Why does it matter
Who loved me
Who saw me once as a woman
Who craved me
Who lamented my loss
Who reached out
Who spoke of me to others
Who looked me up long after he left
Why do I care?
Because they all saw something I never could. They are references. Gauges. Water marks. My shadow self.
I was once loved by a man so great that I must have something inside me worth wanting, right? At least to the next man who comes along and bolsters me? Buoys me so I don’t sink, anchored to unshakable self-doubt?
Will I ever see what they saw? An intrinsic something? A force of nature? A pillar of calm? Or am I doomed to be a sieve that empties faster than it can be filled?
How many of them have been baffled by my suspicion? “But why do you want me? What could I possibly give you that you couldn’t find somewhere else? Anywhere else?”
I can never see myself through their eyes. So I am always surprised when they do say something revealing. My most guarded secrets are not so secret to them. It turns out they are perceptive as I am. They see the details I assume no one will ever pick up on.
I’m only one step ahead of them seeing the me I hide. The insecurity seeded so deep that it may be burned to the ground periodically only to grow from roots below the surface.
They know. They know.
It isn’t coincidence. Whatever it is that I transmit is what has attracted only the most perceptive and genius of mankind. I am proud of these men. I will boast about them. Even if they were never mine, I would still want to know them and their work.
I want them all in my life. Forever. I want to meet their wives and know their children. I want to root for their successes and hold their hands through downfall and tragedy. Most of all, I want to see them exalted by others the way that I exalt them.
When you go your whole life seeing things no one else sees, you get used to the loneliness. You can’t imagine there are others like you.
But there they are. The few. The precious. The precious few.
I think part of what they fall in love with is seeing themselves through my eyes, my words. I am a reflecting pond. I am a sedative. I am a warm, squishy place of safety.
They get that gift from me. But who am I to them? I never trust. I never accept. I refuse to submit to the idea that I too am worthy.
And maybe like attracts like and they are also lonely and needing to be seen, validated, bolstered and buoyed. Just as emotionally unavailable.
I don’t want this anymore. I want to find a healthy place between imposter and prophet. I want to just be a girl. I never got the chance before. I want to be a girl. I want to be a girl. I want to be a girl.