Loaded topic incoming. Not because I want (or love) to chat about myself, because I don’t. If you know me on a personal level, this should be abundantly clear. Of course I do the Twitter/IG thing where I throw around the “I love–, I need–, I’m doing–,” but that’s not really me. Not all of me, anyway. I’m awkward with compliments, shy with unfounded attention and killed by silence, and yet I crave it just the same as any other human being who does anything in their lives that’s visible to, well, anyone else. But that’s not what this blog is about. Today is on how I strike myself down as weak or clingy when it comes to the relationships I share with friends and to an extent, my family even.
Weak for wanting more face time with people, not just text or email. Weak for sending unsolicited emotions out there in the hopes of brightening someone’s day (think and I love you text, or a silly gif, etc.). Weak for wanting to cultivate an appropriate closeness where maybe there isn’t room for it, as people are busy, just like me. Weak for wanting to collaborate from sun up to sundown because creating with like-minded souls gives me more joy that I could ever accurately put into words. Weak for needing reassurance that I didn’t say or do the wrong things now or twenty years ago. Weak for offering unabashed praise that’s both brutally honest and completely heartfelt. Weak for being an open fucking book.
And my best friend tells me it’s “100% part of my charm,” being so enthusiastic and energetic and I adore her for that. But…it’s tiring, certainly for me and others, too, I’d bet. So, I struggle with where the lines should be drawn because I don’t want to be that eager chipmunk hopping by the soles of people who couldn’t care less to steal a glance south. It’s hard to endlessly flag down the passersby without ever being offered a ride. Ok, enough with the metaphors. It’s me – I’m the problem. Always have been, and up until now, I’ve not been certain as to whether or not I’ve wanted that to change, so, surprising no one, it hasn’t. Because I always default to: What’s evil about being excitable and pensive and concerned? What’s weak about baring your soul to another, really? Or is it just the abundance that’s the problem. Should certain truths be left to the vast recesses of my memories like all the other forgotten playthings?
There’s also this quirky side where if you ask me a question, I’ll answer it. Truthfully. No matter what it may cost me (ex.: strength, patience, even my well-being). And that’s how I’ve lived a great portion of my life. I went through intensely dark periods where I couldn’t find the light and the end was there, just right there. But I woke up, made the decision to be bold and stand behind my curious and sometimes invasive nature, because the alternative is one where I’m left to live in a world of demons and devils the second the light recedes. Their chattering, slithering mumbles are far scarier than the potential screams from people who love me.
I don’t want that fear or isolation anymore though. I don’t want to push my friends and family away either. How might one reconcile this eternal dichotomy? Is the solution to just be me? To let people come around whenever they’re not exasperated? I guess I could continue to do that. Or hope that I’m wrong about everything and that I can be, or already am, accepted for every -ism that has made me who I am today. With family this has been easier, sort of, but even there I’ve run aground sometimes.
Oh hell, maybe I’ve written this blog 100 x by now, it definitely feels that way. What it comes down to is that this: I want to hear that it’s alright. That I’m a-ok. That I’m not an annoyance or exhausting. That yours truly is not a nuisance. Or maybe I am all of those things and more and need to shut the fuck up and embrace them because life is so painfully, achingly short. But then why do I always second guess myself and wonder if THIS is the last time before an inevitable fall? Before the unsaid goodbyes? I’ve had so many of them already and I very much wish I were kidding. Could be that I’ve just been running from myself all this time, too.
Maybe you, my lovely readers, can forgive me and see why I write such diatribes as this one. And if you’re up to it, throw some advice my way. Remember, we don’t all have it together by the time we punch our adult cards, of that much I’m sure.