It feels like my entire life is spent trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
Who am I?
What interests me?
Why is that interesting to me?
Why does that feel good?
Why do I feel bad?
Why did I react that way?
Why does that person respond in that way?
I am constantly looking for answers. I don’t know everything, but I know certain things.
I know writing is a part of me. I’m not sure how it will manifest in future, but I know it. I know I can’t not do it, and I know I don’t know who I am or where I would be without it.
I know I’m still afraid. Always, really. But it doesn’t stop me anymore.
I know I am obsessive. About creativity, human performance, emotions, philosophy, psychology, fulfilment. What it means to live a good life.
It’s a trait I like, actually. But it’s hard when people don’t understand it. Because when I am misunderstood, I am in pain.
Relationships puzzle me. I can interact with just about anyone in a socially acceptable manner. It was probably born out of necessity. I know I can quickly figure out what they want, and I know how to adapt to any given situation.
But rarely can I create meaningful, mutual relationships. Because it’s just so damn hard.
Committing to other people is hard.
Maybe that’s why I coach people. Maybe it’s the closest I’ll ever reach to the understanding and relationships I so desperately crave, without ever having to be completely vulnerable and commit.
Maybe it’s because I never want anyone like me to feel misunderstood ever again, and I see it as my duty to show them that there is another way.
Or maybe it’s not. I’m not sure. But I know I am good at it, and I know it’s part of my purpose.
I’m seemingly open, yet entirely closed off.
I’m sensitive to everyone else’s feelings, yet it takes a lot to hurt mine.
I’m multifaceted, complex and contradictory.
And what I’m saying probably makes no sense, but it does make sense to me.