I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t want to reach out. In football we have a term called alligator arms. It means that you try to catch the ball without extending yourself, because you’re afraid to get hit. I’m afraid to get burned. After a while you start to expect it. I’ve been burned by just about everyone in my life saved for my kids and the man I consider to be my brother. If I’m being honest I’ve burned him by failing to maintain a decent line of communication. This all has left me in a position where not only do I refuse to reach out, but I feel incredibly shut down as a human. What happens next is part choice, part pain, and part inevitability.
I’m slowly and actively becoming a hermit. I’ve watched myself close off all of the writer support avenues I have. My remaining connections to writing are the classes I teach and the blog I devote ten minutes to each and every day. Even that stopped for a little while as I grieved openly for the fracturing of the relationship that triggered all this. I suppose the lesson to be learned here is to not fall in love, to not give your heart to another, to never ever find your soulmate. Another lesson could be to never screw it up, which I did quite thoroughly. If someone loves you unconditionally, stands by you as a friend through the worst possible versions of yourself, is still madly and passionately in love with you, but can no longer see you as the person she’s meant to be with at this time, you’ve screwed things up.
I no longer believe that life comes with second chances or even that love is enough. I’ve developed alligator arms and I refuse to extend myself in any way. Instead I’ve been closing off my avenues of access to disappointment, staying in the smallest possible cocoon and accepting that life can blossom in small moments but does indeed live on a bed of suffering.