Dear diary,

Years ago I discovered a side of myself that made me do things I shouldn't have. I developed a more than healthy sexual appetite that often left me hungry from lack of desire from my partner, laziness to try to please me, or his inability to keep up. On any given day, it seemed to be one of the three options. I partook in finding anyone that would make me feel wanted, often taking me to deep, dark rabbitholes we not dare speak of. At first it felt good, then it became a thirst I had to quench. I gave more and more until there was nothing left of myself but an empty shell.

Then, I met someone. It started out as a seductive online tryst that ended up being the most fulfilling relationship I'd ever had. For two years, I loved this man who patiently waited for my walls to come down. A man who wanted to be my family. A man who loved intensely and taught me that it was intimacy that I craved so deeply, that I mistook it for sex. I am still not sure what happened in the end, but that chapter did close. It was abrupt and painful and the hole in my chest felt more literal than figurative. It was hard to live. Hard to breathe. Hard to be.

A few months later, I missed talking to someone. I was horribly lonely and I wanted what I once had, even though I never thought he could be replaced. I needed a placeholder. One stormy night, how cliché, I met someone just by chance. The conversation was quick witted and charming and smart. He got me through an unbearable evening and I went to sleep smiling. This continued on for a month. The banter, the divulging of our true selves, finding what we never knew we were missing, in each other. Then one morning, in one random musical act of this man, I felt my heart stutter. I hadn't felt anything in months and here I was, teary eyed and beginning to love again. He felt it too, telling me everything in his life was good enough, but never really felt like it fit all that well. Until he met me. I fit. I was the missing piece.

We spent an incredible weekend together and a couple weeks later, things changed. He changed. He became distant, not freely giving of his time like he once had. When he did talk with me, it was perfection. When I could see his face, hear his voice, I knew he still cared. He often apologized for his lack of affection, saying it had always made him uncomfortable to give. I accepted that, even though it was what I needed. I told him I would wait for him, just beyond his comfort zone, in hopes that one day, he'd reach out for me.

I loved him and he said loved me. I gave and gave, my heart, my soul, my time, my body. All in hopes that he'd take my outstretched hand. That he'd choose me. In all this effort, what I didn't realize was that I was expecting him to choose me, when I wasn't choosing myself. I gave up what I needed to feel fulfilled and he was ok with me doing that. When the end came, I told him that I wasn't going to force him into talking to me anymore. He didn't say more than a few "good nights" before telling me that he didn't know what he was doing, that he didn't feel anything, not meaning us, just in general. He said he needed to just be. So I let go of hope.

I cried. I felt lonely, but also remembering the loneliness I felt when I was his. I gave up on anything I needed from him, telling myself it was OK because that is what I do. I give. Other's happiness makes me feel happy. I've grown in so many ways, not shutting people out or building walls to protect my heart. I am not afraid to love again or even endure hurt again. But what I can't seem to figure out, is how to stop hurting myself. How to be ok with putting my own needs first while still giving that passion and intimacy to another. Maybe one day I will figure it out.

Signed,

Selfishly selfless