Dear You,

I know you know this, but I’ve not yet been able to tell you properly. Because my brain won’t let it out, trapping things in so they are only real to me – and you know how uncomfortable I am with the person I no longer recognise.

There are things which live in me, things I keep boxed and packed away down deep. In a place where I can keep them from hurting others, but every now and then they escape in the form of self-loathing. And I know what this does. I lose me for a brief time, it traps me where I feel like I’m pointless, useless, unworthy. It’s conditioning mostly. The way I react to scenarios or being asked questions is because I anticipate the old responses. The often repeated patterns of hurt. I emotionally tense up, waiting for the punch.

But it’s more than even that. Even when I believed I was good enough, when I was made to believe I was, I soon found I wasn’t. And it compounded the mess. There will be times I look at you and just think she’s too good for me, but that’s the simple beauty of the damage done. It’s insidious, a sneaking, creeping, demon ready to attack whenever I don’t expect it.

What I want you to know, the reason I’m writing this, is that I love you. Not in that crazy way destined to fizzle out but in the simple way of coming home. The feather light touches and the little things.

I’m a bit broken, sure. So much is plain. But I’m a million miles away from the place I used to live and the person I used to wear the mask of. And I am yours. I won’t always get everything right – it’s just no going to happen – but never doubt me. It’s not just you who’s the venture capitalist here, there’s a lot in this trust fund of mine.

It’s going to take a while to unpick all of this, to set it right. I’m just glad you’re with me and that we are love.

Yours always.

 

 

 

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