Lucrezia Magazine

It is terrifying when it happens. I am not good enough and never will be.

Much like dying, that feeling. How your fingers go cold and your breath stops short. A heavy dread deadens your senses. Your own failure roars in your ears.

I am not good enough and never will be. No matter how much I try. No matter how much I struggle. No matter how much faith I have…

My own tainted epiphany came when he smiled and said, “I believe in you. One day it will all turn around. It will all change.”

I should have been happy for the extent of his belief. He believed in me. Struggled and kicked and clawed us to barely making it as I wrote. I brought in my paltry income and he did the rest. With sweat and stress and love. I wasn’t happy, though. A heavy black uncertainty settled in my bones. My one persistent thought squirmed through my head and settled in my gut. I am not worthy of this belief.

Some cultures call it a dark night of the soul. I believe in our culture it is simply called a mid-life crisis. Though, at thirty-two I wasn’t actually mid-life, or so I hoped. It ate at me all day and all night. My mind turned it over and over as I typed. It bled into my work. It slithered into my patience. I had none. And soon his belief in me was an enormous invisible weight strapped to my back. I lugged it around and as I read everything I wrote, I declared it shit: total and unadulterated shit.

I was not worthy of his belief. Not worthy of his uphill battle to keep us bobbing along in the river of life. Unworthy of his blind faith in me, and what he declared talent.

Depression settled over me like a living thing. It pressed against me, crushed my breath from my chest, made my head pound and my hands sweat. I struggled on. Stringing words together with emotion, but it was all heavy now. Dense and thick like tar. I poured it all out as I listened to the voice that told me I was a pretender: another drone in an army of drones who wanted to be someone. Who wanted to touch the world with words. Wanted to matter. One drone in a sea of many, the numbers too large to tally.

I maneuvered in this fog for about a week. Jack would patiently and quietly ask me what was wrong. He would stoically accept my answer. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. He never pushed me. Pushing is not his way. Faith and love and tenderness are his way. Suddenly these traits seemed smothering - burden too big for me to lug around. And my words got darker. My dark night of the soul turned to pitch. What is darker than black, I wondered. I cried whenever he wasn’t home and I held it in until my throat ached and my eyes burned when he was.

Finally, Jack stopped coddling me.

“Now, my beautiful Erin, you have to tell me. No more. Whatever this is, it’s eating you alive. You’re cheating me, you know?”

“I’m fine. I am fine. Just a little stressed.”

The nasty voice in my head started hissing. That nasty little fuck who reminds me that I am a fake. A phony. Ah yes, a stressful day of typing. Of thinking. Of making up fantastical things in your head. While he worked, on his feet. For twelve hours. Real, hard work. Not the imaginary kind. The kind that makes you sore. The kind that people can see…

He knelt before me. I sat in the chair and stared at him. His beautiful face, his broad shoulders, easy smile. A smile for me. Always there. Always ready. Jack smoothed his hands up my thighs, bowed his head in my lap. I touched his dark hair softly. Soothingly. I could not let him know how I felt.

“You’re cheating me out of helping you,” he whispered against my leg. He was reading my mind. He knew I was holding it in. One tear broke free, slid down my face. Traitor.

Jack raised his head and stared at me. Then he wiped the tear away and started to unbutton my sweater. “I need you. If you won’t talk to me, then be with me. You’re hiding from me, Erin. You can hide from anyone in the world that you want. I will even hide with you. Please don’t hide from me, though. Don’t ever hide from me.”

The lump in my throat had grown to a wad of cotton. I could not swallow or talk. Following the leader, more traitorous tears tracked my face. He laid my sweater open, tracing the cotton cups of my bra with his fingers. I took a deep breath that stuttered in my chest as he thumbed my nipples through the fabric. I hadn’t realized how much. How much I had missed him touching me until he did it. I had shut myself off physically, emotionally and mentally. Locked myself away with the toxic little voice and the fear.

“There you go. See that? All those tears are mine, too. If you keep them from me, you’re hurting me. I’m in this with you and you can never forget that.” Jacks fingers undid the front clasp of my bra. He let it fall to the sides before latching onto one nipple. Sucking until the sensation shot from breast to groin. An indescribable tingling, intense sensation that somehow always made the back of my throat tickle. I moaned and pulled his head closer. Cradled him to my body, the flesh that lay over my heart.