I’ve been usually told that I’m a good writer. I don’t know about that. I’ve been also told that I’m really good in bed. I don’t know about that either. I just write stuff and make love with people, and try to bring the best out of me in both situations.
But, there lies the issue: I try to bring out the best of me. And that never works.
We usually compel ourselves to show the world our best works, our prettiest face, our precious achievements; and don’t get me wrong, all of that is pretty great and you should be absolutely proud of. But that won’t make us more close. It just makes us look good.
And looking good is something we long for, yes because our society forces us to be the best all the time and people apparently will love us for that. But they never do.
There hasn’t been a single person who has loved me because I was good at my job. Or sex. There hasn’t been a person who had loved me because I was funny or because I’m pretty. Even because of how much of a great cook I am. They simply won’t. And no one will. -And I’m not talking only about romantic love, which is a great kind of love but it’s not the only one, I’m talking about everyone who truly loves us.- They love us because who we are when we are not trying. They love my vulnerability, the fact that I can’t really keep my mouth shut when I’m excited about something and also because when I’m calm and relax I won’t say a word for hours, they love me because I always cry at movies and I laugh at funerals cause, contrary to what people may think I cope with my emotions way too well. They love me because I can come up with strange scenarios and made up immense stories to say the smallest things and that I laugh about how I’m never able to tell a story just from beginning to end and how that probably makes me a terrible writer. They love me because I’m frightened about life and love, and they love me because no matter how frightened I am, I always trust, and I’m always honest. They love me because I genuinely care about other people’s feelings. They love me because they know my past, and they’ve seen me grew out of it. They love me because even though I usually act like nothing touches me, I always end up writing about my insecurities and how deeply lonely I tend to feel. They love me because even at my worst they can come up to me and, to the best of my possibility, I’ll do whatever I can to help. And not only them but anyone who asks for it. And most important, they love me because how unapologetically free I am when no one is looking. Even though I never show that to the people I want to be loved by.
Because all of that, all of what makes these amazing people love me are things that can be used to break me. Because all of these traits can be seen as flaws. And I can’t be flawed. Because if there’s someone out there seeing at me and they have this idea of me being these incredibly mature and talented being who has life figured out and exudes confidence and self-worth… I want them to keep thinking that. Because I’m way too scared to become a real human being that I end up letting them making me a fantasy. And that’s what I was told to be. And that used to be my job. And that’s what my mom taught me. And that’s… what I know how to be. But this whole cheesy chick who sometimes is too depressed to wash her own hair, or get out of bed in the morning, or to write, or to go out as much as she would love to… It’s not loveable. This flawed chick that still, at 25, sleeps with a stuffed dog because she’s still afraid of the dark, it’s not loveable. This struggling artist who keeps getting new jobs and taking more and more responsibilities cause she would love to get out and do them, but it’s too depressed to work… It’s not loveable. This adult who loves Harry Potter too much, or forgets to eat, or never remembers birthdays, and gets lost in their own train of thought, or gets overly anxious when you start not talking to her, and always feels immensely guilty cause it’s probably her fault because she always mess everything up because it’s emotional and silly.
And don’t get me wrong, the problem is not depression. The problem is that, that person who’s interested in me because of what I showed at first… Is never going to actually love who I am. And it’s my fault. And there is maybe someone out there willing and with the capacity to love and understand someone like me without being fulfilling some sort of hero complex or to try to fix me, cause I don’t need or want that. But because they genuinely see that there’s more to me than what I usually show, and they are willing to be patient for me to show it to them.
But maybe I never will. Cause I rather am the fantasy always, than to be Johanna any day.
And the worst part of that is… I hate myself for it.
Johanna is just a girl, and how can anyone love me for that?
And if there’s someone out there with who I can be truly honest with, and not feel like I have to be my best always… They probably just want to hold me dear, as a friend. But I guess, that’s not that bad.
Or so I’ve been told.