Throughout my life, in every relationship I’ve ever had—in romance, in friendship, in my family—I’ve always been the insecure, needy one. Maybe that’s whyalmost everyone eventually leaves. (I will amend: Maybe that’s why almost *everyone I don’t want to leave* eventually leaves.) Maybe it’s why I have few friends (none offline). Maybe it’s why I have a crappy marriage. Maybe it’s why everyone always finds someone better—someone less needy.

I’ve always been the one afraid to lose the other person. The one who feels lost when they’re gone. And they always go. It’s only a matter of time.

I need you, but you don’t need me.
I’d be lost without you, not the other way around.
You’re filling an emptiness in my life, but you don’t have emptiness for me to fill.
I’m superfluous. Expendable.

I joke that people are lucky to have me, but it’s just that—a joke. I don’t believe that. I think I’m lucky anyone will have me.

I’m a burden. I’m weak. I’m not happy with myself which is why I’m not okay alone. And not being okay alone makes people less likely to want to be around me. Being okay alone would mean I’m a strong, well-adjusted individual. Those are the people others want to be around. Not needy, clingy me.

To overcome this—to change this—I need to “learn to love myself“. Yeah. I know that. God, that fucking phrase makes me want to spit glass at anyone who says it. (No, I don’t know where “spit glass” came from. I guess I just have a colorful imagination. Or I’m a psycho.) So… how does someone who has hated herself for as long as she can remember learn to love herself?

What’s to love?

It’s a serious question I ask myself often because I’ve yet to come up with any answers. There are three things I come up with whenever someone asks me what I like about myself (and I share the same three every time I’m asked):

I am intelligent.
I am funny.
I have nice eyes and hair.

And I can’t take credit for the last one. And maybe only half-credit for the first one because my dad was *really* smart. I suppose funny is all me. Although some people don’t get my humor. I personally think you must be a heartless, souless robot to not get my humor, but who am I to judge? Maybe you think Garfield is funny. And if you don’t know who Garfield is, then I’m fucking old and shut up.

So I “love” (more like “like”) one and a half things about myself that are actually me. I suppose I could add that I’m a good writer and a couple of other things like that, but those kind of fall under intelligence, in a way, so let’s not nitpick.

To recap some of the things I hate about me (actual list too long to include in its entirety):

I don’t think I’m strong.
I know I’m not happy.
I can be a total bitch.
I’m kind of selfish.
I don’t think I’m a very good mom.
I make bad decisions (and always have).
I’m needy and insecure.
I have no confidence or self-worth.
I don’t think I’m a good person.

[Incidentally, yesterday I mentioned that last one to my NP, so she asked me, “Have you murdered anyone?” To which I replied, “Not yet.” To which she laughed. And told me I was funny and she likes our talks. Is she being paid to talk to me? Yes. Do I still believe her? I think yes.]

Where was I? Oh right. I’m funny, but I’m a needy, weak, worthless, insecure bitch with no confidence who hasn’t murdered anyone… yet.

I guess that about sums it up.

• • • • •

    
I love my boys. They’ll never leave me. Since they’re not really here.

p.s. — I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking the same thing. What was the point of this post? Fuck if I know. 

         
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