It was just a thought.

I don't know what is wrong with me. I feel so stupid. So ridiculous. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm so sick of constantly feeling threatened by other women. Be it the leggy blonde who confidently walks past me, the smell of perfection suffocating me in a plume of perfume, or the actress on television whose rack is spilling over in her tube top, I can feel my intestines twist inside me. My stomach flips on its side, my mouth dries up, and then the thoughts start rushing in. You'll never be that. You'll never look like her. She's the type he'll leave you for. She's they type he wants. Everyone knows you can't choose your soul mate, but you can choose who you cheat on the soul mate with. And that is exactly the girl he'd cheat on you with. She's everything you aren't. She's everything you could never be. He's thinking about fucking her right now.   He'll be thinking about her while he's fucking you later. And while I know that none of these thoughts hold any shred of accuracy, I can't help but feel like it's all 100% true. But see, it would just be so much easier if I didn't know that my thinking is delusional. So much easier because if I truly believed that the thoughts I think are completely valid, I wouldn't have to feel crazy on top of it. But I'm totally aware of my insanity. I know I'm crazy. And in turn, I'm lonely. For fear of people knowing how extremely insecure I am and how fully delusional I am, I can't tell anyone how I feel. Not even Gavin. Especially not Gavin. What, and give him an even better reason that my physical imperfections to drive him into the arms of another? Yeah, right. Instead, I sit there, feeling my blood congeal in my icy veins, trying to focus on something else, somewhere else, someone else, anything else. And I combat the crazy thoughts screaming mercilessly into my head with "Shh"s and "Go away"s. And I feel the skin on my arms and the back of my neck turn from people skin to goose flesh and I want to do nothing else but lay in my bed and cut the cold out of my body. Cut the bad gunky out. But I don't. Because then he'll know I'm crazy. Right now I think he only suspects it. And only now and then. I try to keep the crazy thoughts to myself. I've made the mistake of telling him about the thoughts before and I could just see it in his eyes. He was doubting my mental stability. After years of being insane, I know the look. It's the same cold-eyed look that prick of a psychiatrist gave me when I was 16. "You see this sign?" he said, gesturing to the cluttered clipboard hanging on the wall adjacent to his desk. His finger was pointing towards a decorative sign made of card-stock and stamps that read  I AM UNSTABLE,  some letters drifted towards the top of the sign while some sunk down to the bottom, conveying both the word as well as the definition. "You ought to be wearing this around your neck, huh?" I said nothing. I looked from his coal-like eyes back to the floor of his office, staring at the multicolored weaves in his carpet. It looked like low-pigmented rainbow vomited all over the floor. I wished the vomit floor would open up and swallow me whole. Or maybe it would open and I would fall into a pool, like in It's a Wonderful Life. I wasn't so lucky. The douche continued. "When you...mutilate yourself, you are saying this to the world. You're telling the world you are unstable. Do you think people want to be friends with unstable people?" I took the question as rhetorical even though he paused for me to answer. "Do you think people want to date unstable people?" I'm not going to answer that. "I don't think that's the sort of message you're looking to send people." I don't think you know anything. "Gabrielle, you need to rethink how you portray yourself if you want to be successful in life." And with that, I resumed tuning him out as he rambled on about God knows what and wrote me prescriptions for anonymous pills that I obediently slipped down my throat, and after a while, I was out of there and on my way to forgetting. I'm almost there now. I've forgotten his name. I wish I could forget what he said. Or the way his hairline ran terrified from his forehead to the safety of his crown. Mostly though, I want to forget that place entirely. First it'd be nice to just forget, even for only a second, that I have so much to be self conscious about. I wish I could watch whatever and not have to worry about how I will feel about it afterwards. Some women allow their boyfriends/husbands to go to strip clubs and receive lap dances, I won't even allow mine to watch the nude scenes in rated R movies. And that is yet another reason why I know he will end up leaving me for someone else. Someone sexier, someone more compatible, someone simpler, someone sane.