Imposter Syndrome

"Interesting," He mimics me. "You said it at least a hundred times on Sunday." 

It's been a long time since I've been really excited about someone new. He's still so similar to how he was ten years ago. There's that easygoing, engaging way he moved through the world, the squareness of his hands unlike anything I'd ever seen and the way he smelled- we'd always thought it was cologne but apparently some people just happen to smell magical.

Unexpected beginnings are one of the best parts of life, the honeymoon phase always a nerve-wracking, implausible fantasy. It can be so easy to forget the invisible scar tissue when you feel safe and comfortable in someone else's arms. The only thing that really seems to matters then is the soothing tracing of tender fingers on bare skin.

Then there's the slow, subtle shifting as layers begin to peel themselves back. Histories and old wounds surface in the form of stories or shared secrets. Slowly yet surely learning the edges, the shape of someone else's soul. It's mysterious and exciting and easy.

But then a bad day shows up and all those old, long-healed wounds ache all over again. It's a icy bucket of water, a reality check. Oh, yeah. This is what it feels like. This is who I am. It feels like remembering and in that moment, I am Icarus and my wingtips are alight. 

"But things are so much better now," I tell myself. "I'm different now."

(Isn't it selfish to get better, though? Will things ever really be 'better'? It is fair to submit such a wonderful, innocent person to such a scarred, damaged mess like me?)

One day - one day he'll wake up and something will happen and he'll see it. He'll see the ugly, messy impairments I've tucked away and he'll look at me differently and then everything will change. Suddenly I'm left reflecting on those intimate touches and wondering just how many we have left before the panic attacks start back up again, the bones of things unremembered haunting me even still.

But then there was yesterday.

I'd told him about yelling at my father across the dinner table, about the way he'd go after my little brother and, when he asked for clarification, that was the first time it really felt different. Maybe because it's been years, because there are little cracks and holes in the walls I'd built. But it felt like he was seeing me a little differently. Not as a monster, but a little more like the amalgamation I feel I am. The balancing act, the blindfold, the graveyard, the garden. 

Maybe one day the imposter syndrome will get a little easier.

Maybe it'll be different this time. Hopefully it'll be different.

"You know, some of the reason I'm so anxious is because a part of me is wondering when the happiness will be pulled out from under me." I said softly, looking out past all the trees.

"I thought it was something like that."