I have a really hard time accepting that someone loves me and I’m trying to understand why. The joke among friends and family used to always be how I was such a ‘treat’ and some poor schmuck would spend the rest of his life trying to figure out my nuances and constant quirks. Only it’s not a joke, it’s incredibly true, and the further I get into this love – real love, not the get to know you phase where everything is awesome and light – the more I am faced with the ugliest parts of myself. It’s scary, and sometimes I feel incredibly hopeless, undeserving, and not good enough.
What I feel for Chad is not scary and how much I love him is not hopeless. It is my hope that someday I’ll be able to shed these thick, impenetrable layers of insecurity and self loathing and allow myself to believe that someone could really love me and that they will stay. Because I don’t know how (or why) anyone could love me (and I tell him as much), because I really don’t love me. I am embarrassed of me, of my paranoia, my fears of abandonment, my complex and constant anxiety, and the dark depression spiral that comes with it. I’m not always okay.
I can only imagine that the root of such issues starts and ends with my Dad leaving when I was 3 and subsequently our horrible relationship in my teenage/adult years. It’s not so much awful now, but it is what it is, and it often leaves me empty. My heart aches as I watch classmates I follow on Facebook post pictures of their daughters and gush about how beautiful and amazing they are, but I love seeing that good Fathers exist. I was never told I was beautiful, or special, or sometimes even acknowledged by my Dad in the most important, formative years of my life. So, in the most inconvenient ways, I seek that attention in my relationship, I act out and I beg Chad to notice me, because I’ve spent my entire life throwing fits to get my Dad’s attention in situations where I felt like I wasn’t important to him. I am not so much selfish as I am incredibly broken and still learning what a healthy relationship looks like.
But, I’m still learning and I’m still trying. It’s certainly no one else’s job to mend what is broken inside of me, and no one else should have to pay for the decisions my Dad made 25 years ago. The world is not against me, everything is not a conspiracy to leave me out, and I am not undeserving or unworthy of anything. Logically, I can type that. Logically, I know these things. It’s when logic no longer prevails and the anxiety and depression spiral take over that I can’t feel that certainty anymore. And in those moments, I show my ass and create a mess bigger than I ever intended. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to love someone with depression (and anxiety) and I always feel like he deserves so much better than me. And I guess part of me just waits for him to figure out that he does (deserve better) because it’s a heck of a lot easier to be right than to accept that someone might really love me enough to wade through all of this while holding my hand.