the explaining monster
So, I’m “reclaiming my brain”... Wow, that sounds so profound… and certain.
To be honest I’m not really sure if this will work. A piece of me is remembering that writing has always been a positive outlet. It’s always been the place where my brain makes sense. It’s the talking that I’m trying to work on.
You see, I have been so blessed in this life. I have been given airplane tickets to quite a few countries and welcomed into loving homes all around North America. I have glimpsed the hearts of many unique groups of people, and I have been given the opportunity to sit in countless self-help and healing circles (maybe too many ;).
There is a piece of me that feels guilty. Guilty that I’ve been given so many beautiful experiences in life and that I’m unable to remember // share so many of these stories. I have been gifted so many words of wisdom from the most beautiful souls. I have been exposed to so many life philosophies. All for what?
I wish I could pay respect. Pay homage to these people and their gifts. I wish I could remember. Remember their words, their lessons, the places they brought me, or the puzzle pieces they handed me while I continued to contemplate the mystery of life.
When I try to remember most things it feels as though I am grasping at glass shards just whizzing past me. Painfully attempting to glimpse the stories that created the person I am today. When did all my memories shatter?
It didn’t always used to be this way.
When I was 18 I was so fierce. In the face of the turmoil that filled my home life, I remained clear on my values. I wanted to travel, I wanted to expose myself to new ways of thought. I wanted to know myself in a different context. I knew my world was so small. And I knew that by pursuing my urge to travel I would be able to put my pain into perspective.
Every time I would return home I would have so many stories. So many new understandings. So many new teachings that influenced my daily habits. I would remember. And I would always want to share them.
So, why did it feel like no one cared? Why did it feel impossible to sit my loved ones down for a slide show? Why did every story I share trigger a fight? Why was I met with defensiveness every time I would share about a new relationship developed on my travels? This friend from Germany… This teacher from Thailand… this child in Cambodia…
You left us. You abandoned us… in the Arctic!!
How dare you.
I needed you.
Do you not value family? Honey?
Just wondering…
Okay, back to my point.
So, I wasn’t always panic-stricken. How did I seem to dodge this in my childhood yet become struck by fear in adulthood? Was it simply just a matter of years that wore me down?
Maybe this is why I prefer to be alone. My brain makes sense to me when we are alone (me, myself, and I). It is so hard to translate my thoughts to others when I am unsure of what they are thinking of me. Maybe this is why I love Boulder. It is the one place I feel seen and understood.
Was the shattering an attempt to protect myself from the incessant judgment and shame that I was subjected to every time I would return home with a new story of independence?
I guess I’m not really sure if these book reports will work… and if they will help me feel more confident in my opinions. I chuckled to myself last night as I imagined directing people to certain blog posts if they were curious to understand my opinion on a subject. Is this just a new scapegoat saving me from the demoralizing task of explaining?
I guess I’m a little scared too. Scared to tell my story. Scared to offend anyone. Scared of my family being disappointed in me. Scared of people thinking I’m ungrateful and whiney.
And I guess that’s why I’m doing this. To engage with that fear. To not run any longer. I might not be able to transform it into confidence. But I think I can at least turn towards it and see what it has to say. Maybe I’ll even find something wise in all the chaos.
Until next time,
~Kara
