numb.

The unexpected tingle of emotion trying to break through the numb demeanor hiding pain. It comes from a not too unfamiliar place where darkness lingers. Creeping through the dimly lit passages of prior escapes where loneliness and sadness have made their way out. A subconscious battle between anxiety and emotional detachment fight to keep the numb demeanor intact.

Friendship are what make and break the internal struggle for sanity. When the feeling of acceptance is sustained, so is sanity. When the insecurities begin to break through, sanity is often questioned.

Questioned not only for it’s necessity but also for it’s worth. What benefits do I gain from being sane? Does being sane qualify for a happier existence? Does being sane quantify the meaning of contentment?

Being a person who often times feels there is a right answer to everything, these questions become hard to decipher. Not only because I seemingly can drive myself mad with all the potential answers but also because there has not been a person who I could consistently go to for the answers.

Friendships much like relationships, are not something that I pride myself on being good at. Somewhere between birth and now there was a mix up in the delivery of how to sustain them. For the majority of my life I have been told that the only people I need are in books. But much to my mother’s dismay even people in books have friends.

It would seem that speaking with a therapist may be to my benefit. Logically it is. Emotionally, I don’t think I could take it. Not only because I’ve been told by the therapists that I’ve called to schedule an appointment that 1) they have no available appts 2) they don’t take my insurance 3) they don’t deal with people like me (meaning that while I’m seeking out help, they don’t have the answers or know anyone who does). As such, I am strangely thankful for the consistent theme of being alone. Had I not been left to my own devices I may not be writing this right now.

Ironic.

Though the pain can be unbearable when I realize there is no one to call in times when I desperately need that human contact, I still try. I still lay in bed with the same tears of filled with loneliness like I had done in high school. I still go to that image of a mother that I wish I had, waiting for me to call her telling her that all I want is to come home. I still say, “I miss my mom,” although deep down I know she can’t coddle or help me. The fictional portrayal of being coddled is what I hold onto. The dream. The need that is fulfilled – if only in my mind.

And for this brief moment, while I type this, I am able to let the numbness subside. Accept the insecurity. The inconsistency in people who call themselves my friends. The people who come in and out of my life. The men. The women. The people who throw words around like family, love, and trust.

I don’t think I’m better then them as I’m guilty of the things that they do which make me cry but often times it’s me who apologizes for the lack of communication. I am the one who reaches out time after time in hopes of reconciliation.

But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps I should take the hint? Or do I take it too personally? Are people generally that selfish?

It’s time to bottle up those insecurities for a while. Stuff them deep down to the place where no one goes. Back through the passages through the corridors and beyond the patches of realization.

Deep.

Deep.

Deep.