So, anxiety attack thread: I think I'm officially giving up on dating. Who knows how long.

A string of supernova flirtationships made me desperate for more— for the potential for more —so I always feel bitter and comparative and uneasy. Always almost the Wren I want to be.

I dream of self-actualization more than anything, staying put in a Me™ that's confident and weird and queer and perfectly himself. A faggy artist of color with a nose ring and a coffee addiction. But the drive up that hill is lonely and nuanced, not to mention fucking exhausting

That's another thing. I'm realizing in real-fucking-time that I don't know what it looks like to live for myself.

I've always dressed in the hopes some m*n with a dangly earring might touch the small of my back when he walks by, might look at me twice. Maybe even text me first.

I've been so starved for affection that I force myself to get full off whatever crumbs these guys can spare. And for WHAT? A second date? So they might mention me to their friends?

I don't know if I've ever been loved the way I need and I can't do shit with crumbs.

I'm fine. Should've led with that. At least, I will be.

But quarantine has all but magnified my need for validation, to be held, or kissed. It's made me wistful for the day someone touches me again.

And I hate that. So much.