I Cried When I Came Home Today
I came home this afternoon to the sound of tiny paws running to the front door to greet me. The stillness of the house greeted me and reminded me of the loneliness inside of my body and the quiet echo throughout the house.
Inside my bedroom, I carelessly dropped my bag at the edge of my bed and turned to see my body standing sideways in the mirror.
Standing there, I cried side by side with a version of myself that does not exist. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror; I eventually peaked out of the corner of my eye, the girl smashing her eyes into her palms.
I cried next to a version of myself I cannot touch because she is an illusion that is 2-D while I am in another dimension that allows me to be 3-D. I look at this 2-D version of myself frequently, multiple times a day; I have separated her from who I am. I dissect her in the mirror: I judge, I make harsh decisions about my body and what I have to do to change what and who I am looking at by analyzing a replica I disassociate from. She is not me.
But I am her.
When I went over there late last night, I told myself repeatedly without any self-confidence, I would tell him, this is the last time. I repeated, this is the last time, throughout my night; sitting on the couch snuggling, leaning against each other’s shoulders, giggling, kissing in soft warm shadow moments.
I whispered in my mind as I kissed him, this is the last time. When we bickered, a thought crossed behind my eyes, this is the last time. Our legs tangled, squeezing his legs with mine without any words, our eyes on the screen: this is the last time, as he kissed the top of my head.
In the early morning that followed, after sex, the morning hues splashed onto his walls, bright and unforgiving. The shades were drawn but I felt exposed emotionally. A natural conversation flowed between us, our hands folded together between our chests with our lips both taking turns kissing our knuckles. This is the last time.
He mentioned casually a thought that triggered a physical response: tears. I closed my eyes as I listened to him talk. Now, I don’t remember what he said to bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps that is my brain trying to protect me but my brain doesn’t offer protection; the so-called protection hurts me because it doesn’t allow me to have my memories or access my past.
Abruptly, he interrupted himself to ask if I was Ok. Without a waiver in my voice, my eyes still closed, I said Yes. I could feel his stare, soft, loving, urging me to open my eyes. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t; he used his pinky to wipe the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
“Corrin. Corrin. You are not Ok. What is wrong?”
What is wrong?
What is wrong, what is absolutely ruthless, is, I Am Not Enough.
I have noticed our society pushing out Toxic Positivity. Phrases on my screen show up as I scroll, “You Are Enough,” “You Will Be Loved,” or “You Are Worthy Of Love”.
The definition of Toxic Positivity I found through Google, “Toxic Positivity is an obsession with positive thinking. It is the belief that people should put a positive spin on all experiences, even those that are profoundly tragic.”
By making people believe they are enough, it allows false hope when they will never be enough for something or someone. I understand why we sell the slogans and phrases but it is not true for everyone. It is not true for me.
According to World Populations Projections on the website Worldometer, there are 7,874,965,825 people in the world as of 2021. It is impossible for every single human on this planet to be Enough or Worthy Of Love.
I am familiar with the counterargument, my friends do not have to tell me the counterargument because I have said it to myself: everyone is Enough and Worthy Of Love because of how many people there are. How can I believe with over seven million people on the planet, how can I not believe I Am Not Enough? Our world is large but tiny at the same time. There will never be enough time to assess who will love you. Who will choose you. Who you will be with.
But I want to break this down for everyone:
I can reinvent myself. I can lose 100 pounds, get my foot into my dream career, and have the best of friendships, but I Am Not Enough for what comes next.
Love.
There is something inside of me the good men can detect that raises goosebumps on their skin and politely explain to me why we won’t work. There is something inside of me the bad men can smell and brings out the glimmer in their eyes. They may be miles and miles away but they glide my way, smoothly and slowly because they know I am not going anywhere. The bad men and I both know my limitations.
The good men tell me it is not an issue with me but they don’t see anything long-term happening with me. I am the fun one. I am the experience they want once or twice but not every day for a lifetime.
He coddles me in his arms, he gives me this award-winning speech that many women would swoon to. Something to make them feel better when they are not the one to be picked.
What does he say?
He tells me I am not kind to myself, I don’t give myself a break. I need to be happy, I have worked so hard for where I am today. He reiterates all the positive evidence I have told him since we have reconnected.
He is trying too hard to give me the pep talk of the year.
I look into his dark eyes, mentally wishing his orbs would be misshaped so it would be harder for me to look into them. This is the last time I remind myself.
He scans my face over and over, his eyes going quickly back and forth, scanning my face like a scanner checks out grocery items.
He tells me I Will Be Loved and I Am Worthy of Love.
He tells me We Are Not Compatible.
He wraps his arm around my back, with the thought, I would shove away from him but I stay still like a Pygmy Brocket Deer. I am in an open field with no trees or logs to hide behind, I am exposed in the early morning sun with a hunting rifle pointed in between my eyes. He asks me to say something. He wants to know what I am thinking. He wants to know my final words.
He exposed why I am Not Compatible With Him. He says, we argue too much, we constantly would be in arguments. He tells me his flaws: he has a temper and can be controlling.
My voice, stronger than I thought it would be, surprises me when I hear myself say, “you already have your mind made up then.”
He nods.
I do not agree with him but I remain silent, this is the last time anyways. A very small voice coming from a place I do not recognize, murmurs, what if he is right? He wouldn’t converse with me to ask if I thought he was controlling or if we argued. It simply wasn’t up for discussion. I didn’t think either of those thoughts about him — or us — but I Do Not Beg Men To Be With Me.
He pulls me out of my thoughts, going on to explain I Am Still Worthy Of Love. Do Not Give Up. Do Not Turn Away From Love because I will have it.
This is where I became restless, I am twisting away from him but his hand stays pressed on my back to keep me in the conversation, to keep me in bed with him. To keep me in a moment that is more heart-wrenching than I can endure but the tears aren’t following and my voice doesn’t tremble.
I Am Used To This.
I fight against his hand, jumping out of bed to pretend to smooth my hair out in his mirror.
He calls me back to bed, his arm stretched out towards me, I slowly go back, sitting at the edge of his bed so I can spring out of his embrace if or when needed. He moves to lay in front of me. His feet are now hanging off the bed, he put his wide hands on my thighs to hold me in place.
He presses me for answers and I shake my head and hide my eyes as I finally break down. I do not want to admit any of my truths. He knows my truths already or he Would Want Me. My voice was broken in-between sobs as I pressed my fingers into my eyes, to hurt myself physically to distract myself from how small I am in this ambiance. To stop myself acknowledging the pain I feel in my chest. The pain in my core that has never been healed. He gets the truth about how I feel about myself. The truth I tell my closest confidants. The truth I am telling my readers.
I tell him,
I Am Not Enough. I understand I Am Not Enough. I am very close to being at peace with this information. But the complete, utter, despair I feel surrounding these facts, are little needle pricks prodding my heart when I am with someone I cannot have.
I tell him,
If I was Enough, he would be Mine. He would Want Me, he would Love Me. But I am the girl he can text almost to the exact day we first met, and know I will still agree to see him and those warm bubbly feelings crawl from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, meeting in the middle where my heart is.
I tell him,
I Do Not Blame Him because I know I Am Not Enough. I cry in front of him, hiccup sobs, telling him I am not angry with him. I admit to him I do not want to be alone but it is far better to be alone than have moments that I will be losing. I am losing the moment right now. I rant to him about how moments should be enough if we cannot have more. I shook my head vigorously, I yelled into the palm of my hand, creating an ample amount of sound, I Do Not Want Any More Moments. I Want To Be Alone!
He tries to reassure me I am very, completely, stupidly, wrong. He sounded much more concerned than was needed. My voice was cold, when I told him I was Not Wrong. I will always know where I stand. And it is Ok.
The bad men always believe we are compatible, they do not tell me I need to be kinder to myself, they recognize and share in the hurt I am always feeling. The ache may be dull for weeks and months while some days, I rage my sadness like a forest fire, torching everything I touch. Being with the bad men doesn’t feed into my sadness, I numbly accept my offers because I am not allowed to have more than this.
With the bad men, I am completely myself. I am obnoxious, loud, opinionated and I feel dangerous mingling with the men who have been to jail, have broken too many hearts to count, and have no intention of changing their ways.
The bad men know what it feels like to Not Be Enough and it is one of our only common denominators.
I have solace with these men.
I meet and mingle with almost all the bad men who approach me.
They Insult Me and tell me I Am Not Good Enough. I agree because they are not enough either.
They have no waiver in their voice when they tell me they are Not Enough. They are proud and confident.
It’s almost sexy but the self-awareness inside of me knows it isn’t sexy. It is pitiful. It is dreadful. It is extremely sad.
I can be the best version of myself and I will still Not Be Enough.
I share moments with the good men because they don’t know me, they don’t love me, they pity me. I am the bad one in their eyes. They know there is something broken inside of me that neither of us understands. I breathe and live inside my broken body while they take a peek inside the catacomb of my ribcage, wondering if it’s safe. It is Not Safe.
The second counterargument I hear from my friends: Why does their perception matter? Why do I let them decide if I Am Not Enough?
Perception is much more important than we lead ourselves to believe. We shout with confidence, I don’t care what other people think! But we do. Even if it’s only a dot one can see on a microscope; we care.
We care because we want a potential match to accept us, we hope and pray we will be chosen. A potential partner’s perception of you is the most important decision before the agreement to be together. They analyze and dissect, weighing the options they have before them. If they deem someone to Not Be Enough, it doesn’t say anything about them but all about the person they don’t want to be with. Why do we as a society blame the person who chooses not to be with someone? Because we want our loved ones to feel better. We want them to believe they have time to still find someone who will love and depend on them.
By knowing the man, I am lying next to, holding his hand, and kissing between his ear and collarbone, will Never Be Mine, allows me to relax into the moment before all-too-soon I feel him pulling away whether that is with his words or the physical distance, I know the moment is over when I recognize all it ever will be is a moment. I can swear the moment was just beginning and when I believe the moment is just beginning, that is when the moment is ending. Coming to a close. Finished. Gone.
