You don’t know what you want from me. Writing authentically means I don’t care about you. But I care about you.
Isn’t that a cluster?
I write so as not to step on your toe, but constantly looking down instead of straight into your eye leaves me questioning and insecure.
Years ago, when I felt controlled by someone else’s actions, I told them how shitty it felt—and that you can admire a butterfly and its flutter without possessing it.
I hate that feeling. I deplore it. Mouth-vomit, want to ball it up and throw it into infinity. The pressure.
The unspoken “you owe me.”
I sniff that out like the shit it is. Too many dysfunctional, abusive relationships taught me to run—far—when I sense a plea, a request, a quiet contradiction of what I need.
The familiar: “Yeah, but what about me?”
You’re not my job, I want to say. Be a grown-up. Manage your own blabbering toddler.
That’s not my job.
And if you’re thinking, is this written for me, it probably is.
I care deeply. I just won’t confuse care with obligation anymore.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 