I've thought myself to be in the emotionally literate class most of my life. Indeed, I am in that class of people who seem to not merely feel things deeply, but am highly sensitive to the feeling class of things. Indeed, I've prided myself in being "in touch" with my feelings. Been there, done that. If you must know, on the MBTI I'm strongly into the F region. As in a Feeler. And so maybe you can possibly imagine my surprise in sitting down to write a letter to someone I felt wronged by several years ago. Such things I have needed to heal but seemingly, can't.
The shit runs deep. A friend of mine whom happens to be a therapist suggested that a particular piece in my past was holding me back. This was a situation, where things blew up in my face when I was in the throes of all the shit with my ex. She recommended that I do something to "let go" of said situation.
And so, naive me sat down to compose a letter that I never intended to mail to said person who in my mind, dramatically offended me. And sure there were things that were done unwell. Things that were painful. Things that could have been done in a kinder way, you know. Of course. But as I worked through what happened, I was shocked to discover how much crap I created, myself. Crap that was all mine to own. Just goes to show you that when you are warring with yourself, you often invent an enemy outside yourself in order to engage in battle. You pick up on minor things, shit in the air around you, and then you transform it into an epic Odyssey.
I have done this.
And what shocked me was how much of the shit in the air as regards the past, was actually mine to own. How long have I worked with this shit, exactly? A long time....
And there it was hanging in there as blame for someone who basically helped me on my journey more than almost anyone else. But He all epic-esque failed me. I didn't fail me. He failed me. That is how I have written it. Asshole. Narc?
Perhaps this is the power of writing.
Perspective.
I seriously looked back at the circumstances, of what happened. And I fucked up. Mostly, by not owning my emotions. Me not allowing myself to feel the truth of what I was really feeling. How ironic. Me, the epic feeler. Me, who has always been told, I feel too much.
How ironic.
They morphed--my emotions--into states I could not recognize. And up was down, right was left, and something akin to admiration and love was anger and shame.
I realize now, I must be in kindergarten, emotionally speaking. Will keep you updated, when I make it to first grade.
