The confusion that I feel is real. My family and friends share in my uncertainties and reassure me that I’m doing the right things. I’m being honest and transparent, but since I always am, I wonder if it has any meaning? Then I decide to believe them, and accept it is complicated.

But it came from them, my friends, and so their words carry meaning. I trust, love and admire. I swoon, hold and care. I defend, protect and support. Unconditionally.

What makes something or someone special?

Is it not the thoughts that count?

I pressure myself so hard not to be the cause of anyone’s misery, that I try but fail to shrink away in time. Silence betrays my turmoil. But thoughts unexpressed become echos; questions not asked become assumptions. I’ve fucked up being hopeful so much that I am…unsure.

I’m not worthy of the gifts nature has bestowed upon me for I see them often presumed to be echos and assumptions. I can manufacture a sense of knowing, but remain distant. So something about me must be wrong, or maybe it is my perspective.

Does it say more about me if control isn’t the issue?

Is it not the words that count?

Actually, I’m not worried about the loss of control so much as the loss of certainty. In the past, I’ve always been so sure of myself and my wants and desires that I’m lost without better options about the way I can live my life in healing and joy.

Closeness can do damage. Life without it though seems like torture. Intimacy has a range that can transcend mere observation. I want to remember what it means to be whole, unafraid, fearless. AND not living at constant risk of being triggered. When my PTSD gets triggered by someone, it’s something they’ve done or said or caused that makes me feel like I’m trapped, overwhelmed and dying. The only cure is giving me space to recover, while staying close enough to be remembered for the good feelings and the care. I realize now that I need friendship as a foundation to maintain or recover my comfort within someone.

How is it that for me, friendship is the strongest one can feel?

Is it not the actions that count?

Today I recognize that things that look too big to be wrangled can fill me with trepidation as I worry of it combined with me. Because of the way intensity consumes everything…I’m afraid of closeness. Except the bond shared by friends.

However, in love or war, show mercy. Swallow me whole and then release me to the wild. I blaze hot always with passion, even at rest I’m on fire. I’m more than content to let it burn, intense in a good way. Perhaps if I was simple, or lived my life for someone else’s gaze or admiration, maybe my path would be clear.

Why would anyone carry meaning in their own ways with others if they are unsure?

Is it not the choice that matters?

I’ve officially confounded myself but failed to reinstate to numb. I’m unsure what is happening.

This may be growth or simply nothingness.