I am not open.
In fact, I'm a book so closed, my wrapping has yet to be removed
I value privacy but simultaneously long to share my thoughts
This results in me speaking in metaphorical tongues
Hiding the true messages of my heart in tres leches layered streams of consciousness
But then something changed. I learned recently that it's ok for people to read my unedited pages
The world will not end, the sun will still rise, traffic will still flow, I will still be loved
I've always thought of my life as a story. There are chapters in my story that I would love to erase or rewrite, but unfortunately they've already been published. It is these published stories I'm coming to terms with and learning to let others read. Thus far, I've only had one true reader. They have since finished these segments of my book and here I am: shamefully self conscious, frightfully insecure, emotionally cracked. But alas, here I am....
My bachelors degree is in Psychology and sometimes I wonder if my emotional intelligence or self awareness is a result of those studies or if I possessed these skills innately. I came across old journal entries I wrote in high school (circa 14-16 years old) and they suggest self awareness, but in a restrained form. A form that buried feelings and attributed emotions to external factors without truly digging down to the how's of my feelings (i.e. How does that make you feel?). Perhaps I'll never know the source of these wonders because at the end of the day maybe it was college, or maybe it was age, or maybe a combination of both. Either way, I take great pride in my ability to talk to and talk through myself.
On being open, I've learned that just because one person reads the chapters of my story and doesn't take to it, doesn't mean I should remove myself from library shelves. If anything, the act of open-ness with a first reader should (and hopefully will) act as practice for me to continue to share such stories.
The moral of my story? It's ok to be open with people. The scars I'm so afraid of showing for fear that they appear as baggage, might just also double as a suitcase of tricks and experiences that maybe make my life story more interesting. Because at the end of the day, come on, who doesn't want an interesting story?