i am dumb. throw rocks at me.

For a while there, I was feeling good, feeling confident, feeling sometimes indestructible. I’d never been so self-assured, or so certain I was someone worthwhile. And I used that confidence to meet men, to kiss men, to sleep with them before I should have, reveling in the realization that I was, perhaps, more attractive to the opposite sex than I’d previously assumed. I grew addicted to the attention, simultaneously baffled by its existence and exhilarated by the experience of being wanted so seemingly often.

What I didn’t notice was the way all this meeting and kissing and sleeping with men was slowly chipping away at the self-confidence from which it had all arose. The way every encounter with an unfamiliar or otherwise involved or emotionally unavailable man was taking its toll on my feelings of worthiness, my self-respect. The way knowing my value in these seemingly harmless trysts was superficial and impermanent in nature, that when I walked away the following morning (or secretly escaped in the middle of the night), I was leaving behind a tiny piece of who I am. Or was, I suppose.

And then I met a man with whom it felt different somehow. I didn’t immediately flee upon awakening in the aftermath of our encounter, and the morning wasn’t tainted by its usual awkwardness and a return to non-intimate interaction. If anything, the early hour delivered an even greater degree of intimacy, the closeness of a nonsexual embrace, an affectionate hand on the small of my back, a kiss. In that moment, I briefly considered the possibility of letting down my guard a little, forfeiting the familiar disconnectedness to which I had grown accustomed and taking a chance on actually caring. And then I realized I may have already inadvertently done so.

I was exposed, emotionally endangered. I’d foolishly succumbed to vulnerability—something I hate, something I fight hard to avoid, and something that terrifies me entirely. And I’d allowed myself to confuse physical proximity with actual intimacy, amorous action with genuine interest (on his part). After too many insincere interactions, too many purely corporeal connections, I was searching for something with a little more substance, something to suggest I could someday mean more to a man than just sex. This man seemed to have this potential for more, so I decided, perhaps, he was worth the risk.

Now, it appears he most likely isn’t, and I’m left trying to reassemble all the pieces I’ve lost along the way these past few months. The confidence I once had has all but dissipated, consumed by my carelessly entered-into encounters and my decision to finally give feeling a try. I’ve been questioning the whole of who I am, wondering what it is that makes me so undesirable—past a certain point, at least—pondering my potential for ever experiencing true intimacy, and the unlikely possibility someone may one day be authentically interested in me.

I feel broken right now, and broken down, uncertain of how to rebuild, how to regain my confidence without becoming once again disconnected and aloof. But then I wonder if detachment might just be my best option. Six weeks ago I was more emotionally remote than I’d ever been before. At the same time, I’d never felt quite so sure of myself, and so comfortable in my own skin. So I’m sort of inclined to believe that confidence and connectivity might just be mutually exclusive in my case. Awesome, indeed.