Once A Week, I Ask My Friends To Remind Me That I’m Worthy Of Love
I tend to freak out the most on Mondays. Maybe it’s just the dreariness of the day, or the fact that a weekend’s worth of dread has built up and is ready to be released. Regardless of the reason why, I tend to lose it once a week. And I don’t mean in a funny haha, how-cute-I’m-so-stressed-and-everything-is-hard way. I mean in a literal I’m not sure why I’m here way. I mean in a what is the even the point? way. I mean in a lay in bed and stare at the ceiling kind of way. Sometimes, just being is the hardest thing I do.
But I’m also in this totally perfect relationship. I am somehow dating someone who thinks I am magic and who I also find magical, and together we have done so so many good things. It’s hard for me to believe.
Some nights, though, and some afternoons and, well, some mornings, it feels impossible. It feels like a dream I’ve cooked up on my own. I become deceived by my own anxiety into thinking that maybe none of this is real. Maybe she doesn’t love me. Maybe she’s just being kind. Maybe she just wants to take care of me, take responsibility for me not having yet completely lost my mind.
I learned early on in my relationship that I couldn’t always to turn to my partner in these moments. She says I can, but I don’t want to drain her. The last thing I want is to exhaust her with my weakest hours, to expect her to drop everything and be 100% mine, full of reassurance and guidance and wisdom.
I try to split my most vulnerable moments among myself and the people who love me most. So most of the time I end up messaging my two best friends.
It’s a practice we’ve perfected. I say, straight up, “I need you to remind me that I’m good.” Or I send a poem or a SnapChat sketch or an essay rambling about how much I’m hurting, how bad I feel about who I am, and how I impact those around me. We share our hurt and our stories through poetry and emojis. We let our technology talk when we can’t.
It’s hard, being vulnerable. Always. No matter who I’m talking to. But few things are as suddenly validating as having a friend tell me that they feel not the same way, but similarly. Or having a friend admit to having no idea what it feels like to live my life, but that they are sending love and good vibes. It feels good to admit my own weakness.
As a society, we’ve made it so hard to have feelings and to be vulnerable because we’re supposed to fight and be strong and not pause to cry or fall into ourselves. Because, let’s face it: there are bills to pay and cats to feed and a patriarchy to crush. We can’t let go because it’s called “giving in.” We aren’t supposed to bore our friends with our misery. We risk being called “overdramatic” or “negative.” We aren’t the fun, party friend who’s great to chat with over margaritas on brunch days. But we still matter. We still need friendship.
Because we’re the ones who need it. We’re the ones who need people who see us when we’re vulnerable and love us. Not despite our weakness but wholly, every crack visible and loved. Our vulnerability doesn’t mean we don’t deserve love. It just means we need to never be judged when we ask for it.
