For as long as I can remember I have asked questions of everyone I cared about. Somewhere in the back of my mind I see a frivolous magazine article in some nonesense-laden women’s publication, the kind that give a girl tips on how to win the boy. How to be the perfect date. How to get a boy’s attention. I am quite sure I scoffed at it, at the time. I am not one for rules and standards in regards to love, and to most I have never acted the girl to any boy. I do not wait around for phone calls, I do not wait to be asked out, and I have no qualms about saying I love you first.
That said, somewhere in that boy/girl propaganda I internalized something. Thing is, I never limited it to boys, or on that ever-elusive way of winning them over. To be honest I have never had trouble with boys liking me, or falling for me, for that matter. I think my biggest obstacle was falling in love back, and trusting that any of that like and love was genuine at all. I seem to be quite skilled at being what everyone else needs – I took those fucked up lessons for love and turned it into an entire guide to life.
I asked questions of everyone to get them talking, to let them know they were listened to, to open them up. Because, as that article said, everyone wants to talk about themselves, to share their feelings, to be inspired. But, in the whirlwind of inspiring others, I fell short of my own sense of inspiration. Being a muse to others is exhausting, and eventually leaves a gaping hole inside. I did it to myself, and I do not blame anyone else in this. Somewhere along the line I decided subconsciously that I was not worth love or friendship on my own merits, or for me as just me. Instead, I felt I had to provide life, love, care, inspiration, and to some level, existence to someone else – and only then would I be needed, and worthy of being cared about.
Slow Show (live) :: The National