I'm debating opening a can of worms that leads to the past and it's probably a bad idea but I think I might do it anyway. I can't decide which I'd regret more: disturbing the dust that is pretty settled, or not attempting to gain full and true closure. There's no rush, but I don't want to brood. I want to decide.
3:25pm - This is a very, very bad idea, and I would regret going through with it. Done.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
I keep getting all this perspective and calling my current life troubles "not problems" in the grand scheme of things. But isn't that so reductive? Minimizing your feelings, which you're allowed to feel, and your struggles, which you're allowed to have, doesn't help you overcome anything. Owning it all, instead of letting it own you - that's something to aspire to.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
genuine
I decided my so-called "new year's resolution" is to be less anxious and embarrassed about expressing myself honestly and sincerely to the people I care about. I wrote a lot of letters recently; some were rather forward in their expression of my perspective of the relationship between me and the recipient. In short, I said plainly what I felt, and meant what I said.
Whenever I send letters such as those, there is always a moment of hesitation before I drop them into the post box on the corner outside my apartment building. And then comes days of anxiety, wondering if I revealed too much, or if I was too bold, and would so-and-so feel uncomfortable with my declaration of regard? Would they feel awkward around me? What if they did not return the sentiment? Should someone have absolutely zero response or even acknowledgement, I would grow uneasy and doubtful. "In short, I was afraid."
The more letters I write, the clearer it becomes: "there is no reason to be afraid, ever." There is no reason to be embarrassed of my feelings, and no reason to feel shameful in expressing those feelings. They are mine and I have a right to feel them, and in ways, whether or not they are reciprocated is irrelevant. In a somewhat narcissistic sense, I write these letters for me as much as I do for the recipient. Sharing myself, being generous with myself, is as important to me as reassuring someone of camaraderie. In short, my letters are as selfish as they are selfless.
Part of me has adopted this need to write for myself, as a form of self-protection. If I expect no response, no reciprocation, then I can't reasonably be disappointed or discouraged when, almost inevitably, I receive no response or reciprocation. Eventually, I push it out of my mind, and in time, I don't think about how I built up the requisite courage to air my emotions for someone to see. I don't think about my past attempts to build an intimate connection, but persist attempting. In short, I learn to forget my failures.
In short, I decided, fuck it. I'm not going to be afraid of my feelings. I'm not going to hesitate. I'm not going to indulge in anxiety. I'm not going to fear or over-think the absence of responses. I'm not going to self-protect. I will, though, persist attempting to grow deeper, more meaningful relationships with the people I love. I will continue to share myself with them, share everything beautiful I can with them, because what else is there to do?
Whenever I send letters such as those, there is always a moment of hesitation before I drop them into the post box on the corner outside my apartment building. And then comes days of anxiety, wondering if I revealed too much, or if I was too bold, and would so-and-so feel uncomfortable with my declaration of regard? Would they feel awkward around me? What if they did not return the sentiment? Should someone have absolutely zero response or even acknowledgement, I would grow uneasy and doubtful. "In short, I was afraid."
The more letters I write, the clearer it becomes: "there is no reason to be afraid, ever." There is no reason to be embarrassed of my feelings, and no reason to feel shameful in expressing those feelings. They are mine and I have a right to feel them, and in ways, whether or not they are reciprocated is irrelevant. In a somewhat narcissistic sense, I write these letters for me as much as I do for the recipient. Sharing myself, being generous with myself, is as important to me as reassuring someone of camaraderie. In short, my letters are as selfish as they are selfless.
Part of me has adopted this need to write for myself, as a form of self-protection. If I expect no response, no reciprocation, then I can't reasonably be disappointed or discouraged when, almost inevitably, I receive no response or reciprocation. Eventually, I push it out of my mind, and in time, I don't think about how I built up the requisite courage to air my emotions for someone to see. I don't think about my past attempts to build an intimate connection, but persist attempting. In short, I learn to forget my failures.
In short, I decided, fuck it. I'm not going to be afraid of my feelings. I'm not going to hesitate. I'm not going to indulge in anxiety. I'm not going to fear or over-think the absence of responses. I'm not going to self-protect. I will, though, persist attempting to grow deeper, more meaningful relationships with the people I love. I will continue to share myself with them, share everything beautiful I can with them, because what else is there to do?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
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