It’s a strange feeling, not having people worry about you. For the past few months I’ve struggled with my family, my friends not “thinking” about me. Not in the sense that they forget I exist, but in the sense that they don’t find a reason to believe that I need any form of comfort.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, I know deep in my heart that my family loves me. I see it in their eyes when we’re laughing together. But it’s when I am struggling with myself—when I can’t grasp why I am or who I am—that I really need their support. Because having an unhealthy mixture of anxiety and depression makes you feel so, so much, until that moment when you simply don’t feel anything at all.
I guess it’s because I can’t say that aloud, which is why they don’t worry. They see me as Tamara, the one who never needed dependency, the one who could pull herself up if she fell. Well, it’s getting harder. It’s getting to the point where I question why climb back up if I’m only going to plummet back down? The rabbit hole isn’t as beautiful as it was when I was a kid.
Maybe what I want is someone that I can crash into once in a while. Someone I know can be a crutch when I’ve broken my knees again. If that’s weak or somehow pathetic, then so be it. Everyone breaks eventually; it only human nature to want someone to repair the faulty pieces. Maybe that’s why people are so dependent on personal connection, physical connection.
Love make us feel like divine, inviolable creatures, because there’s nothing more magical than something we cannot possibly control.