I have an odd juxtaposition of instincts: one is self-preservation, and the other is self-destruction. In the last six months, I have slowly begun to dismantle my tendency for self-destruction, and if you had asked me yesterday whether or not that instinct still held real estate in my mind and heart, I would've laughed in your face and milk would've come out of my nose.
However, tonight, it reared its bald, unwelcome head. It presented itself quietly, not grandly, and it wasn't until it was too late that I had realized what was happening.
It's not that I would've kept it to myself out of some misguided sense of its own insignificance, nor is it something that I would throw around for Look How I've Changed bragging rights. It's something that was importance in its unimportance. It's a sign of what my state of mind had been and it's an indication of the pitiful weakness that Being Vulnerable has, in the past, assigned to me.
Maybe I'm terrified, too. Maybe I'm more terrified about This than I know, hence That. Maybe I'm preemptively trying to find a reason for you to run. My self-loathing is like a distant cousin that everyone forgets about and then shows up on Christmas frickin' morning to ruin the nice time that everybody was having. I've worked so hard to exorcise my demons that I forget about the scars that their claws left as they were pulled across my chest and thrown by the wayside into the bonfire of my realizations.
I wish I was as self-aware as I often believe myself to be.
I wish I was perfect as you deserve me to be.