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This is what is going on in my head.

By anxious snackPublished 7 years ago 7 min read
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I wish he knew the way that I felt. But I know he doesn't.

I know I talk a lot about the past, he must be convinced that I want to be there instead of here. The truth is, I am obsessed with sixteen. I wrote a song about it, I relive it in my mind every day, it's become my obsession. Maybe it's that lyric from that song I like to listen to, by the girl with a soft voice. "Gotta get it in my head, I'll never be sixteen again." Sometimes I pretend that I am.

But it's not that I don't want to be here, I just don't want to be here. In my own head, forever trapped with the memories that haunt me. When I close my eyes I see two things, him and the past. With him is where I want to be. Every minute of every day for eternity.

So why am I like this? Searching for the girl that let her friend bleach her hair, that wrote songs about happiness, that let the sun bake her skin just right. If that girl is me, then why am I not that girl anymore?

And right there is the answer to my question. "Why am I like this?" I'll tell you. The pretty girl with bleached hair and red lips had been hurt before, she grew up destined to be sad underneath. Her daddy may have screamed, and the first boy she ever kissed might have made the first two years of high school stressful, but nothing destroyed her like sixteen.

I can't help being in love with sixteen, just before my life crashed. It wasn't until two years later that I was able to escape from the boy, from it. I could never have done it on my own. I was eighteen then, what I always wanted. And what I had thought was the worst part of my life, back when I was sixteen, suddenly was nothing compared to what I was living.

But for some reason, I let him in. Admittedly, I have a tendency to ignore people when I am depressed, especially strangers. I always answered him, let him in. If he hadn't saved me, I wouldn't just be trapped in my mind, I would be cornered in reality. For that, I will thank him for the rest of my life.

Maybe I'm just upset because I changed so much. Before the worst, I had been almost steadily becoming my true self. I used to like to read books as much a possible and listen to alternative music. I loved anything vintage, and I loved wearing dresses with floral print. There was cherry red lipstick on my lips almost every day, and I was innocent. A year later I had pink hair, lots of black clothes, indie music, leather. I didn't read much anymore. I drank and smoked weed, and that was the only time that I was happy. And a year later I pierced my septum, got eight tattoos, dyed my hair several times, listened to half rap, half indie, cried in the bathtub.

I'm sure you can see the descending tendency that I have. I wonder where I will be this time next year? I'm going to let myself be optimistic this one time, because the last few years, I didn't have him.

He saved me somehow. Saved my life, saved my soul. I may be beyond broken, but I am here. What he doesn't know is he is fixing me slowly. I never thought I could be fixed. I never thought I could be saved. I never thought I would get out alive. I truly believe, with every part of me, that I would not be alive if he didn't come when he did. And I know it seems like it, but this isn't me going on and on about my sadness again. He needs to know. And I'm going to tell the world.

The first time we met he hugged me, and I loved the smell of the cologne. He was much taller than me, and with my small frame, the three-second hug felt like being wrapped in the warmest blanket. I was eighteen, he was twenty, and that was okay. We watched my favorite movie and went to the fair. The first time we kissed, it was gentle and soft, and my heart was beating so fast. The second time he came over he gave me his class ring. The first time he saw me without makeup on, he told me I was beautiful. He gave me a kitten.

He slept in my bed, and I slept in his. We met each other's families and we fell in love with each other even more. We drove the distance to see each other. We sang songs together in my car, and I loved when he sang that one song when his voice was raspy. When it got cold, I wore his sweatshirt, and I never gave it back. I never will. We played video games until two am. We got tattoos together. In the winter he carried me to the car when I didn't want to put my shoes on. He kept me warm.

On my nineteenth birthday, we got tipsy, played video games, ate wings, and slept in the living room. He didn't mind me changing my hair monthly, he was guilty of that, too. We argued sometimes, but even when I was mad, I wanted him there next to me. He tried to dance with me in the light of his lizard's cage. He helped me when I hurt, and I suppressed anything wrong in my life when he needed to be loved extra. He supported everything I loved to do, and I helped him do what he loves, too.

And I loved him almost instantly. His clothes, his hair, his lips, his eyes, brown but lighter than mine, his nose ring. I love all of his different tattoos, every single one. The way that he was different than anyone I had ever met before. From a different town, a different life. That's what I always needed.

I love it when his facial hair gets scruffy. I love it when he holds me in his sleep. I love the way he loves animals. I love that we have such similar interests. I love the fact that I found the one person who makes me feel safe, every second he is near. I love it when he laughs so hard that no sound comes out, but his smile is perfect and it brightens my whole day. I love it when he jokes with me, calls me stupid yet perfect nicknames.

I love his fearlessness. He is the strongest person that I know, and he continues to be. And it is so hard to bring his walls down when he is hurting, but I can do it because he and I are something rare. When I look at him in the car, I smile at his profile, and he turns and looks at me, and I am home. I can't be anyone but myself with him, not even if I tried. He gets the most real side of me. All of my stories, all of my secrets. The one man, the one person, I have ever put my full trust in.

But I'm not going to lie, it wasn't until he got a tattoo of a moon, that I believed he loved me with every inch of his heart. I know now that he does. He does. For someone with such a dark outlook on life, with such a grayscale past, I sure smile and laugh a lot. It's so easy.

Things are so much better now.

I've never been okay.

Now I am more than okay.

I know it's dangerous, but I can't help but make plans in my head. An apartment, lots of pets, getting engaged, married, having babies. We already know what our little girl would be named.

He is the structure, my frame. It's no secret that I was a spoiled only child, and sometimes I whine, and I always get upset if I don't get what I want. I'm far from ladylike, and I swear much more than anyone ever should. Somehow he loves me, and he loves me right. That's all I ever wanted. And I got it.

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About the Creator

anxious snack

I see the world in words.

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