How did I find a sure shore?

Of all the questions into my psyche I am asked the most, why I desired to be a writer is at (or near) the top of that list. And it’s not the easiest inquiry to answer. Depending on the person asking, my response wavers between “it was just something I couldn’t avoid” and “I found a way to express myself, so I leaned into it.”

In actuality, the reason is a bit clearer, especially if you’re aware of my biggest flaws and difficulties with human relationships/existence. The reason I wanted to become a writer is this…

I have a desperate desire to be understood, and if I have such a difficult time feeling seen, then there must be others who do as well. So I will try with all of my might to put words to experiences and emotions in the hopes that I will grow to further understand myself, giving me more skills to be understood in reality, and bring comfort to the people reading who seek to feel understood themselves.

To overexplain is to feel alien. It can be exhausting and drain more energy from your soul than you can keep a lid on. Especially if that conversation involves another person who listens only to respond. However, this has been the story of every major relationship I’ve ever had with another human being, platonic or otherwise.

Fundamentally, this was just how things worked from where I stood. It was a necessity (overexplaining, or accepted of misunderstanding, or masking). I may sometimes lack the ability to let go of the frustration and alienation that comes with it, but I was getting used to it.

Life is moving forward. I am constantly hitting new strides, learning more about my capacity and emotional attachment to living, and I feel incredibly knowledgeable and appreciative of all the awareness I have accumulated. Despite some existential and dire weeks to start this year, I have been in an obvious state of growth. Propelled to dizzying speeds by harm and help.

The small, but functioning boat I was living in – adapting to the harshness of the ocean and storms – was my reality. Some days had clear skies and almost soothingly rhythmic swells, while others (most days, if I’m being honest) were very terrifying. I had been out in the open water for so long that I made it a frantic practice to scan my immediate surroundings for dangers, salvation, understanding, etc.

As a result of both the nature and the nurture that grew me into a young adult, I have never been a horizon-seeker. I have never been a flat-footer, and I am always vigilant towards the world around me that is within reach. Which has affected both the ways I show up in relationships, and the relationships I choose to be in. This is an ironic fate, as I am also someone who prioritizes growth, respects people who seek to learn, and has a rabid disdain for an unwillingness to dispel ignorance.

This awkward cocktail has made me a creature of contradiction, constantly assessing my surroundings as they are in the moment, yet being critical of myself and others in terms of development. It has put me in many situations in which I am surviving based on present information alone, and not looking at the larger picture. Even just as a human trying to exist, I do not picture myself years into the future, and am told this is partially due to the internal sensation of being on “borrowed time,” not trusting that things can last, and always feeling like I’m not understood. This also included people I spent time with. It was never about our future, and I firmly believed that it was my doing (my function) that kept that foresight at bay.

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I’ve not met many people who survive like I do (diving into obsessive work, avoiding things that conjure emotions, letting people take up all the space in a room, becoming a retreated efficiency machine, etc), and to others it can feel an awful lot like I’m just acting normal. However, being cold and closed off, and vigilant, and uncomfortable, are not states I would exist in had I the choice and freedom to be me.

And the terrifying thing is, it starts to feel normal to me as well. The autopilot takes over, and I’m protecting every inch of skin I still have left. But it isn’t active protection or awareness, it’s passive wall building. It’s barrier placement. It’s avoidance. Something that has kept me alive for the majority of my life.

There is only one word to describe it once the pattern takes hold and there’s a repetition to the traumatic responses that keep your feelings quiet and inside, and that is “asleep.”

You don’t feel very alive (by my standards), but life is fine. Good even at times. There’s no pending danger, there’s no rollercoaster, there’s just delicious feeding of a robotic version of me that needs to work hard to feel worthy. He who needs to succeed to feel accomplished. Behind the steering wheel is that calculated, extraneous effort, hyper-focused version of me. No empathy. No sincerity. No emotions. Only thoughts.

He doesn’t care if he feels warm inside, though. There’s no need for spark in his life. He just wants a tasklist to attach his self-worth to so that he can try and buck every childhood trauma around work ethic and usefulness off his back. A never-ending war, by the way. There is never enough to satiate his appetite. He will never wake up worthy. He will never put his head down at night with a full belly.

In all of my years, dipping in and out of being asleep, there have only ever been two things that wake me up. The first is a grievous life event. Something that breaks the dam, like the loss of a loved one, or someone close to you. As someone who has been to less than a handful of weddings, and yet too many funerals to keep track of, I know how violent it can feel. It rattles your skeleton so much, and the grief is so overwhelming that it can shift you out of a slumber. The second is someone lighting you on fire. Like feeling the sun on your skin after days, months, and years under heavy rain clouds.

I am awake now. And I beg the universe to keep it that way … because I do not want to go back to sleep.

WAKE UP, PLEASE … WAKE UP.

Oh, how the mighty weight pins my chest and leaves me breathless…

Just a few months ago, I was in awe at how oblivious I had been to the shallowness in my lungs, having heaved half-breaths my whole life. Perhaps it is part of always being ready … vigilance, some call it. Be on the ball of your feet. Never let your hands settle. Bounce those legs, just in case you need to spring up and defend yourself.

I don’t sit with my back towards unlocked doors, and am in a perpetual state of scanning my environment. Cataloguing the people, the place, the spaces, the exits, and any way I may need to get me and mine to safety. Some tragic part of me enjoyed it. Or, conceivably, I found a ridiculous pride in it; surviving this long despite a long list of scars from blades or bullets. That pride is relatively reserved for myself, however, because it is not something I choose to discuss or disclose to many people.

In fact, I have a certified hang-up about these two separate lives. The one that made me fearful and comforted by chaos, and the one where I listen and bring calm to the forefront. See, I hesitate to share much of those stories because I want who I have become to stand for who I am, and anyone who takes my history and amplifies their love of the tools I have developed since feels like the sour sister of pity.

Even though this is fundamentally untrue. Thanks, therapy!

All of this put me in a pretty precarious situation when thrust into the space where the lighthouse glow struck the Earth. I felt seen, and understood, and heard, and regardless of how many compromising positions I found myself in during a past life, this was the softest and most vulnerable I have ever felt. I could die in a heartbeat.

And maybe I would.

Over the years – especially these last few – I have opened up parts inside of me in ways that let me experience my own perspective differently. Rapidly, I have become more in tune with my intuition and the pull of unknowing things. Take that inner voice, and add it to my lifetime of cultivating the skills (good or bad) to read people, and I feel more aware and able than ever. This sensation grows with every bit of experience I gain, and as it is a quintessential part of the person I want to be, it therefore fuels some pride in who I am.

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We’re Wasting Time Now…

When my grandmother passed earlier this year, she was truly in a bad spot with her health. It had been a gradual decline over the years, and the end of that fight brought upon me a feeling of relief for the most part. I was glad that she didn’t have to push or try any longer, and the version of her that existed at the end didn’t consist of much of her anymore.

That relief dissipated when I saw her husband…

A stoic and unemotional, and monotone man, suffering from what can only be described as the most gut-wrenching and horrid of human experiences… losing the love of his life. I saw the man’s spirit breaking. I saw him lose sight of his purpose. I saw him get lost in the woods, not knowing which direction he was supposed to head now. I saw his life shatter…

It was right there in his eyes, haunted and red and teary from the future that lay ahead of him now. As someone who soaks up people's emotions, I was immediately overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

My sometimes invasive desire to make the most of my days, or my experiences, or my opportunities, stems mostly from a place of fear. The fear of death has followed me for the majority of my conscious life. Not that I am afraid to not exist anymore… but more so afraid of not accomplishing what I wish to, before I go. Given the number of near-death experiences I have had, it psychologically makes a lot of sense that I would fear wasting my time.