I like being dependable. I like it when people say that they need to talk to me, or that they would wait until I’m done with something to tell me what’s going on. To take my time, to be completely transparent. I like it when people look to me for an opinion, or stamp of approval. I love being needed. And yet somehow, that feeling, that all consuming emotion of being a constant, the kind of thing people can’t live without, is diminished to dust. Suddenly, when you realize that people keep telling you they need you so much, you realize you’ve become expendable. And misery tightens its clutches on you.
There is a certain beauty to being needed.
The idea of being essential to another’s mere existence is the kind which once introduced to our brains, never leaves.
There was a period in my life where being necessary was the only thing I wanted. To feel seen, cherished, even adored. Someone had decided to look in my direction for the answers, to stare at the reflection in my mirrored eyes to truly understand what to do. I was the middleman between the trauma and the traumatized, the perfect epicenter. I believed that I had reached the pinnacle of importance. I was the anchor, sturdy and still in a rabid storm, holding on to the boat which bore the harsh impact but stayed in place.
I loved living this way, and then I didn’t.
When I realized that my importance started to slip through the cracks, I mourned. I mourned the life of the seemingly most important person in the world, for she had suddenly become an echo chamber. I detested the notion of being perceived as expendable, as just another person to bounce an idea off of, or seek comfort in. I hated feeling replaceable. I am intense. I am the type of person who says what is on her mind, and bears the pain of those around her if it means lessening the freight. I never allowed myself to feel like an extra chair at a table, or the only painting on the wall that isn’t hung up on a nail. No, that could never be me.
It makes me wonder if this is how we lose people. If our value is diminished by those we love most, do we harbor any value at all? The answer is yes.
There is a lightness to being alone, an eerie solitude to being let go of, and an ignorant bliss to being forgotten. All three of these things are the components of a girl like me, who fears being forgotten but feels it happening in real time. You cannot clutch water in your hands, because it will slip through the cracks and water the scorched earth— and nothing grows out of ash, no matter how many stories about the Phoenix you hear.
If you become expendable, the adoration and admiration you held for the person who told you you were special will turn to rust and break into the sea soon enough. It is not your fault that being seen by someone felt like love. Sometimes, that’s all we can ask for. But I've always known that if you really want something, asking isn’t enough, but you also need to know that sometimes, asking isn’t worth it.
Written January 2022