i’m in a writing mood where i have no fucking idea what to say but i know i want to write.
i blocked doug finally. no more sexting. no more entertaining. no more any of it. i’m sick of him and i’m done with it. it might take a while for all of me to be convinced of that but i’ve made up my mind.
it’s like there’s this small version of me that feels almost like he’s all i’ll be able to get. i won’t be able to have anything more real. i won’t be able to be anything other than sex to somebody. the only part of me that really exists is my boobs and ass and vagina and my mouth. part of me believes that. part of me feels like i should keep entertaining doug because something is better than nothing. because even though i may not be able to capture a different guy’s attention i can at least have his, as damaging as it may be. and i feel like damaged goods too because of him. i feel like because of him, if no one was going to love me before they definitely can’t love me now. who wants a girl who’s so wounded and hurt by something that happened so long ago? who wants a girl that has a hard time opening up and can’t bring herself to be as close with people she’d like to be?who wants a girl that can barely ever take her own advice, or a girl who copes by not eating and puking and avoiding? who wants to put up with that? who wants to stick around for that??
at work today two of my coworkers gushed over how pretty i looked today. and i knew i did but hearing it vocalized made me so uncomfortable. i didn’t know what to do. i felt some anxiety because of it and didn’t know what to do. no one calls me pretty. i’m not pretty, i’m not supposed to be pretty. i’m supposed to be hot and sexual. i can’t be innocently pretty. it’s not possible for other people to see me exist like that. because the only way i feel like i’m allowed to exist in other people’s head is either as an ugly / average looking girl or a piece of ass to stick their dick in. it’s hard to explain exactly how it feels. but i rarely ever feel “pretty” or “beautiful” and hearing people call me that makes me squirm. i don’t exist that way. i’m not those things. they imply some kind of purity or innocence. i don’t feel like i have any of that. i don’t feel like a good person. i feel like people should see me as ugly because deep down that’s what i am. deep down i’m scarred and i’m damaged and i’m beyond repair and deep down are horrors no one would touch with a ten foot pole, not even me. i run. i run away from myself and from other people and if i could literally run away i would. i dread letting people see these sides of me, and at the same time i long for it. i long for being able to feel like i could write something like this and then send it to someone and know that they’d get it. that they’d understand and they’d care but i don’t have that kind of security.
and zach. i want him to want me so badly. i want him to like me as something more but within that i’m terrified of it being only for sex. i’m terrified that all he or anyone else might want is sex. i’m terrified that people only ever want me for that. that people don’t want me a lasting relationship. and it’s hard for me to remember that friends exist long term because growing up all i’ve seen is my parents who are so codependent they don’t really have social circles, especially my dad. and so it feels like when i’m older i’m either going to be alone or i’m going to be with someone long term but i don’t feel like anyone would ever want me long term. i don’t feel like i’m worthy of long term. i don’t feel like i’m worthy of getting to be More Than Just Sex, or the Girl You Bring Home to the Parents. I don’t feel like I can exist outside of sex.
i don’t know what else to write.
i want to write more about zach but i’m not really sure what to say.
he hugged me twice today. and it was lovely. it was amazing. and underneath that i wonder if it means something and if it did i wonder if it meant he lusts for or he loves me. i wonder if i would be enough for him. i wonder if i’m too young for him in terms of my mental place. i wonder if he sees me as immature but entertaining. i wonder if he sees me as more than some pretty 17 year old he works with. i hope he does. is it immodest to say that i hope he can see how intelligent i am? that i hope he can see how good i am or might be? that i hope he sees me for me?
all i want is to be loved. all anyone wants is to be loved. why is it so much easier for people to accept love? why can’t i feel like i’m worthy of it? why can’t i feel like love is possible for me? why do i feel like it’s sex or it’s nothing? why do i feel like i can only have deep, sexual connections but not emotional ones? Daddy Issues? Mommy Issues? Growing Up Issues? Baggage? History?
i can’t make him like me. all i can do is be myself and hope that it’s enough. but it’s just like i have this perpetual feeling that it isn’t and it never will be. i have this feeling that deep down i’m unlikeable. I’m gross. I’m annoying. I’m immature. I’m a child. I’m ignorant. I’m selfish. I’m impatient. I’m entitled. I’m stubborn. I’m hard to love. My dad even told me that.
“Sometimes you make it hard to love you, Naomi.”
and nothing cuts deeper than that. nothing cuts deeper than hearing your father tell you that and then being used for sex by someone you thought was your friend 5 months later. i’m hard to love. i’m difficult. no one likes difficult. everyone wants easy. everyone wants straightforward. everyone wants the perfect girl who doesn’t have any flaws. but i’m hard to love. i’m a bitch. that was a running joke in my family when i was 11-13. “buzzzzz” they’d go at dinner. “naomi’s being a bitch again! watch out!”
all i’ve ever been to other people is callous and stubborn and difficult. all i’ve ever been in other people’s eyes is annoying. all i’ve ever been is shit. worth nothing. amounting to nothing. going nowhere. difficult to love. difficult to stick by. difficult to stand with. difficult to support. difficult to want. but i’m easy in bed. i’m easy to fuck. i’m easy to give a good blow and a good lay. i’m easy to undress and i’m easy to look at but i’m difficult to want to be with. i’m a soft surface with sharp, cutting edges. i can exist for sex but i can’t exist for love.
i really don’t know what else to write now. except maybe goodnight. i’ll talk to you later.