Micah Zarin's Blog

Some people love me. This is rather unfortunate for them, as I tend to respond to affection the way a smoke detector responds to steam: with panic, beeping, and an overwhelming need to be dismantled. I am not opposed to being loved, in theory. In practice, however, I overanalyze it until the initial warmth calcifies into a sort of existential math problem. What does she mean by “I had fun”? Was it genuine enjoyment or politeness-induced? What percentage of her laughter was authentic, and what part was performative social mirroring? Should I have used a different word than “rambunctious”? That one really seemed to throw her off.

I do not spiral because I lack confidence. I spiral because I feel everything too precisely. Every silence has tone. Every word has subtext. I cannot just hold someone’s hand, I am also parsing the tempo, the interlacing pattern, the tension in her knuckles. Does she want to let go? Is she just being nice? Did I read the whole thing backwards?

This is how my brain works. I do not have thoughts so much as I have subcommittees. When I like someone, it activates a full Congressional hearing in my skull. There are ethics panels and linguistics specialists. A small group of analysts cross-reference every text message against the DSM-5, the tarot, and several neuroimaging studies. It is exhausting. It is also kind of hilarious.

I think a lot of this comes from a deep belief that people matter. That when someone lets me into their world—asks me how I slept, lets me braid chaos into comfort for them—that it is sacred. That I have a responsibility not to cause harm. So I scrutinize everything, trying to preempt pain. Sometimes this comes off as distant or clinical. But the truth is that I care so much it scares me.

I once spent three days convinced I ruined a date because I said the word “ineffable” and then defined it, like a pretentious thesaurus with abandonment issues. She laughed. I smiled. Then I went home and paced for two hours.

But here is the thing: despite all that noise, I still love deeply. I show up. I remember the name of her childhood dog and the way her voice shifted when she talked about him. I learn to pronounce her favorite poet’s name correctly. I give a damn—fiercely, inconveniently, and unfashionably so.

I used to think this made me unlovable. Now I think it just makes me a little more complicated.

There are easier people to love. But I am not easy. I am earnest. I am trying—desperately, stupidly, and sincerely—to be good to people. I am not always graceful about it. I will overthink the first kiss and the last sentence. I will ask too many questions. I will joke when I should be vulnerable and get vulnerable when it would be easier to joke. But I will never stop caring. And I am learning to see that as a gift.

Some people love me. This is rather unfortunate for them, as I will probably write about it.

But I will also mean it.

Every time.