I love people. I’m afraid of people. I crave their love. I fear their rejection.
As good as my summer was, it reminded me just how dependent I am on other people to define my worth. I desperately want them to like me, but there are many things about myself that are unlikeable and downright ugly. So I’ve gotten used to only letting people in so far … to dealing (or not dealing) with things on my own.
When things are going well, and life is busy in a good way, and I’m having a lot of fun with people, I’m okay with this arrangement. Why rock the boat? It’s easier this way.
But when life slows down, and routine sets in, and I have time to think about where I am and where I want to be in my relationships — both with God and with other people — I’m far from satisfied. This semi-façade isn’t sustainable, but the longer I live with it, the more intractable it seems.
But when I do find people I’m really comfortable with, people who are a lot of fun and who make me feel accepted and loved, they become my everything. Like this year. This year’s goodbyes have been some of the hardest I’ve ever had to say. Even though those walls I put up are still there, it’s easy for me to trick myself into thinking that those walls are thinner than they actually are.
And now, a little poem:
This is who she is:
The quietest of them all.
This is what she thinks:
“I am the first forgotten, but the last to forget.”
This is how she lives:
Wondering at the end of the day if he likes her.
Wondering if she’s important to them.
Wondering why her tread doesn’t make a sound.
Will it ever make a sound?
This is what she knows:
What they think is everything to her.
It shouldn’t be everything to her.