Vulnerability . . .

Photo source: Character Lab

Hiding and heavily guarding the parts of me I don’t want to reveal in relationships are probably my super power or defense mechanism (super powers sound cooler so let’s run with that). I only show the parts I want them to see, the parts that are easier to handle and less burdensome because people claim they will love every version of you hidden away but in reality, when they get a slight glimpse they run for the hills or swim the Atlantic Ocean to escape. Nobody really wants to deal with your mood disorders, depression or your weird tendencies that only you understand . . . well at least that’s what I thought.

I live in my head 95% of the time, I was an only child for 18 years so I’ve always made my imagination my best friend and I spent years making sure I was happy with myself. Learning self-love wasn’t easy but I grasp the concept and I’ve been giving myself all the love others couldn’t while still giving others more love than they deserve. However, the thing with self-love is once it settles, it brings along defense mechanisms because it wants to protect you at all cost.

Lately I’ve been spending my weekends hiding away in human arms that make me feel free and vulnerable, it’s weird because my imperfections, insecurities and tempestuous overthinking mind feels at ease. I feel understood, I don’t feel the need to overexplain myself because those arms and the mind that controls them understands and accepts me.

This type of intimacy with someone else makes me cry and it doesn’t help that I have this Karol G song stuck in my head; my soul feels exposed. . . fragile. . . free. . . trusting

I put the ‘D’ in difficult asf but I think it’s because no one has ever taken the time out to understand me or study me so they could see I’m just protective of myself but now everything is open for him to view and he’s not running.

I don’t know whether to close the box and run away before it’s really too late or allow myself to stay open.

Being vulnerable is a weird feeling . . .

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