The Bolter: A First Hand Account

I did, in fact, almost drown in frigid water at six years old. Except, it wasn’t under ice, just the cold waters of a man-made lake in southern Wisconsin. I imagine that the relief I felt was much the same as if it were ice above me and not just deep water—the coughs, gasps, murky taste, then the first breath that filled every inch, cranny, and crevice of the lungs with beautifully crisp and full-bodied air. I love that relief. I love it enough to put it before long-lasting pleasure, or at least the prospect of it.

At the sweet age of 29, I have never been in a serious relationship. Do we credit that lack of experience to timing? Bad personality? Subconscious decisions to destroy and run away before the other person had a chance? Uncertain. But as someone who avoids anything she can’t leave, it may be suggested that reason points to the subconscious. I’m known to bolt before getting hurt in any and all situations that may come about.

My personality, however, is not one that matches this behavior. I attract and excite, but when I see any of that excitement dissipate, I doubt. I doubt with the kind of doubt that feels like a heavy, dull weight against my lungs. Then the doubt becomes long-winded nausea, and incessant bouncing of both my feet.

Fear of rejection is my core phobia. I’m agoraphobic, but I’m not afraid of panicking for panic’s sake; I can handle a panic attack, I’ve done that many times. It’s the embarrassment that comes with the perception of my panic, the rejection I feel in the eyes of those around me, that scares me. Embarrassment to me feels like a moral failing—like I’ve committed a crime that should have me banished to the first circle of Dante’s hell. I can’t shake it off either; embarrassment weighs on me like fat raindrops on cold skin. So, I run before I can possibly feel that rejection and subsequent embarrassment—heavy traffic, trains, planes, elevators, relationships.

There is no definitive proof I will panic in any of the above-contained spaces; however, when it comes to relationships, I’m really good at messing things up to the point of rejection. I’ve done it since middle school. If I liked someone, I liked them too much, and the perception they had of me shifted. I kept doing things wrong even when just trying to be myself.

I learned I am a lot. It’s okay to say it; it’s true. I’m not a fluffy beach read; I am the love child of War and Peace and Infinite Jest. I’m a lot. I’m insecure, anxious, scared, sensitive, too smart, too loud, too strong but also not strong enough, and always thinking—a constant hum of non-scientific curiosity. I want to be a free spirit, but I can’t. I want to let go, but I stay stuck in place. I’ve seen the fatigue in people’s eyes after spending time with me. I’m a lot. I learned, too, that I’m not pretty enough to be that much.

I’ve found ways to be easily digestible enough to solve the dilemma of being too much and not enough. Most people know me as polished, plain, perhaps fun in a soft mainstream way. I’m not—those who have had the pleasure of knowing me know that is not me at all. The only problem with this is my first layer is so opaque that anything beyond it is hard to display with earnestness.

Since I hide so much, I learned to distrust interest—big apologies to my high school boyfriend. When I learned that the one thing that could always get interest was my body, and I could easily attract and distract with my physicality, I found a quick fix to resolve the issue of being too much. However, my body never worked in the long run; if anything, it just made everything about ten times worse when I realized I was still too much. I learned then that, just as I did with heavy traffic, planes, trains, and elevators, I could do the same with relationships—I could run away.

Avoiding embarrassment has led to a life of consistent tension—bracing for a ball of shame to be flung at me. No wonder relief is so sweet, even if it’s fleeting.

I’m really trying not to bolt these days. I try, at least. I want to fight off the habit, but the insecurity feels so strong my body truly does feel like it is under ice—desperate for relief. I’m trying to stay calm, reach for the metaphorical ice above me to remind myself it’s not that thick. I just really want to find that relief in a way that isn’t running but in someone telling me not to lace up my shoes for once. That’s why I keep trying.

I need to know they like me enough to see the “a lot” and recognize that much of that is where “a lot” of the good parts of me are, too. I’m constantly brave, independent, introspective, creative, witty, vibrant, caring, and just so much.