It’s a sham, it really is.

A lie made up to infiltrate and destroy my life.

The little cavity in the dark mass of churning fire encapsulated in a bony chest. The little cavity that would seem insignificant to any sane human glancing upon it. The cavity that is as meaningless as it is minuscule.

The little cavity that insists that it must be filled. But the question is… with what?

The movies will tell you that love, and only love, can fill the gaping hole inside. But this idea, this abstract concept of ‘love’, is so fickle. I don’t know if I like it. 

By strict definition, my parents must love me. My family must love me. My friends must love me. My friends, because they keep me around and we laugh together. That’s a special kind of love, laughter. My family and my parents, because they are kind of obligated to. But also because I can tell that, somehow, they care. They don’t want me to be hurt. They want a good life for me. That’s a deep kind of love.

But, for some reason, this persistent, gaping hole insists on sucking out a lot of potential happiness. It’s deepened by flitting comments about weight, hair, beauty and almost anything to do with me. Any insecurity that’s even mentioned tugs at the depths of this tiny little hole. 

I don’t think people understand just how much it hurts. And the scary thing is, I’m probably making heart-wrenching, confidence-crushing little jests towards others every single day.

And clearly, love is not enough to fix this hole.  In fact, I think it makes it worse. When the person who you suppose loves you passes such comments, it hurts a lot more than when someone you care nothing for passes them. 

No, it’s not about love.  It’s about being understood. It’s about someone noticing that forlorn look and genuinely caring about how their words affect you. It’s about someone who listens with true empathy and loves you for all your broken, damaged parts inside. True, whole love. 

As much as my mother might insist that this is the kind of love she gives, it is not the kind I receive. She hates parts of me, things I say, things I do and I cannot explain in words how much the rejection stings. It’s like she rejects parts of my soul. It’s as though I’m not good enough. And so I hide a lot of me. From her, from the rest of my family, from the rest of the world. 

I don’t want to keep it hidden. I’m just afraid of everyone’s reactions. If there were someone I could speak to who could understand and who would not allow me to be afraid of them… 

I don’t know. Does such a person exist? Am I asking too much? Are my expectations of humanity too much?

This hole persists and so it must be filled. With addiction, distraction, escape. Binge watching, binge eating, not eating, knife to skin… anything. Absolutely anything that will distract me from the vortex threatening to suck me inside. 
It’s a lie. It’s a sham. This gaping hole can’t be filled. 

It can only close when I die.


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