Enough

May 19, 2019

I don’t think too much about who I was and the life I lived right before my brain surgery. Right before my life changed drastically. I was glorifying a life I’m ashamed I lived. I wasn’t doing anything illegal or dramatically immoral really, but I wasn’t living well.

I was over-involved. I was over-committed. I was deeply insecure and my insecurities were multi-faceted. I couldn’t just be myself and I couldn’t just be by myself. I didn’t like myself and I definitely didn’t like the quiet. Funnily enough, many of the insecurities I had before my brain surgery worked themselves out of my heart. I relish time alone. I thrive when I’m able to just be. I actually really like myself now.

But there’s one insecurity that I didn’t have before surgery that I now carry with me daily. Relationships.

Before my medical stuff happened, I had a vast sea of friends and acquaintances. I was surrounded by people. I was a dorm Resident Advisor in a 14 story building, so I had my residents. I was on a speech and debate team, so I had my very large number of teammates that I spent a lot of time with and traveled the country alongside. I was involved in a number of other activities with teammates and club members. I was active in a church. I had a lot of people surrounding me. I could turn anywhere at any point in time and find someone.

But then I had brain surgery. And very few people were there to be found.

When I was first told I had to have brain surgery, I had a list of people I called my way through before I posted anything on social media. I had a long list of friends who I wanted to hear from me directly. Because we were in college and people that age either hate talking on the phone or were in class and unavailable, I had to leave a lot of voicemails. I left a lot of voicemails. I left a lot of voicemails that were never returned.

I called people I cared about to tell them life-changing news. I called people I had spent time with, shared dreams with, laughed with, cried with, did life with, to tell them I was dying. And they never called me back. Days went by, weeks went by, nothing. No calls. Not a single text message. It is now four and a half years later and I still haven’t heard back from many of them. I think it’s safe to say I never will.

I thought I dealt with this already. I told myself that it’s understandable. We were kids. We were young. We weren’t equipped to deal with our friends dying from health issues. We didn’t know what to say to trauma.

I thought I dealt with this already. I told myself that if they weren’t going to respond, we weren’t really friends anyway. If they weren’t going to be there during the difficult times, I didn’t really want them around.

I thought I dealt with this already. I just, I don’t know. I thought I dealt with this already.

Yet here I am, believing in friendships to an extent. And here I am, believing that no man will sign up for a lifetime of this.  

Yes, I know that people with health issues get married every day. That people with continued trauma have friends. I know that other people are able to have relationships despite health concerns. I know other people have that.

However.

When I was struck by life, and I was driven down to the very core of who I am by trauma, when illness stripped everything else away, no one stayed.  

I wasn’t enough to make them stay.

I wasn’t enough. 

So now I try really hard. I try hard to show I’m worth staying for. I’m witty and an engaging conversationalist. I use humor to show people there’s value in having me around. I try to follow social scripts for different interactions so people don’t see what’s missing or what’s odd. I don’t tell many people about my medical stuff because I don’t want them to think it’s hard to be my friend. I don’t date so that I don’t end up dating someone. Like I said, I try really hard.

But here’s the thing. I’m good at caring for people. I’m thoughtful and empathetic. I’m good at sharing love and showing I care. I’m built well for a few deep relationships. But I’m terrified.  

I’m terrified because underneath it all, I know I’m not enough to make someone stay.

How do I open up to friendships, to a relationship, with the timer running in the back of my mind, counting down until my next illness spike sends people away yet again?

How do I release this belief when it’s proven true time and time again?

Do I think anything else is true when, at the end of the day, I am the common denominator? When I am still not enough?

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