I have been in the eye of a storm for longer than I can remember. I have always found people who are going to fuck me up in the head- whether or not this is intentional, I do not know.
I can acknowledge that I am self-serving, and self-destructive, and maybe I do the things I do, because I know they will make for a good story. I’ve always believed in the whole “artist’s struggle for their art” concept- the abuse, the suicides, the disorder, the anxiety, the depression…my talent for seeking out men who I know are going to fuck with my head space, all the things that are wrong with me, I feel like I crave them. Like I wouldn’t be able to write without them. Like all of the passion would disappear if I ever let myself find safety. I only know how to be a sad, artistic cliché. I only know how to write tragedies.
But he is a safe house. A safe house is calm, and warm. It does not have an ounce of ill intention inside of it. A safe house sees the storm, and knows that it cannot stop it. But it stands tall, opening its doors for those who are tired of being in it's eye.
This safe house terrifies me. Will I be able to write within its walls? This house provides me with a vision of happiness- a future that is safe, a home that is not hostile, a love that does not come with a contract. He is kind, and intelligent, and interesting, and he has more confidence in me, than I have in me. He is a different kind of storm; his intentions are clear, his feelings are open... he has my head spinning, but he does not feel destructive. He terrifies me, because I cannot imagine him hurting me.
Maybe it is time that I stopped getting swept up in every storm. Maybe it is time that I stopped being self-destructive. I wasn't looking for a safe house, but maybe it is time that I found one.