Have I Tested You? Have I Gone Too Far? Will I Still Be Worthy Of Love?

I have always had a relatively twisted view of the humans who have accompanied me through the various stages of my life. Twisted because I don’t know if it represents reality, and I don’t know if it represents the truth, and I don’t even know if it’s fair.

I tend to believe that every person on the planet has a bank balance, a finite amount up to which they will be patient with my shit. My shit being, the completely mundane and uninteresting ways in which I feel myself to be broken, damaged, or simply in need of human intervention. I tend to believe that each time I reach out to the people who actively care about me, for whom I care in return, that I am drawing down on that balance.

Maybe it’s a text, to say I’m struggling. Surely, that reduces the balance?

How much more if I call. How much more if I come over. How much more if I say honestly and openly and painfully, avoiding their eyes, finding a place on the floor to fix every ounce of my concentration, that I am in agony?

How do I know how much of that balance is left? How do I know when it will run out, and my transaction will be declined?

I think about these things, more than I should. I’m human, after all.

I think about them and I worry, and I want more than anything to hide away, and to turn off my phone, and to avoid the world, so that I don’t become too much of a burden. So that I don’t keep sapping that balance. So that I don’t lose the people to whom I go to withdraw.

I worry that if I keep on tapping into that balance, that I shall one day no longer be worthy of being loved. And that is a horrifying thought, no matter how you frame it.

We all worry about this from time to time.

It’s just a part of the human experience. It’s a cause, a symptom and a side effect of loneliness, and even the most loved human being, in a room full of people who give a fuck, surrounded by warmth and compassion, can feel the cold touch of loneliness, reaching past every smiling face.

Loneliness comes from not knowing how much you can take from someone else, and it comes from the fear that you’ve taken too much, and it comes from the fear that there’s nothing left to take, and it comes from all of that compounding into a need to take more.

If you’ve been there, I’m sorry. If you’ve yet to go there, I think I can tell you that the feeling will pass. It has for me, though it has sometimes taken a while.

I imagine the solution to this is the same as the solution to so many other problems. Don’t think about it, or perhaps do think about it, but then talk to someone about it, or perhaps go for a run, or change my diet, or phone a friend, or read a self-help book, or drink some tea. These all sound fine, and they could be rather helpful. And yet.

…Perhaps there is no real solution. Perhaps I overthink, and chase half formed thoughts around my own mind like so many ghosts, perhaps I jump at shadows only to see a stray cat creep past where I assumed Jack the Ripper lay in wait. I don’t know, and I may never.

But if nothing else, I can write it down. 🍕🔥💯🌹