Nothing is so vulnerable as nakedness. Before you get any ideas, I don’t mean solely physically–though that too is the concrete epitome of vulnerability. But for me, and for many, there is something more scary than our outward nakedness being seen.
Intimacy I was once told could be defined as “into-me-you-see: intimacy.” This is quite right. The people that know us best don’t necessarily know us merely physically, but internally, personally. We are more than bodies. Those are just our vehicles for everything defining.
To be seen inside for all that you are, naked, no covering, is most frightening. In my opinion, terrifying. I will do anything to protect that. Internally I stay well dressed–always have.
The first post of this blog was with the sole agenda to write about what hurt, about what I couldn’t control, and didn’t understand. As years have gone on, I’ve come to the reality that I know less than I thought I did ten years ago. In age, I may be older, but I’ve realized numerical age has nothing to do with growth, wisdom, and maturity. In fact, in the field of psychology, due to a number of factors, including economically, they’re considering raising the age of adolescence to 30. “13 going on 30” is what they’re coining this shift. There are many things to be said on that, but none of which I wish to delve into right now.
I’m an evaluator. I will evaluate and discern twenty million things in the span of ten seconds. I will lay up at night wondering and considering, weighing every move of my own and studying the intricacies of people in and currently out of my life.
This year has been difficult. But so has every other prior to some degree. After wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, I found that was no way out, only a way to stay stuck in a rut.
Some say “time to face the music,” but instead I say, “Time to face the nakedness.” I’ve come face to face with my weaknesses, bareness, and nakedness unlike ever before. I perceived it as ugly, what was inside of me. But this year I’ve decided to embrace the seemingly ugly and began to see beauty, despite what anyone else thought of me. It was time to start living in my own skin, not what others wanted to dress me in.
This past year all my bells and whistles were stripped from me, all my accolades to which I placed and secured my identity, they all came falling down. I began to ask, “Who am I now?” Were the outward things what made me? That’s how other people defined me. I felt I couldn’t compete–this girl and all her doings and labels weren’t me. In fact, they felt like they were strangling me. I began to rebel and destroy the very labels after feeling controlled. I didn’t care what it would cost. In a life so defined, I was lost. How funny a thought.
There are very few that will actually read this and that’s probably why I’m posting this. I don’t care who reads it and who doesn’t. If I did maybe I would not write so candidly.
After being literally voiceless–I lost my voice from being sick–for days on end, I realized the validity of being heard and speaking up, and the power of simply using my words. Validity and value of my voice doesn’t come from being heard at all or accepted by anyone. I haven’t lost my voice. It still has many outlets, though still with no current audible form.
Writing has been a place to gather and organize my thoughts, but now I see it as much more than that, and my aspirations. I want to write. I want to write people’s stories and my own; I want to hear and share sorrows, heartbreaks, hopes, and paint them with characters and words.
What are we so afraid of? What prevents us from doing the very things we want? Fear–of what or who? At the end of the day they’re all illusions, ghostly barricades in our mind or minds eye. How many times are these things actually physical barriers, rather than confronting our interiors with their barrage of thoughts of doubt and uncertainty? Perhaps it’s time for both you and I to blow on the smoke of intimidation and make a tangible thing out of what we’ve been dreaming.
All this is going to have to be edited again and again. But I’ve realized the very dreams within aren’t limited to a mere one profession. We work, but work isn’t the end goal. What is? I’ve been wrestling with this and more, concerning a humans purpose–my purpose. There has to be more meaning behind all this. I’ve come up more than unsatisfactory. I’ve honestly been incredibly bored, craving more. Instead of despising this, I’m going to embrace it to fuel my fight for something I’ve never known but has laid dormant in my heart.
You never lose your voice. Utilizing it is your choice. And there are many forms. I’ve lost my voice this week, and felt so voiceless, literally. I had to find another way to communicate what I was feeling, when I couldn’t run, swim, lift, sing, speak–my options were limited, but not completely eliminated. It just meant time to get creative and imaginative with writing, drawing, painting, knitting, but sometimes best of all, doing nothing.
Nakedness is all I’ve felt, like I have nothing of importance to say or create. This I’ve determined is a common accusation I replay when I need to say something most. This feeling of inadequacy tempting me to silence usually comes right before I find the gold, the buried treasure.
And here comes the buried truth I’ve been typing endlessly to get to. If you’ve been a writer, you know this point–the point where you didn’t want or even KNOW you needed to go, but somehow you made it and it feels like home, you’ve struck that gold, even if it hurts.
I wanted something this year and was disappointed. It sounds so stupid when I just say it. But the mere sentence seems a disservice as I catalogue the mental and emotional gymnastics behind it.
I didn’t need him. I wanted him. I came to this reality, and felt selfish. I condemned myself for wanting someone so badly, and getting what I wanted, despite all the red flags. I don’t regret it. I’d do it again, a hundred times over. This is all part of the learning curve. But I also fell in love with the imaginations in my head that paled in comparison to the real person. Having a creative mind can be trouble at times.
I found out how I should be treated by being mistreated below the bar. I’ve learned disappointment won’t kill me, risk won’t deter me, and that I’m a fury, a fire, that only grows in intensity and tenacity with adversity.