my overbearing personality. They think they can put up with my meticulous placing of things and my overwhelming need to check and make sure the door is locked three different times before I can leave the house. They think that this will last, or that if it doesn't, we'll still be able to be friends.They think they can climb this wall I've built. But no one can. I can't even climb it. I'm stuck inside. I stopped trying to get out years ago. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry doesn't cut it anymore, though, does it? When you pack your bags to leave me, when you tell me lies to get away, when you go into hiding, when you tell your friends that I got "weird" or that I'm "crazy" when they ask what happened between us, sorry won't fix shit. Apologies are meant to fix things, and there's certain things you can't fix. Like my brain. Like our relationship. Like my shitty car that doesn't run. Sorry can't fix the fact that I'm insecure and you're a horrible judge of character. I'm apologizing beforehand because I know that this will come up later.
But there isn't going to be a later, is there?
No. There isn't.
Because I refuse to allow there to be one.