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I fantasize about attending some party or a gathering. I’m confident and comfortable in my body. I feel attractive and poised. I run into a woman, an old friend. I have been in love with her for years. She knows this. She has always rejected me.
But now she sees me in a differently. Now she notices. She is instantly aroused by my appearance. I’m exactly the man she has always ached for. She finally sees that I’m perfect. Finally, the void at my core will be filled.
It never works. She is never impressed by me. She rejects me, again. She can’t believe that I’m still trying, after all these years. She’s flattered, really, but thank you — no.
I’m disappointed. I feel like dying. The hole remains. It grows.
I set a new goal. There will be a future event. I will be better at that one. I will be the perfect weight. I will wear the perfect clothes. I will engage in perfect conversation. Then she will see me. Then she will know. I am perfect for her. Then she will know. I love her. She has to know. She has to know. She has to.
Even as I write this, I’m planning, plotting, strategizing self improvements. If I read this book, I’ll be better. If I finish this school or get that job, I will feel alive and whole. If I write my whole mind out, someone will love it. Someone will realize that I’m not worthless.
I pick myself blistered with tweaking, adjusting, starving. Of course, I know it’s bullshit, but I can never stop it. It’s a compulsion. It fucking blows.
I just want to be good enough, already. I just want to be better. I want feel correct, finally correct, at last. I want to be real to someone—to as many as I can.
Please, someone tell me. Can you see me? Am I worthy? Am I valid? Do I deserve to be breathing? Answer me, please, I feel desperate. This is urgent. I’m getting old.
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You won’t find approval outside of yourself.