A Writer's Hurt

As of late, I have gotten into the whole online dating "scene" so to speak--haven't been too terribly active in it the past two weeks or so but in my profile, I made note that I loved music and was a writer. Apparently, this led to the assumption that I was a lyricist or perhaps a composer of some sort--at least among those who also shared a passion for music (those who, like myself, perceive themselves of some-day-novelists, simply asked what genre I wrote). 

However this question just gave me a small moment to marvel at the fact that you can have a handful of people who identify as "writers" but what does that mean? Apparently it varies from person to person. Honestly, I wish I had the talent to write lyrics but as it is, I don't feel that I can even write a proper poem, rhyming or no. 

On the other hand, I do feel that I express myself best and most thoroughly when I write--I feel quite at home with a pen in hand, a fresh pad of notepaper beneath my wrist and poised to draw up yet another scenario, another personality, another life! And within it, I find a certain amount of freedom-- a space in which I can say what I am dying to say even if it never reaches the person I truly would love to say it to at the end of the day. 

It keeps me from bursting at the seams some days. I know I have written and posted quite a bit for just about anyone who wanders along and stumbles upon this blog to read--but then again, there are bits and pieces that I write that spend months even years in my documents folder, only to be read over and pondered upon by me, myself, and I. 

However, I would like to invite you (whoever you are) to read this piece that I wrote. 

I warn you, however, not to read on if you don't want to know a dark snippet of my heart--I am not looking for you to read it and do the exact opposite of what I wrote in its conclusion. But maybe, just maybe, one of my lyricist friends would show me how to put it in a song--granted, as previously stated, this is only a snippet of what I have written to vent my anger and frustration and loneliness. 

I also encourage you to watch a short, happy video after the reading thereof. Or listen to a happy song. Because, honestly? That is what sometimes gets me through to the following day.

'I had never been so soundly rejected in all my life.

It hurt and there was absolutely no way I could do anything more without making an absolute fool of myself. After his admissions, the initial rejection hurt worse. But when I plead for just one, last night...the fact that he could not care less was so evident it felt like an actual dagger was thrust through my chest to the point of being exposed on the other side.

I was nothing more than a vice to him although he said that he cared about me and that's why he did it. Why is it? That whenever someone does something that hurts you, destroys you so thoroughly it's always because they “care” or because it's “for your own good”?

To top it all off, I simply felt embarrassed that he had offered me a place to rest...—completely taking my into his arms that... night and suddenly... he woke up and had shut me out again. As easily as one turns a page in a book, he had turned the page I was on and left me completely behind.

I'm dizzy with the anger and hurt that comes with each rejection. He's not the first and he definitely won't be the last. Why is the desire to hurt so entangled with the desire to comfort? Perhaps it's just me who feels this way. I would give anything to have the power to slap him across the face but on the other hand I would give anything for him to silently take me into his arms and never let me go again.

Funny... how I am so embarrassed by the moments when he completely accepts me and am infinitely more embarrassed when he completely rejects me...Why is he so much more capable of ignoring me, pushing me away, doing what's “best” for me while I am over here trying everything I can just for him to see me?

He told me he could see me the other night...but that I am, essentially, blind when it comes to him even when he lets his walls down. I hate being so open to people because I cannot count the number of times and ways in which someone has been able to hurt me. I feel raw from screaming so loudly to draw someone's, anyone's gaze long enough for them to see that I just might be worth loving.

The sensible side of me tells me to pull away. To stop laying myself so open to people. You only get hurt, it says. Why bother trying any longer?

But the child within cries out for me not to give up because maybe, just maybe, there is someone right around the corner who will be willing to adopt me, take me home, give me somewhere to stay, return to, and feel accepted no matter what ridiculousness I might come up with to make a fool out of myself once more.

I want to share these words with someone—I want someone else to say that they know exactly how I feel. That I'm not alone in this facing of rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection. And I don't want anyone to say it'll get better or that you'll work it out one day. Because those words? They usually come from someone who it has already worked out for and thus they have separated and distanced themselves from the hurt and despair that comes from yet another person saying that you “matter” to them but then saying, in essence, that you don't matter enough.'