I tell my father that people sometimes cry pretty easily in front of me. He is surprised. There’s space and silence as he processes this so I add that that’s not necessarily a bad thing though, and I almost feel nice that they feel safe around me. (Of course, truthfully, I know this isn’t about me and I’m just an aid or an instrument to what they might have needed, but admittedly, I’m happy when I’m able to offer a non-judgemental space to someone). He laughs and asks how i can feel good about making people cry. I think he is partially joking but I know it’s only partially so. He has never experienced safety in the ways I strive to experience (and hence, also bring to people) on a regular basis. This devastates me and yet I know I can’t spend too much time thinking about this.
When I was much younger I would sometimes fantasise about people telling me their deepest, darkest secrets. I don’t know if this meant anything and part of me knows that I perhaps had a bit of a saviour complex. But I look up what a saviour complex means and a saviour complex is tied to fixing. I don’t think I ever wanted to solve people’s problems, even in my fantasies (unless they wanted me to, of course). I don’t know where this came from, then. Maybe this part of me just wanted to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to someone and I envisioned being this person for that part. It’s all good now, though. I experienced almost 10/10 safety through therapy and I don’t feel the need to offer safety to people for my own happiness.
It feels nice to be here. Starting to think about choice a lot more. At 23, I started the journey of disidentification and detachment from my thoughts. At 28, I started the same with feelings. I’m recognising that thoughts and feelings are just that— thoughts and feelings. While it’s true that some of them can mean something and some of them can be worth listening to and following, I keep in mind now that there is always a choice. Choice of belief, choice of how much meaning you want to assign to them, choice of response. I’ve spent enough time with my feelings over the last few months to now for know that I don’t need to spending all my time with my feelings.
Art is nice, of course. It allows to me pour my thoughts and feelings into something. Something tangible, almost. I suppose in a way, it gives meaning and an end and a home to my thoughts and feelings. It’s safe. Maybe that’s the primary reason I do this, maybe that’s the primary reason I’ve always done this. Of course, if someone miraculously finds value in it, that makes me incredibly happy, but I suppose there is enough value in it for me too.
I don’t believe in a forever anymore. It sounds pessimistic and unromantic but i feel really great about believing this. To me, it means that I have fully grieved the people I’ve lost. Because if no feeling is final, how can a forever be final? Choice (and hope) is what makes a forever, and choice is hopefully something you can always carry with you. (I pray to god I never have to be out of choice.) xx
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