Feel? It’s OK

What’s it like to feel? To feel deeply the things in this world? To know that when you speak with someone, that they are hurting? What’s it like to wish you could make a difference, to want only good things for good people, to see good in people who have almost none left? What’s it like to know that good exists in the midst of evil? What’s it like to love like that?

How does a person manage to not be completely taken over by another? How does a person understand? empathize? with another who is having a difficult time? How do you distance yourself? Do you? How do you put limits on your emotions so that you can survive? How?

Feeling is painful but comes so easily. Protecting myself from others is what’s difficult. Simple? Feel. Just feel? But how? And will I still exist if I let those flood gates down? Will I still stand unchanged? No. I will be changed. But will that change be good? Maybe, and that is the risk I take. Loving deeply for others is a gift and a curse. A curse? No. Not if I don’t fight it. Being afraid of feeling is the part that’s a curse. But if I just let myself feel, let myself be, then it is a ride, a journey, not a curse.

I stood there, I saw her pain. I knew her fear. I only wanted to help. I let myself be there. I could not change things, I had no power to do that, but I could be with her. I could be a light on the way, a marker of good things to come. I could not help her physically, but what little I could give emotionally I gave.

And when she was gone, I cried.

My advice? Give, give unconditionally, just do it. The pain is worth it. Be open, just be it. The pain is worth it. Feel, it’s OK. Be changed. Life is worth it. Do not hold yourself back, let yourself be. You are worth it.

thank you for reading,

me

Writing Joys

Writing is something I never wanted to do when I was younger. I always put off to the last-minute anything that had a due date. I always needed to feel the pressure before I bothered to put pen to paper. Looking at myself now? I cannot believe the amount I have written in the last few years! Now? Now, I am a writer.

Writer? What does that mean? This is a blog, after all. Aren’t we all writers? Maybe. For me, it’s having that impulse, desire, can’t stop what I’m doing, have to finish, feeling of putting thoughts on a screen. That uncontrollable urge to share my thoughts, my desires, my dreams. It’s an obsession of sorts.

I started writing as an outlet, a way to speak. My muteness in my life was killing me and I needed a way out. As I carefully began to write, as I began to edit everything that came out of my mind, I began to see that my writing was still stifling me. I was still unwilling to be vulnerable; I was unwilling to be honest with myself. I feared what others might say or think, and I had no strength for rebuttal and no knowledge of how to deflect anything negative. It was hard.

Then I started letting myself breathe more. I began writing only to myself. I began being honest and vulnerable, with the knowledge that no one would ever read it. Occasionally I’d put something I liked out in public, or I’d find myself editing something more personal and put it out there. Slowly I began to trust myself and I began to write more often.

I began to be a writer. I began to love my writing. I was finally finding my voice and it hurt. It was a wonderful pain, though; the pain of growing. I began to love the challenge and my words began to flow. Writing has become such an outlet for me now that I would rather, sometimes, to sit on my computer for hours than do anything else. When I write, time is still, meaningless, years go by in my mind. Sometimes I am only a child, others I am here as I am now. Time has no meaning at all. When I write, nothing else matters.

Now? Now I remain vulnerable but I am willing to put some of it out there. Now I am truly letting the unknown masses see peaks into my soul. It’s scary, it’s frightening, it’s often terrifying, but I keep doing it. Why? Why do I put myself out there? By being honest, others may find the courage to do so as well. By living into me; I give others room to be authentic. When I am able to give words to something tragic, when I am able to give others their voice, it makes all of my fears and tears worth it.

Writing? Is it worth it? Yes.

thanks for reading,

me