You make me feel small. In any other relationship I would say that is a problem, but for me it is my salvation. You give me permission to shrink down to my own size and fit back inside my body. Other people make me feel so small I fall through the cracks and disappear into the darkness. When I get that small, you cup me in your large hands and tuck me into your pocket until my body feels like it is the right size, and I can inhabit it again.

You make me feel manageable. Like all the emotions in my brain and body can be contained. Like I am not straining at the seams, ready to burst out of my skin at an offhand comment. A hand on the vulnerable curve of the nape of neck and I am embodied.

You wrap your arms around me, and I am contained. You press me into the bed with your weight and I feel my ribcage flex, I hold my hand up to yours, heel to heel, palms pressing, and I can see how small I am. I know you can swaddle me up and make the bad stop. In the middle of the night, when the anxiety dreams wake me, I can roll over and press up against your back and hide away. You dwarf me and I slip away from my brain, safe and small, as my lips move against your warm skin whispering that you make it better, that you make it all better.

There was a time, when I was young, that being small was a good thing. Being small meant I could be caught when I jumped, held when I cried, and I always fit in my parents’ laps. But as I grew, small became complicated. My lungs were too small to hold enough air when I ran or when my brain ran away with me. I was not small enough to fit in the right pant size. I had to be big in personality to be able to claim my place at the table, at school, in my friend group. My worldview was too small coming from smalltown America.

Being small did not make me a harder target to hit. It meant that everyone could see the soft spots where words would hit the hardest. I had to be bigger than my brain and my impulses. I had to be big enough to protect myself and those I love. I had to be big enough to end things and move on. I had to stop being small because that meant exposed bones and vital points that loving fingers could dig into and break. If I was small, there was not enough between me and you. Being big means a thick wall between my soft parts and you. Being big means I can tuck the scary, sad, and vulnerable parts away from even myself.

Small means no one hears your opinions or your screams.

I can still get small, like the time I pushed myself between my dorm bed and the wall, covered my mouth and cried silently so no one could comfort me. Like when I pull everything in like the tiniest star collapsing in on itself to create a black hole. Even in these moments when I am invisible to the rest of universe, you can find me and make it all better.