Four years.
Four years ago I was having a mini meltdown about turning 25. Fast forward to being on the brink of 29 and I’m just thankful to be here.
Four years ago I was stuck in a job I hated and in a town I couldn’t stand. Fast forward to finding a new job and a new state.
Four years ago I had a sister. Fast forward to clinging to only a memory of what it was to have a sister.
So much has changed, and yet somehow some things are still very much the same.
I started to read some of the comments people were posting on Facebook about Emily. But after the third or fourth “angel in Heaven” reference, I decided for sanity’s sake I needed to turn off the smartphone. (And my cursing was scaring the cats.) I know people mean well… but people are idiots. They say stupid, stupid, stupid stuff. And unfortunately, you can’t cure stupid.
Anniversaries bother me. Not just for the obvious reason, but because there’s a hollowness in it. I miss her just as much on the 1st of April as I do on the 22nd of August.
The ache doesn’t deepen. It doesn’t lessen. It.is.always.there.
But what is unsettling is that I think the 1st of April doesn’t bother me as much as it seems to bother everyone else. I didn’t change my facebook picture. I didn’t post anything to acknowledge the passing of another year. I didn’t miss her any more or any less than the day before or the day after. I don’t feel the need to mark the passing of time, because it all blurs into one continuous absence.
And this makes me wonder if there is something wrong with me.
It was suggested that I join a grief group. While I know there’s a measure of comfort in talking with someone who “gets” where your emotions are coming from- I’m not on an even enough keel to be in a group setting. Comparing war stories doesn’t bring healing for me. Knowing that someone shares some of my emotions doesn’t help me deal with mine- it just heightens the awareness that there is a whole lot of hurting out there. Instead of sharing my sadness, I feel like I’m absorbing someone else’s. Group therapy isn’t for me. I’m not willing enough to share, because I talk about Emily on my terms. Most of the time, she’s a topic that’s off limits unless I want to talk about it. Is that denial? No. It’s self-preservation. I don’t like it when she comes up unexpectedly in conversation. Sometimes the casual mention of her name is enough to make me want to scream. It’s selfish the way I deal with it- but regardless, it’s the way I cope.
I also feel guilty because I am tired of Emily’s death defining me. I am tired of evading and avoiding the “do you have any siblings” question- because the answer leads to pity. I feel guilty because I don’t know how to honor Emily’s life, because sometimes I want to forget the whole damn thing. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life marking the passing of time, and living under the shadow of my sister’s death. And it thoroughly depresses me that it’s not going to change.
And this too makes me wonder if there is something wrong with me.
I’m not looking for someone to make me “feel better”. I’m not fishing for compliments, or sympathy. I’m not looking for reassurances that what I am feeling is “normal”, or “understandable”, or that there is nothing wrong with me. On the contrary, I have it on good authority that my head is thoroughly messed up. There’s a fine line between messed up and crazy. What’s keeping me on the sane side of the line is the fact that I am well aware I am a mess.
So what do I want? For someone to acknowledge the fact that it’s not normal to feel this way? To agree with me, that yes, Melissa you have issues? (Again, stating the obvious).
No, that’s not what I want either. I have no idea what I want.
Oddly enough- that’s probably the one feeling that doesn’t make me feel like there is something wrong with me.
Maybe there’s hope. But I still miss Emily.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
When the hole won’t close
After Emily died, there were so many cards, calls, comments, and letters that came in. Most of it is a blur. There were so many things that were said- in all honesty, I tuned most of it out. Mostly out of self-preservation. There are only so many times you can hear the same phrase before it makes you want to explode. On a side note, I have the same feelings about lunchmeat trays. It sounds ungrateful to complain… but take it from me- there is a reason why lunchmeat is not considered a comfort food. I know lunchmeat trays serve a practicality purpose by feeding several people with little effort. And I also know food is usually the last thing on your mind- but I distinctly recall weeping at the sight of the stuffed shells our neighbor brought us. And Ms. Eileen is still my hero for that chocolate cake.
But I digress- back to the comments. One comment in particular that was made has stuck with me:
“Losing someone gives you automatic membership into a club that no one wants to join.”
Almost three weeks ago there was a helicopter crash that killed seven Marines who were on a training mission for their deployment to Afghanistan. My friend Mark’s son was one of the Marines. Mark was the pastor of my church growing up when I lived in Alabama, and is one of the greatest people I know. I didn’t know his son Ben very well. He was two years older than me. And when you are junior-high aged, two years might as well be twenty. Ben was one of the “big kids”. But you don’t have to know someone to be affected by their loss. Ben was thirty-one years old. He has two young children. He was a son, a brother, a father. And while I can’t say that I knew him well, it’s jarring when someone who’s your age is suddenly and tragically…gone. It goes against the natural order of things. I don’t understand life sometimes. It doesn’t seem to play fair.
Pastor Mark has been posting a lot on his facebook. As I read some of his posts- his pain is almost palpable. I ache for him. I ache with him. I ache with the kind of hurting from deep within a heart that’s been there. I find myself wanting to say “I know what you’re going through”. Which is ironic- because I hate that phrase. But I finally understand why people feel the need to say it. You say it because you desperately want to convey that while you don’t really know what the other person is going through, you still know that sense of loss. No two losses are the same, and every relationship is different. Every dynamic, every piece of past and history, every aspect is different. But the underlying grief is the same. The sense of loss, of emptiness, and of a pain too deep to put into words- that’s the same. While everyone grieves differently, there is a weird sort of camaraderie between people who have lost someone. It’s not a knowing of how someone feels, but a knowing that on some level, there is a shared sense of emptiness. There just isn’t an expressive enough way to convey its meaning, so the phrase tends to fall flat. So even though it doesn’t express itself well… I do understand now the depths from where the phrase comes from. But when you’re struggling through one of the deepest tragedies of your life, the last thing you want to hear is someone saying they know what you’re going through. At least that’s how it was with me. I didn’t care. It didn’t help knowing that there were other people in my shoes. I was so sick of people comparing their stories of loss to mine. I was tired of nodding along in “shared sympathy”. I didn’t have the energy or strength to be gracious.
Now that I’ve moved beyond that initial raw and hurting place, I do find a little bit of solace in sharing with people who’ve been through it. Everyone reaches that place in different stages. And those stages aren’t always permanent. It’s been almost 4 years since Emily died, and my stable ground is still pretty shaky. I feel caught in the “in between”- somewhere between grief and healing. It’s a strange place to be. It’s the place where you know that the hole they left won’t close, but you’ve learned to live with the emptiness.
One of Pastor Mark’s posts talked about how he was holding onto Ben’s dog tags like a rosary. For a year, I kept something of Emily’s in my pocket. Without realizing it, I’d find myself running it through my fingers- exactly like a rosary. You think that grief is something that’s personally yours- but it’s strange how our patterns of dealing with it can be so similar.
I’ve found myself starting to comment a couple of times on Pastor Mark’s posts. But then I catch myself and think “Ok, is this something YOU would have wanted to hear? Is this going to help him… or help you?” That caught me off guard. Grief really is selfish. Some of the sharing and telling of grief isn’t necessarily to help the person who is grieving. It’s a subconscious form of therapy. It helps me understand some of the comments people made to me. But that’s now. When it was then, I was pissed.
So I find myself saying less. There’s a time for words, and there’s a time for silence. There’s a time for flowery sentiments and there’s a time to simply say “I care”, and nothing more.
For me, the worst part was when people went back to “normal” life. When the cards stopped. When the e-mails stopped. When the phone finally stopped ringing. When the first anniversary came around and the world didn’t stop. When people stopped being so forgiving when I snapped and sniped because they forgot that my heart was still shattered. That’s when you need the grief club. That’s when you need the gentle reminders of “I understand your sense of loss”. I find myself wanting to give him a head’s up- “here’s what is coming your way. Be prepared!” But each journey is different. And knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier to prepare. And it certainly doesn’t make the hole that won’t close any more visible.
But I digress- back to the comments. One comment in particular that was made has stuck with me:
“Losing someone gives you automatic membership into a club that no one wants to join.”
Almost three weeks ago there was a helicopter crash that killed seven Marines who were on a training mission for their deployment to Afghanistan. My friend Mark’s son was one of the Marines. Mark was the pastor of my church growing up when I lived in Alabama, and is one of the greatest people I know. I didn’t know his son Ben very well. He was two years older than me. And when you are junior-high aged, two years might as well be twenty. Ben was one of the “big kids”. But you don’t have to know someone to be affected by their loss. Ben was thirty-one years old. He has two young children. He was a son, a brother, a father. And while I can’t say that I knew him well, it’s jarring when someone who’s your age is suddenly and tragically…gone. It goes against the natural order of things. I don’t understand life sometimes. It doesn’t seem to play fair.
Pastor Mark has been posting a lot on his facebook. As I read some of his posts- his pain is almost palpable. I ache for him. I ache with him. I ache with the kind of hurting from deep within a heart that’s been there. I find myself wanting to say “I know what you’re going through”. Which is ironic- because I hate that phrase. But I finally understand why people feel the need to say it. You say it because you desperately want to convey that while you don’t really know what the other person is going through, you still know that sense of loss. No two losses are the same, and every relationship is different. Every dynamic, every piece of past and history, every aspect is different. But the underlying grief is the same. The sense of loss, of emptiness, and of a pain too deep to put into words- that’s the same. While everyone grieves differently, there is a weird sort of camaraderie between people who have lost someone. It’s not a knowing of how someone feels, but a knowing that on some level, there is a shared sense of emptiness. There just isn’t an expressive enough way to convey its meaning, so the phrase tends to fall flat. So even though it doesn’t express itself well… I do understand now the depths from where the phrase comes from. But when you’re struggling through one of the deepest tragedies of your life, the last thing you want to hear is someone saying they know what you’re going through. At least that’s how it was with me. I didn’t care. It didn’t help knowing that there were other people in my shoes. I was so sick of people comparing their stories of loss to mine. I was tired of nodding along in “shared sympathy”. I didn’t have the energy or strength to be gracious.
Now that I’ve moved beyond that initial raw and hurting place, I do find a little bit of solace in sharing with people who’ve been through it. Everyone reaches that place in different stages. And those stages aren’t always permanent. It’s been almost 4 years since Emily died, and my stable ground is still pretty shaky. I feel caught in the “in between”- somewhere between grief and healing. It’s a strange place to be. It’s the place where you know that the hole they left won’t close, but you’ve learned to live with the emptiness.
One of Pastor Mark’s posts talked about how he was holding onto Ben’s dog tags like a rosary. For a year, I kept something of Emily’s in my pocket. Without realizing it, I’d find myself running it through my fingers- exactly like a rosary. You think that grief is something that’s personally yours- but it’s strange how our patterns of dealing with it can be so similar.
I’ve found myself starting to comment a couple of times on Pastor Mark’s posts. But then I catch myself and think “Ok, is this something YOU would have wanted to hear? Is this going to help him… or help you?” That caught me off guard. Grief really is selfish. Some of the sharing and telling of grief isn’t necessarily to help the person who is grieving. It’s a subconscious form of therapy. It helps me understand some of the comments people made to me. But that’s now. When it was then, I was pissed.
So I find myself saying less. There’s a time for words, and there’s a time for silence. There’s a time for flowery sentiments and there’s a time to simply say “I care”, and nothing more.
For me, the worst part was when people went back to “normal” life. When the cards stopped. When the e-mails stopped. When the phone finally stopped ringing. When the first anniversary came around and the world didn’t stop. When people stopped being so forgiving when I snapped and sniped because they forgot that my heart was still shattered. That’s when you need the grief club. That’s when you need the gentle reminders of “I understand your sense of loss”. I find myself wanting to give him a head’s up- “here’s what is coming your way. Be prepared!” But each journey is different. And knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier to prepare. And it certainly doesn’t make the hole that won’t close any more visible.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Rescued from the Draft Folder....
Have I really been absent since Christmas? Yikes. Don't worry- I haven't comepletely fallen off the face of the earth.
I was cleaning out some old drafts, and came across this one from back in September. Not sure why I didn't post it then, but here it is now.
Watch out for the quiet ones
Drafted, September 26, 2011
I don’t make friends easily.
And that’s a truth- not one of my typical self-degrading statements. I like to think I am a friendly person- approachable and somewhat likeable. People say I’m easy to talk to- so I suppose that there’s something redeeming in there. Either that or I am extremely adept at fooling people. Okay, okay… I’m done being me.
But in all seriousness… I am friendly, but not easily friend-able. I very much keep people at a distance. I have what you would consider several surface level friends, but I can probably count on one hand the number of people that I would truly consider a “friend”. And interestingly enough, one or two of those few that I consider close friends are people I only know through e-mail correspondence. But I consider those relationships just as deep and important. There’s a level of safety that’s found in pouring out your soul in anonymity.
During one of the first meetings with my therapist, she asked me some of the things I hoped to gain from these sessions. My response was to become more extroverted and adept at making friends. When she asked me why, I responded without hesitation, without even really thinking about my answer:
“Because that’s what people want me to do”.
The words I spoke hung the silence for a moment, and then the clarity of those words struck like a clanging gong.
For several months I’d been berating myself because I wasn’t living up to expectations that were set for me- someone else’s idea of who I should be. It was pointed out that I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t doing things. I wasn’t forming enough friendships. But the more I tried to force those things, the emptier I felt. I was smothering, and making myself miserable to fit myself into expectations that I can never meet, because
That’s. Simply. Not. Me.
I think the advice was well-intended, and prompted out of a level of concern. Or more accurately, from the perspective of an extrovert who can’t comprehend how an introvert operates. For an extrovert, the thought of a weekend looming with no plans made, no places to go, no people to see is incomprehensible. For me? I’d prefer my own company to just filling up the emptiness with a warm body. Don’t get me wrong- I like being around people. I would say that I’m social, but I don’t seek out company just to save myself from being alone. And I’m not a talker. Put me in a group of people and I tend to blend into the background. I don’t have the ability to entertain a crowd, and I don’t captivate an audience with stories or conversation. More times than not, when I am in a group I get the joke that each teller thinks is so original and funny:
“Hey over there, you should really keep it down!”
or
“Someone shut Melissa up, she’s talking too much!”
Or my personal favorite,
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for!” (what does that MEAN anyway?)
The variations are many, but the message is the same:
You’re not measuring up.
(And I can’t help but think to myself, it’s the quiet ones like me that allow the boisterous ones to have an audience to perform in front of.)
I listen more than I speak, and absorb more than I expel. Maybe that’s where the innate sense of empathy I seem to have comes from… and I think that quiet nature is what makes me essentially who I am. I would much rather be in the background than in the spotlight. Believe me; I’ve tried the spotlight thing. And I’m okay with sharing the spotlight. Heck, I don’t even want to share it. For all I care, you can have the spotlight, the secondary lights, and the backlights too. I’ve tried to fit myself into the mold of what other people think I should be, and it doesn’t work.
I think about Emily and Lauren and Rachel and my friend Debbie- the four most social people I’ve known- and wonder at what it is that they have (had) that makes it seem so effortless, and why I seem to be missing it. Lauren and Rachel are the same way. And if you look up extroverted in the dictionary, you will find my friend Debbie’s picture beside the definition. Emily never knew a stranger. She had more friends than I could keep track of, and a never-ending stream of places to go and people to see. But I can’t be Emily. I realized that I’ve been trying to be. I look at my sister and all the things she was, her huge personality, the friends that she had, and the effect she brought on people, and I envy those qualities in her, because I don’t have them. Usually the younger sibling lives in the older sibling’s shadow. Subconsciously, I’ve been trying to lose myself in hers. Or maybe I’m trying to fill a gap that simply can’t be filled. The funny thing is, if Emily was here, she would be the first one to give me the well-deserved kick in the pants that I need and tell me to get over myself in the way that only a sister can.
To me an extrovert is almost like a puzzle that I can’t quite solve. It's the missing key to unlocking the world’s standard of “normal”.
But that’s them. And that’s not me. The cool thing is though, I think for the first time in 28 (and a half) years…. I’m finally starting to be okay with that. I’m happy with the friends I have. It may not be many, but they’re genuine, and they are friendships that will last a lifetime.
I do have one friend in particular who has quickly become one of the dearest and truest friends I’ve ever had. I don’t share easily. I don’t trust. And I very rarely speak my heart or give voice to my own wants or needs. I’ve heard it time and time again that I’m too easy-going. I’m one of those people that consistently defers to what someone else wants. “It doesn’t matter”, “I don’t care”, and “whatever you want to do is fine with me” are my Gospels. And most of the time, it’s because that really is what I feel. I happen to really be that easy-going. But once in a while I do have a preference, yet still hesitate to give it voice. One of my biggest fears in any/all relationships is that eventually the other person is going to get tired of me. That they will wake up and realize that I’m really not worth all the aggravation. I don’t know where that comes from. I’m sure that’s a whole year’s worth of material to keep my therapist occupied. But I think the fact that I recognize it is progress. And somehow with my friend Viviane, there’s a security in our friendship that I’ve never really found with any one else. It’s freeing. I think I realized that if someone decides they don’t want to be my friend anymore because I’d rather have pizza for dinner than Chinese…. that certainly isn’t a friend worth having. It seems ridiculous, but those are the kinds of trivial opinions that I won’t typically voice.
But while I’ve found that security with one friend, I still haven’t been able to extend that to the rest of my life. I take on too much at work, and can’t seem to ask for help. I still let people use me as a doormat, and find myself making excuses for the reasons why they do that. I still hesitate to take a stand and say…
“I want Chinese for dinner!”
I struggle with some deep-seated need to be accepted. To earn other people’s approval. Basically, my self-esteem reaches a point so low at times that it’s non-existent. I don’t know why my mind works like that, or what chemicals in my genetic make-up went haywire to make me wired that way, but that’s the way I am. My therapist likes to tell me that it’s only a matter of re-programming my thinking. That your thoughts are only a projection of your mind, and what your environment has pressed upon you- they aren’t a reflection of your soul, of your true self. Makes sense to me. And it makes me hopeful that there’s a simple cure for neurotic self-depreciating people like me: it really is all in my head.
But curiously I wonder…
If you can re-program self-esteem, can you re-program yourself into an extrovert? Is extroverted-ness or introverted-ness controlled by your thoughts or is it part of the soul? And is one really better than the other? If we were all extroverts, the world would be… a much louder place. And if we were all introverts, well…. let’s just say that the restaurants would be hurting for business because none of us would be willing to voice an opinion as to where we wanted to eat dinner.
But while there are some things about myself I admit need some “tweaking”, I don’t really want to re-program into an extrovert. I wouldn’t be me. And for all my faults, flaws, and sometimes too-easy-going- nature, there’s obviously something about me that seems genuinely likeable-enough. I wouldn’t have been able to say that before.
And that thought alone is encouragement enough to keep trying.
I was cleaning out some old drafts, and came across this one from back in September. Not sure why I didn't post it then, but here it is now.
Watch out for the quiet ones
Drafted, September 26, 2011
I don’t make friends easily.
And that’s a truth- not one of my typical self-degrading statements. I like to think I am a friendly person- approachable and somewhat likeable. People say I’m easy to talk to- so I suppose that there’s something redeeming in there. Either that or I am extremely adept at fooling people. Okay, okay… I’m done being me.
But in all seriousness… I am friendly, but not easily friend-able. I very much keep people at a distance. I have what you would consider several surface level friends, but I can probably count on one hand the number of people that I would truly consider a “friend”. And interestingly enough, one or two of those few that I consider close friends are people I only know through e-mail correspondence. But I consider those relationships just as deep and important. There’s a level of safety that’s found in pouring out your soul in anonymity.
During one of the first meetings with my therapist, she asked me some of the things I hoped to gain from these sessions. My response was to become more extroverted and adept at making friends. When she asked me why, I responded without hesitation, without even really thinking about my answer:
“Because that’s what people want me to do”.
The words I spoke hung the silence for a moment, and then the clarity of those words struck like a clanging gong.
For several months I’d been berating myself because I wasn’t living up to expectations that were set for me- someone else’s idea of who I should be. It was pointed out that I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t doing things. I wasn’t forming enough friendships. But the more I tried to force those things, the emptier I felt. I was smothering, and making myself miserable to fit myself into expectations that I can never meet, because
That’s. Simply. Not. Me.
I think the advice was well-intended, and prompted out of a level of concern. Or more accurately, from the perspective of an extrovert who can’t comprehend how an introvert operates. For an extrovert, the thought of a weekend looming with no plans made, no places to go, no people to see is incomprehensible. For me? I’d prefer my own company to just filling up the emptiness with a warm body. Don’t get me wrong- I like being around people. I would say that I’m social, but I don’t seek out company just to save myself from being alone. And I’m not a talker. Put me in a group of people and I tend to blend into the background. I don’t have the ability to entertain a crowd, and I don’t captivate an audience with stories or conversation. More times than not, when I am in a group I get the joke that each teller thinks is so original and funny:
“Hey over there, you should really keep it down!”
or
“Someone shut Melissa up, she’s talking too much!”
Or my personal favorite,
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for!” (what does that MEAN anyway?)
The variations are many, but the message is the same:
You’re not measuring up.
(And I can’t help but think to myself, it’s the quiet ones like me that allow the boisterous ones to have an audience to perform in front of.)
I listen more than I speak, and absorb more than I expel. Maybe that’s where the innate sense of empathy I seem to have comes from… and I think that quiet nature is what makes me essentially who I am. I would much rather be in the background than in the spotlight. Believe me; I’ve tried the spotlight thing. And I’m okay with sharing the spotlight. Heck, I don’t even want to share it. For all I care, you can have the spotlight, the secondary lights, and the backlights too. I’ve tried to fit myself into the mold of what other people think I should be, and it doesn’t work.
I think about Emily and Lauren and Rachel and my friend Debbie- the four most social people I’ve known- and wonder at what it is that they have (had) that makes it seem so effortless, and why I seem to be missing it. Lauren and Rachel are the same way. And if you look up extroverted in the dictionary, you will find my friend Debbie’s picture beside the definition. Emily never knew a stranger. She had more friends than I could keep track of, and a never-ending stream of places to go and people to see. But I can’t be Emily. I realized that I’ve been trying to be. I look at my sister and all the things she was, her huge personality, the friends that she had, and the effect she brought on people, and I envy those qualities in her, because I don’t have them. Usually the younger sibling lives in the older sibling’s shadow. Subconsciously, I’ve been trying to lose myself in hers. Or maybe I’m trying to fill a gap that simply can’t be filled. The funny thing is, if Emily was here, she would be the first one to give me the well-deserved kick in the pants that I need and tell me to get over myself in the way that only a sister can.
To me an extrovert is almost like a puzzle that I can’t quite solve. It's the missing key to unlocking the world’s standard of “normal”.
But that’s them. And that’s not me. The cool thing is though, I think for the first time in 28 (and a half) years…. I’m finally starting to be okay with that. I’m happy with the friends I have. It may not be many, but they’re genuine, and they are friendships that will last a lifetime.
I do have one friend in particular who has quickly become one of the dearest and truest friends I’ve ever had. I don’t share easily. I don’t trust. And I very rarely speak my heart or give voice to my own wants or needs. I’ve heard it time and time again that I’m too easy-going. I’m one of those people that consistently defers to what someone else wants. “It doesn’t matter”, “I don’t care”, and “whatever you want to do is fine with me” are my Gospels. And most of the time, it’s because that really is what I feel. I happen to really be that easy-going. But once in a while I do have a preference, yet still hesitate to give it voice. One of my biggest fears in any/all relationships is that eventually the other person is going to get tired of me. That they will wake up and realize that I’m really not worth all the aggravation. I don’t know where that comes from. I’m sure that’s a whole year’s worth of material to keep my therapist occupied. But I think the fact that I recognize it is progress. And somehow with my friend Viviane, there’s a security in our friendship that I’ve never really found with any one else. It’s freeing. I think I realized that if someone decides they don’t want to be my friend anymore because I’d rather have pizza for dinner than Chinese…. that certainly isn’t a friend worth having. It seems ridiculous, but those are the kinds of trivial opinions that I won’t typically voice.
But while I’ve found that security with one friend, I still haven’t been able to extend that to the rest of my life. I take on too much at work, and can’t seem to ask for help. I still let people use me as a doormat, and find myself making excuses for the reasons why they do that. I still hesitate to take a stand and say…
“I want Chinese for dinner!”
I struggle with some deep-seated need to be accepted. To earn other people’s approval. Basically, my self-esteem reaches a point so low at times that it’s non-existent. I don’t know why my mind works like that, or what chemicals in my genetic make-up went haywire to make me wired that way, but that’s the way I am. My therapist likes to tell me that it’s only a matter of re-programming my thinking. That your thoughts are only a projection of your mind, and what your environment has pressed upon you- they aren’t a reflection of your soul, of your true self. Makes sense to me. And it makes me hopeful that there’s a simple cure for neurotic self-depreciating people like me: it really is all in my head.
But curiously I wonder…
If you can re-program self-esteem, can you re-program yourself into an extrovert? Is extroverted-ness or introverted-ness controlled by your thoughts or is it part of the soul? And is one really better than the other? If we were all extroverts, the world would be… a much louder place. And if we were all introverts, well…. let’s just say that the restaurants would be hurting for business because none of us would be willing to voice an opinion as to where we wanted to eat dinner.
But while there are some things about myself I admit need some “tweaking”, I don’t really want to re-program into an extrovert. I wouldn’t be me. And for all my faults, flaws, and sometimes too-easy-going- nature, there’s obviously something about me that seems genuinely likeable-enough. I wouldn’t have been able to say that before.
And that thought alone is encouragement enough to keep trying.
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