Shabby

30 04 2008

I do not like to feel sad or alone.

For whatever reason, it is desperately hard for me to admit to others that I feel lonely. In this lonliness, I feel sad. A sadness that is thick and heavy. Inpenetrable, even.

I do not like to sit in this place of sorrow and grief. I want to run away from my feelings. I don’t want to eat breakfast as if acknowledging that I have physical needs somehow makes the pain more real. When I am thin, I feel like I am an image, a shadow.

Not quite real.

The lie I believe is that somehow this is better than being hurt. Better than feeling the emptiness of loving and being left. If I don’t really give my heart to others, then they cannot crush it. If the people in my life know me only as an image, shadow, or reflection of a girl, they will not get too close. I am not quite real.

But I know this is a lie.

The truth is that I will never be real unless I let myself love and be loved. Like the velveteen rabbit, I am not sure I want to become real – it is quite uncomfortable to grow shabby.

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn’t mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn’t matter.

The sad truth is that in loving, I will be hurt. And I will hurt others.

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