It ain't me.

He didn't know me.  I felt like, sometimes, I was watching myself from above and wanted to stop but I couldn't.  I was completely self-conscience.  And vulnerable.  And scared.  No one had ever shown me that attention.  And I don't think that he knows, to this day, that the girl that he "knew" wasn't me.

I pretended that I had my shit together.  Little Suzie Homemaker who could cook, work, and go to school in one quick swoop.  And I could also charm the pants off of his friends.  The real me is the one who, out of laziness can stick some spaghetti in to reheat and burn a squash (and still eat it).  The real me doesn't clean for weeks and then has a nervous breakdown over that one last magazine piled up--and throws everything away in a four hour cleaning spree.

I felt like I could be perfect with him.  And it was exhausting.  I had a panic attack once a week.  What if the real me wasn't good enough?  What if my humor was too off-center?  What if he didn't like the real me and left me?  What if he left me anyway?

I guess I want another chance, in a way.  I am better than who I was pretending to be.  So they can tell me to be careful.  They can tell me that I am not good at second tries at friendship.  I don't care.  I would rather have someone walk away from the person who I am, the person I love who I am, than to think that I am someone who I am not.