With every correspondence, though, I find myself ever more enamored by you. You’re safe and strong and a picture of who I wish I could be.

You’ve said that you think I’m brave, but when I think of bravery, I think of you. You charge forward, expending so much energy, just to make people happy. You don’t flinch in the face of rejection. You pout, then you pull yourself together, and make another bigger, better plan.

It’s remarkable.

You’re remarkable.

I hope you understand how wonderful I think you are. I keep rereading your letters to find strength and reassurance. They mean so much to me. That you’d be willing to offer your time to a stranger means so much to me.

But, I guess, that’s just who you are. And that’s why I love you.

To answer your question, I don’t know. I don’t know what makes me feel loved. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt loved before. I have a best friend. And I know sheloves me. I know it. She’s the only person in my life who has tolerated me for longer than a few weeks at a time. Yet I am constantly worried that I’m messing up with her. I am constantly afraid that I’m going to lose her.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not because of her. She’s amazing. Heaven knows she’s listened to unbelievable amounts of my nonsense without saying a single thing to make me feel like I should shut up. I know, logically, a person like her wouldn’t waste time on someone she doesn’t like. I know she’d do anything for me. I know the lengths she’d go.

But, still, I feel like I should shut up. I feel like I’m begging for attention.

I crave a lot of attention, Brian. A lot. It sickens me how insecure I am, how constantly I want reassurance and validation from everyone I interact with.

I want to be more fearless. I want to be less afraid. I want to know who I am.

I want so many things that I hate myself just for the wanting, because I know it’s selfish and greedy to want when I have things so good.

I’m sorry about all of this. This is why I’m not ready to be in a relationship yet. I probably should know how I even want to be loved before I ask to be. I need to know what I even want so I don’t lose the people who want to welcome me.

I wish I could expedite the character development. I wish I could find peace.

I wish it didn’t feel like everything I do is narrated in someone else’s unkind voice.

Despite all of this and how devastatinglyunprepared I am, may I return the question in the hope that I will find myself in a future where I will be able to love you? When that time comes, how can I make sure that you know you’re loved?

Struggle-bussing my way through, fr,

Your Secret Admirer

She’s just so…adorable.

It’s physically painful to know that she’s hurting, but I cannot express how dear a woman who sends information about how she hates herself on the same page that she writesstruggle-bussingis.

Genuinely—so, so genuinely—I want to keep her and protect her from everything in the entire world. The desire to coddle her until she knows nothing but blissful happiness rivals only my urge to use my good intentions as a means to tease her to no end.

I mean, please. She was smuggling a bucket of warm, soapy water outside last night, and shesqueakedwhen I caught her searching for a car sponge in the garage.

I’m not the angel she thinks I am.

Not by any means.

It is nice to be thought the best of, even to the point of egregious delusion, though.

I suppose I just wish that she understood I think the same of her. Except, with her, I don’t need delusion at all. Sheisan angel, constantly fighting everything she claims is selfish, constantly striving to do better. She would never torment someone trying to heal from people pleasing and low self-esteem like I am. In the end, what I’m doing might help, but I’m certainly having more fun with the process than is entirelykindorselflessof me.

All her “selfishness” is nothing more than a desire that her basic human needs be met.

All my selfishness is the brand name, plain and simple,clear-cut, good old regular, home-grown kind. And, to make matters worse, I’m at peace with that. Imperfections are human, and I’ve never professed to be anything but, so I look at my desires—which are wants, not needs—recognize that they’re nonessentials, and laugh as I plow ahead to achieve them anyway.

Without guilt.

Without shame.