Open Letter to Victims of My Projection

Flick.

It’s like that. Over and over again, on my ear, until it turns red. It stings. It’s hard to have people near me without thinking it’s them.

I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s constant. Maybe it’s everywhere. And nowhere at the same time. Flick. Flick flick flick. It’s not you. What is it?

It’s distracting, and I can’t swat it away; the sting fades then it comes back. It’s a hurt, but it’s not an open wound, so I can’t see healing if it actually happens. I can’t trust what I feel. Thom Yorke and friends sing, “Just ’cause you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.”

“There’s always a siren singing you to shipwreck.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I perceive completely innocent things you may say or do as offense. I’m sorry if I retaliate unduly, such as ranting passive-aggresively on my blog. I’m sorry for taking you for granted, for being completely self-absorbed.

The sting persists, but I don’t know how much longer I can withstand it. Some cool water, maybe a soft pillow. An ice pack. Time.

Please bear with me. I don’t want to drive you away. You’re not the flickers. Don’t let me flick at you.

Sincerely,
may