Patterns

My heart feels heavy. The room feels loud. His words beat against the side of my head one syllable at a time. The air feels so thick I think I might choke on it. This isn't the first time I have sat across from a man while he tells me I'm not good enough, while the world blurs out of focus in a haze of soggy tears that slowly creep down my face and fall onto my knees. This isn't the first time I have given all of myself to somebody only to be led on and hurt by them. This isn't the first time I have doubted myself, hated myself, wondered if I will ever find love and if I'll deserve it when I do. But something about this time feels different. Something about this moment, sitting here beside him while the blurry world falls silent on my ears, watching his muted silhouette pull the plug...something about this moment feels different. As if every word of his uncertainty, all the context and subtext, compounds with the last. Years of heartbreak claw their way from their distant depths, capitalizing on my vulnerability, adding insult to injury; like squeezing the life out of a lemon onto newly opened wounds. And with each syllable, now ripping into me with savage teeth, the light inside me dims. 

Until he tells me to give up and the light goes out completely.
And so I do.

It was raining. I remember it so vividly; it dripped from his hair, each bead rolling down his cheek until it settled on the smile that played across his face. Tall concrete giants rose out of the thick mat of clouds sulking over the city in the night before us. His hand, wrapped around mine, felt safe and warm despite the dropping temperatures and biting sleet. Until my dreams caught up with reality and I dreamt of elderly women singing softly over the ocean; their white hair like a billowing fog dancing around their weathered faces. Their leathery hands reaching out and grabbing at my ankles; threatening to pull me out to sea where I would surely be consigned to oblivion. I dreamt my face deeply entrenched with grooves from years of furrowed brows and long forgotten laughter. I dreamt my skin a pallid grey, stark against the dark blue water reflecting the midnight sky; floating there alone, the last consoling note from the most unconventional of sirens, fading off into the distance. I dreamt of unbridled winds, imprisoning me in long and cruel arms. Rendering me so wholly immobile and helpless, that my muscles could do nothing but accept their fate one by one; my body hanging lifeless and limp. And completely emotionless.
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This is not because I needed him to substantiate me in any way. This is not because I wasn't ok before he came along. This is not because I'm not ok on my own. This isn't necessarily because I was certain. This isn't because I was ready to call it quits and send out the invitations because I thought "that's it, I found him!";  three months is certainly not long enough to know that. My feelings were real, but maybe it's not about him at all. There is only so much that the body can take. There are only so many times the heart can be hurt until it just doesn't seem worth it to fight any more. I have given everything I have to give and then some. I have put myself out there time and time again. I have fallen more times than I can count; not once has there been anyone to catch me. But each time I have told myself that I deserve better, found my legs, and soldiered on with my head held high. Alone, but optimistic and empowered and marching the best I could. But this time is different.

This time it doesn't feel worth it to be me any more. 
And I don't think I am strong enough to be.

So I've given up. But not on him. I've given up on myself.
Can I go to sleep yet?

I can hear cars on the road. Mechanically they hurry past; crude and clumsy textures with no persistent beat. A wall of percussive sound with no distinct notes or melody. 

Today I awoke to find a rampart forged of mist and fog staring at me from across my backyard; inaudible, unmoving. Unwavering in its density and impinging on my world with its weight. The cars hurrying past. I stood, somewhat rigidly, staring into the grey void threatening to engulf me; my clothes wrinkled, my hair bedraggled and knotted from the uneasy dreams of the night before. Dishes lay heaped in the sink to my left, shoes stockpiled in a characteristically insouciant manner to my right. Disorderly as it may be, my near nano-scale, disaster of an apartment, provided refuge from the encroaching brume and rooted my body to the earth; my thoughts with it. Soberly I closed the door, retreated to my bedroom, and slunk under the covers. 

However sleep delivered no solace from my unease. Panic struck. My mind reeled. My limbs seized. My body lay there motionless; paralyzed and helpless while my anxiety cocooned me just as the fog did. I dreamt of babies. Of diving into icy lakes, legs tangled in seaweed, my lungs collapsing under the pressure of being suspended under hundreds of meters of glacial liquid. I dreamt of the prairies. Of being enveloped in tall grasses and endless blue sky. I dreamt of emptiness and solitude. Those same prairie grasses on fire, the heavens thick with smoke and ash, filling my nose with a suffocating redolence until finally I dreamt of nothing except an overwhelming darkness. 

When I awoke again the fog had lifted but I was met instead with a pounding between my eyes and a gentle nagging in the pit of my stomach. There is something so fragile about the way the blood pulses in my ears when I have run out of things to distract myself with. 

I promise to not let this get the best of me.