I like to process my feelings in writing. To put them out there, out of my head. Like clothes out of a messy suitcase, where I can to sort them, categorize them, pair them, blend them, discard them. Make sense of them. This has always been my way since childhood. That's how I dealt with my mom’s “unjust one week punishments ” (that's the only time frame she knew) , or things that hurt me, or things that made me happy, well … with things.
For the last two years my focus has been finding me. In order to find me I also have to act me. The more I discover, the more I have to practice it. No point in finding me and keeping it hidden in a closet. I have tried to listen to the voice inside, the tiniest voice, follow it, and act on it. No matter how insignificant, or scary, or nonsensical. I just wanted to listen and act.
Since very small, I have always felt I was different. I have always been told that I'm too much: too much talking (stop or we will have a car accident!), or too much emotion, or too little organization, or too much head in the clouds, or too many dreams, or too chaotic and messy, too irresponsible. Everyone goes right and I go left and so on. I'm sure that happened to all of us in one way or another. This was pointed out to me very strongly by adults and peers alike. Some as remarks and complaints, some as compliments. I remember I used to look in the mirror sometimes and wish I was “normal”... but did I?
So for a while… many years… all my life really, I tried my best to be less this and more of that (although my friends maybe didn't notice) I found myself instinctively trying to be less or more around the expectations and criticism and opinion and unspoken feelings of others.
I don't understand it very well, but at the same time, I also lived following a crazy little voice inside of me, asking me to jump from cliffs without wings and hoping they would grow on the way down (or not, and just fall and die). And there I go -weeeeeeeeee - and jump. Everything will be alright - the little voice said.
I said the things that were in my mind, although sometimes they were really stupid... And did the things I felt like doing although they were crazy, or irresponsible or unpopular (depending who you ask). I followed the voice and lived by my heart for a long time. It's like I had no defence mechanism. My shield was my heart. Get destroyed and somehow I try again and again and again and again. Like I had a mutant heart that grows back from every obliteration. But it hurt. It hurt so bad. In fact, you didn't need much to hurt me, I was very sensitive. And yet… somehow.. I also felt that was my superpower. I hated it and loved it at the same time and didn't want to lose it.
Background/context: This brings to my awareness the contrast of my mom and dad. My dad could hold an implosion of many atomic bombs inside of him and you wouldn't notice (that was his super power) and my mom was on the other side of the spectrum. She would explode like a volcano in eruptions of emotions. All of them. Also very smothering and loving. That is her nature.
Maybe I was training the muscle you know? My heart? Who knows. Anyways… I was acting on instinct. Voice speaks and I go and do it. I didn't really know myself and I was just acquiring many perspectives and trying them on, and silencing many parts of me and exploding here and there and well… like chaotic flames…. Like an elephant in a glass house. Until one day, I stopped listening to my voice.. and the voice screamed and I didn't react… and voice begged and I ignored it… and voice cried and I just stayed motionless…. and voice whispered and I just didn't hear it… and voice …. There was no voice anymore… and there was no I, either.
My chaotic world was no more. But it was also not worth living. There was no me in it.
Then one day, the gray, dead world I was living in… (I think the walking dead world was way more exciting…) was bombarded, obliterated by the universe... pew pew!!! Like star wars, spaceships shoot lasers to my dead planet. All went flying into pieces, into particles. Nothing was left for me to hold on to, or to stand on … and then… well… I was forced to wake up from my slumber, into panic, and think, and move and do. Find another hospitable planet where to live, and then I decided to start the quest of finding my little voice once more. My rock. I started the journey of self discovery… of rediscovery… of questioning everything I felt, knew (or thought I knew). I started the journey of finding me. This time, on purpose.
And I was telling this story as a “brief” introduction to something I wanted to share. A piece of something I wrote a while ago, that shows one of the states I was in. Around the obliteration period.
I have been meaning to be more me. Interact with the world as myself. Not only in my day to day, but also share the process. Maybe motivated by a girl named @alisrealities
I don't know how exactly I will share the process, or where I will start, but I have to start somewhere.
My goal I guess, Is to show that being vulnerable it's ok. That being you, it's ok.
We live our lives hiding into so many masks and excuses and layers of other people's beliefs, opinions , expectations, society structures. Like layers of thick pure petroleum. Sticky. Smothering. Black. Slippery. And if it has taken me this long and so much effort to find only glimmer of myself, I can't imagine how long and how much effort will come into making connections with other people. We have to interact with layers and layers and layers of lies until we get to the core… if, we even get there. (This joke is for programers: its like interacting with the API, and the API of the API and many APIs down the line)
So… I don't exactly know how I will do it.. and what shape it will take… but I want to start posting content in that way. Maybe I should start a blog….(I though)... and here we are. In a blog. That I'm still designing, and paid a membership for. Way to go me:)
It feels terrifying to post these things, to then interact with the people that know me closely enough, or coworkers who might read it. Or maybe no one will read it. People don't read these long texts anyways.
The voice in my head worries what they will think of me. Wearing only myself? But isn't that the point? I want to see how that works out. What difference does it make, in my life and others.
Or I'm just doing this for myself. Just following the little voice. Taking action on the breadcrumbs of instincts, hoping they will lead somewhere in my journey. Sometimes all you can do it’s to take that one step you can see. That one, tiny step that excites you. You don’t see a 5 years long plan, or even 5 steps ahead, you just see one. But by moving into that one step you then might see a couple more ahead.
I guess this is my one step for today.
I have been looking for my life purpose for as long as I can remember. For the thing that makes me feel fulfilled no matter the circumstances. For the thing that excites me, not the thing that entertains me. The unique thing I can bring to this world. I don't really know what that is, and I doubt I will just land in the thing by accident. Somehow... I feel this action today might have something to do with it and that's all I can do. Today, this is what terrifies me and excites me at the same time. This little step.
If I feel me… I act me.. More me will come out and the more I will get to know. Whereas if I feel me.. but don't act me… I will end in that sad gray planet I was living before. I think that terrifies me even more.
Maybe one person will read it and will feel less alone, or less wired. Maybe a person will feel inspired to be them, speak them, act them. Or maybe no one will read it and that's ok.
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