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: 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 loved that relief. I still love that feeling of 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, I’m known to bolt before getting hurt in any and all situations that may come about.

Fear of rejection is my core phobia. Rejection leds to embarassmen and to me that feels like a moral failing. It feels 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 it weighs on me like fat raindrops on cold skin. So, I run before I can possibly feel that rejection and subsequent embarrassment, before i ever get the opportunity to be rejected.

My personality is not one that matches this behavior of running scared. I often attract and excite people, 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. Once the doubt hits me, i search for the top of the water.

There is no definitive proof I will be rejected, but when it comes to relationships, I’m really good at messing things up..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’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 things, at least I don’t feel like I am. The only problem with this is my first layer is so opaque that anything beyond it is hard to display with earnestness. 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.