i want someone who loves me to hold me. i want to know what it's like to know: this isn't a delusion. i am truly loved.
why did these people hate me so much? i want to know what it's like to be held by someone who really loves me. i want to know what it's like to know: this is real.
how did i believe they loved me?
i clung to moments with them as proof that they adored me,
even when my gut told me:
they hate you.
still i wove together memories to prove we were meant to be.
and all the while they hated me.
they hated my books: “are you sure you want to write?”
they hated the girls i wanted to be.
they hated me when i laughed too much, when i had too much fun, when i didn’t control my body according to their expectations.
and all the while,
they were telling me they loved me.
they were telling me: “andrew, i love you, you’re my best friend.”
i looked at them and i thought, “i am loved. If I think they hate me, it’s only because I am delusional. These people are better than me and if only they would approve of my behavior, then I would love myself. I am loved: they are changing me into a better person.”
I didn’t trust myself.
i tried to change myself to make them happy.
i unpublished my first book.
i hid away daniella.
i created two girls who were me and then i left them in my hard drive.
because they told me, “i hate these girls,”
and i thought i needed them to love me.
if they hated the girls,
they hated me,
and then
i forgot about the severed branch.
i don’t understand why they kept telling me, all this time, that they loved me, and yet they were relentlessly trying to obliterate me.
i tried so hard to make them love me. i told them i was happy and they told me to get help. i told them how good i felt in my girl clothes and they were disgusted. they told me i wasn’t as attractive. they told me, “we don’t know anyone who would like your blog.” at no point did they care i was happy.
for years i was depressed and i hated myself and my writing world was where i escaped, and then they hated what came from that world.
they told me to put it all back.
they hated the art i made. they hated me for being too silly. they hated me for wearing bracelets and they hated me for wearing pink and they told me to go see a doctor for touching my scrunchies.
when one told me, “andrew, you’re unwell,”
i backed up against the wall, i kissed my scrunchie, they said:
“andrew! what are you doing!”
i want to know:
WHY did you tell me so many times that you loved me?
WHY did you give me all these images of you smiling at me and believing you did?
every time i see those images now i break down into tears.
sometimes i am just walking down the street.
an image comes to mind: one of you, looking like you love me, and i feel it, that belief i used to have, that you loved me, the thought rushes over me, and then all at once i see: this is a delusion, and this was always a delusion,
and i break down into sobs.
i cannot stop sobbing when i realize:
i did everything i could to make you love me and you hated me.
i can’t stop crying when i think of the delusion:
you loved me.
but none of you loved me.
all of you hated me.
you hugged me and you touched me and you held my hand and you hated me.
i did everything i could to make you love me and in the end, after you obliterated my art and forced me to play roles for you, you hated me for wearing bracelets.
they preferred me when i hated myself. they preferred me when i talked about killing myself and when i said that i stayed up crying until three in the morning.
i am so sad.
i have been alone now for so long since they cast me to the streets.
all i want is to be held by someone who loves me,
and i cannot stop crying as i type this.
i want someone to hold me.
i want someone who loves me to hold me and tell me i will know what it’s like to actually feel that: to be held and to be really loved,
to say my feelings and be believed,
to say i am happy and have them be happy,
to not have it all just be an awful delusion, revealed after over a decade,
to have it be real this time,
to believe in the smiling faces that populate my mind,
to know when i am touched,
to feel,
to sense without doubt:
she loves me,
she really loves me,
i won’t have to wake up one day to discover she hates me.
she’s holding me.
