It Was Always Me
The story of my heart
Ever since I was a child there has been an unidentifiable feeling within me. I have known for a very long time that I was just a little bit different than my peers.
Never one for truly fitting in, I flitted from social group to social group, friendly with all but close to nearly none.
As an adult, I understand that it wasn’t because there was something wrong with me, but I spent a lot of my youthful years yearning for the connection that my peers found so easily.
So desperate for attention, affection and belonging, I packed away my true self. I compromised my internal thoughts, feelings, morals and beliefs to make others comfortable. I would have done nearly anything to be accepted. I did do nearly everything to keep them coming back to me.
I am disappointed in myself.
I spent a fair amount of time in a state of shame — each time I ignored my true self, I knew in my heart that it wasn’t the right choice.
I still have many shame moments, but I am learning to accept my behaviors and understand them for what they are — desperate attempts to fulfill a personal need.
The overwhelming need to feel wanted, accepted and loved led me to dangerous situations and outcomes that were the opposite of what I desired.
One summer, after learning I was being released from my seasonal job as the crowds were dwindling, I accepted an offer from a coworker to spend some time together. I didn’t have anything more than a passing familiarity with this person — we most certainly weren’t friends.
Late at night, despite my better judgment, I went to his place. Walking into a dark, sparsely furnished apartment, I knew I should have turned around. Instead, I pushed forward, unwilling to possibly make someone who took an interest in me angry. The time we spent together that night is hazy at best.
I remember being intimate, not out of desire to copulate but out of fear of the consequence of saying no.
I remember another man, supposedly his brother, coming out of a room I believed to be empty. This man joined the intimacy, which now felt anything but intimate.
I remember the brother’s mouth exploring my lower half. I did not agree to this, but now there were two men. I could not say no.
I remember at some point cowering in the bathroom with the alleged brother, hiding from an unknown woman banging on the outside door. A woman I was told was a disgruntled neighbor, but who sounded a lot more like an angry girlfriend.
I do not remember anything else. I do not remember leaving, returning home. I do not remember the man’s name. I only vaguely remember what he looks like.
I do remember the complex that he lived in and the feeling of horror I would experience for years, every time I drove past that place.
This is only one of many examples of how I sacrificed myself — body, mind and soul — just to feel loved.
I wish I could say I learned my lesson after that. But that was nearly 15 years ago and I am still making similar choices.
In all my poor decisions, however, one good thing came of it. It may have taken hundreds of moments of pain, fear, discomfort and disappointment, but I have finally discovered the truth.
The person that I need to turn to for love and acceptance — that person is me.
It was me, all along, that needed to want better for myself. It was me, all along, that needed to accept myself.
The person I needed to love me?
It was always me.
