Unworthy
October 28, 2002 1:48 a.m.
As I watch how she interacts with her "women". I catch myself realizing how much I miss human touch. How much I miss the unique quality of being loved by someone other than a family member. How much I miss being cared for like she cares for them. I remember what it's like to slip my hand into someone else's and know that it's welcome, and to weave our fingers together and enjoy the simple intimacy that our fingertips can convey.I can sense my mind and soul retreating as I climb into the retreat that my loft offers. I feel not ony aloof and above, but isolated in my "space". I wish I could feel more, or less, or something that I understood.
I want to write what I feel and not be accused of "diary wars". So I creep off to secret diaries and physical journals that I fear for their privacy. When will the wrong person discover my deepest thoughts? When will it be safe to tell the truth? I crave honesty, but cannot find the strength to share my own demons. I feel as if people can just look at me and know my worst fears, my darkest desires, and my most horrible secrets.
I fear the conversations I hold in my sleep. What secrets do I whisper in those moments between sleep and wakefullness? What do I say that I cannot remember the next day? Do I betray my confidences? I pray not, but I still fear constantly.
What makes me so attractive to those with a soul to bear. I feel so honored when people tell me their heartaches, yet I feel so inadequate to aid them. I can offer a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic hug, and a few words of comfort. But I can do little to concretely aid them. Why do they still trust me when I feel I do not deserve it?
Why do I still trust myself?
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