There once was a boy who shut himself in, closed himself off, and shared very little of himself.
Surrounded by people who cared about and supported him, not that he noticed.
A master of distraction, he clung to each new thing that would provide relief from the world, the people, and discomfort. The spectacle was his security blanket, but provided no catharsis.
He was a nice boy who worked very hard at being nice, and never causing stress or drama in the lives of those around him. He thought of himself as a strong enough boy to carry the world on his shoulders and its pain in his gut. He swallowed so much in fact that it rendered him emotionally useless. This burden he carried ground him down, his feral pride was all that got him out of bed in the morning – a Sisyphean task – each day awakening with a sharper sense of dread.
He had no inkling of ‘closure’. The pain of the implied release needed to let go of his id was too much. Fear won out.
‘Love’ was another oddity. He knew within himself that he’d felt it unquestionably, but would only allow it in fits and starts. He had no idea how to cultivate it, nurture it, or appreciate it. He only knew the fear that engulfed him at the thought of opening himself up. The fear of the pain of rejection should his true self not be “good enough”.
The boy liked to think of life as a path, and the space between himself and the horizon as the present. The future being out there in the great beyond. The past being non-existent. He always pictured himself alone on this path.
His (my) story is a journey. A work in progress until the light goes out. I am NOT resigned.