I was always afraid of confrontation. Not the in-your-face-fuck-off portion of that whole deal. Nope. More the fear related to the outcome of such a thing. You know what I’m talking about, right? The proverbial ‘they’ always tell you to only ask the questions where you’re prepared to hear the answers (no matter what).
Of all the universal things I struggle with, this concept has never been a difficult one for me to latch onto. At all. Historically, I was always messy and fearful when it came to the possibilities and so, I stayed away from asking all the tough questions. It was easier to torture myself with the unknown. It was simpler to just stay grounded in my fear-based assumptions. It seemed more logical to just keep things status quo and avoid shaking anything up, in any way.
The crazy bit is that you can only go on for so long that way. Well, I shouldn’t say you. You might be someone who can exist forever in that particular breed of headspace. I, on the other hand, am not built that way. At all.
Have you ever seen a full garbage truck? I mean stuffed to the gills? I have. Often. When a trash truck is filled to the brim, there is garbage that peeks out of its seams. Also, there are bits of garbage that fly off its person as it cruises down the street, an overpowering sillage of sour odor following in its wake. While I’m loath to compare myself to a trash receptable, this is truly the image that comes to mind. Everything I bury begins to build in me. Bags of stinky, heavy, crumpled, half-empty containers and vile matter; piled high. Eventually, it spills out and over and onto all the things and everything.
And then, I approach. I inquire. I stumble. I ramble. I get choked up. I struggle. I hurt. I back down. I back off. I push forward.
It’s really messy and sort of embarrassing, but entirely necessary. I’ve gotten better with it all. It used to be horrendous. The things that heartbreakingly awkward rom-com movie scenes are made from, but then, I matured. Enough. I became thoughtful. I acknowledged my resistance. I gave myself space. I forgave myself my fear and hesitation. I did not demand perfection. I had fewer expectations. I commended myself on baby steps. Just a few words, strung together. A notion. A thought. A raised concern. This is how I feel, sort of, and I need you to know, kind of, and I’d appreciate a response, please.
I don’t know if there has been one conversation that has transformed my life per se. There hasn’t been one interaction that has materially changed the landscape of my existence. When I ponder that question, I don’t drift to a moment in time when a thing was said to me that shifted my entire world view.
Rather, it’s a series of conversations, strung together. It’s a conversation collection. It’s a witnessed evolution in my language, my bravery, my understanding, my willingness. I’ve materially changed the way in which I engage and that has unquestionably changed my life.
I could share with you snippets of conversations, but if I’m being honest, it will feel tragic and pathetic. I would tell you that what I remember are the times that infidelity was confirmed. I remember being told I’m too difficult, unwanted, and not needed. I remember being asked to compromise and be understanding and be more than anything I was capable of at any given moment. I remember apologies, legitimate and entirely false. I remember sweaty palms wiped on wrinkled skirts and furrowed brows and all the words that died on the tip of my tongue before ever seeing the light of day.
And then, then I remember the good stuff. I remember I love you mores and I love you the mosts and I love you in spite of not remembering you. I remember with good work comes more work and all the faith and a lot of praise. I remember reassurance and a willingness to grow and the thought that nothing I could ever say would ever change that thing that I can’t describe but infinitely treasure. I remember descriptions of snow-capped covered mountains and the hardest terrain and the best run race and a meal to die for.
I recall trying to hold onto all those good feelings in the face of all the not so good feelings. I remember thinking that a conversation was changing my life just as I resist that notion. I remember wanting to be less intense and always lighter and definitely myself and sometimes, someone else.
Every conversation has transformed my life. Every single one. Every time I’ve engaged, it’s changed me. It’s grown me. It’s pushed me out of my comfort zone. I’ve questioned myself and others. I’ve dug in and restarted and retreated. I learned to take a breath and then, I learned to take five. I’ve also learned that sometimes you have to sleep on something first. I’ve learned to let go of the ‘this is what I wish I had said’ and hold fast to ‘look how far I’ve come’.
Just today, I faced manipulation and I skirted over it, a rink newly resurfaced. No, thank you. I know my truth. You don’t have to agree with me, because it’s not yours. It’s mine. My treasure. My reality. Mine. I am not arrogant or blinded to other ways, but I no longer let them sway me like a rotting, half-dead branch in a storm. I consider the other way and the other thoughts and all the ideas in the context of who I am and what I know to be true, and mostly, how people act. I’m not interested in defensive, false narratives anymore. They don’t serve me. Never have, never will.
That’s a new skill though, just blossoming. I am nurturing it and reconsidering it and turning it over in my heart. You see, it’s not one conversation that’s changed my life.
It’s all of them.
x
L.
thepathtoworthy.com 