People who don\’t write in their own blogs or journals….they don\’t understand me. Usually they don\’t. They don\’t understand why I put up thoughts and feelings online, to expose it to the entire world.
As always, this must be the hundredth time that I allowed myself to be vulnerable to others. I let a friend read my deepest thoughts. My most treasured writings. It\’s not because I want to brag or show off. I have this horrible yearning to be understood and be approved. It\’s a weakness I know, but people accept those with weaknesses.
I trust people. I trust too easily sometimes.
So when he had finally discovered my deepest thoughts and emotions. The things I had written. I had expected him to take one extra breath to understand me. To understand why I say the things I do without questioning.
I consider it like a painting. Like a painting of what I am, who I am.
But like many of the repeated times in the past, anytime I allow myself to show my insecure, vulnerable to someone who isn\’t accustomed to this thing…they react. They don\’t get the insecurities. They feel like they must help me. They read about the sad moments, the depressing moments and they feel like they have to help me in whatever way they can.
And this turns into a stormy downward spiral of an analysis of me. How they believe I should be living my life. How I could be better.
I am not clay to be molded. I am me. I want to be free. I will ask for help when I need it. I don\’t want to be judged, so don\’t judge me.
I don\’t want to scare people away. Yet I love people, for all the fascinating ways they are. But because this has happened so many times, I feel reluctant now to share much of myself anymore to new people who want to know me. I just can\’t be trivialized to actions, stories I describe in the past.
I harbor resentment and bitterness. I just can\’t help it.