I am not hardcore. I feel things. I feel everything.
I used to argue with my husband when he’d tell me that I’m too emotional that it was a necessary quality in a writer. In a good writer, anyway. But where it’s not a good quality? In life. In life, being emotional makes you unpredictable. Weak. Sometimes insufferable.
Everything I ever do, I do based on feeling. I used to be the most cheerful person on the planet, insufferably cheerful even. So basing everything on emotion was perfectly fine because I gave the world the benefit of the doubt, blissfully unaware of the dark side of people. But life has weathered me, leaving me bitter and lately…angry. Leaving life up to emotion when you feel angry 90% of the time is dangerous. Irresponsible. Toxic.
I have a lot to sort out; my head is a jumbled mess of thoughts and worries. Things I never knew bothered me are bubbling to the surface, and I don’t know how to make sense of it all. I’m becoming uncomfortably intimate with my imperfections.
I’ve mentioned my struggle with authenticity vs. approval. While I don’t think any of us should trade our authenticity for approval, we do need to remember that sometimes our authentic selves are struggling great loss, and that authenticity is intimate, better kept behind closed doors.
I’m not good at faking it. I spent a lot of my life faking everything, praying to fit in and find approval. I swore off that drug, only to find that in some situations it’s necessary. Grin and bear it, they say. Something I’ll have to re-learn.
I’ve let my authentic self hang out all over the place lately. This angry, blubbering mess of a girl, confused about everything, has been stomping around taking everyone in my path down with me.
I am an imperfect, emotional person. But I am also a grown woman. And somehow blending those two has been more difficult than I ever imagined.