Owning Of The Mind

It wasn’t about being special, though I can see how others run along that path. I knew I was—I wasn’t doing all this to be special. This is what was done, but I realize now it works best by not adding wildness. I acted wildly, desperately ignoring what that could even look like. Masking the wild nature of what I hoped to do, it ended up trickling through until I was forced to look at what I was doing, what I initially wanted and what I was bringing forth in disguise, in scale more dangerous than the original desire.

That’s what kept me from moving on these next few months, I think. It’s a lead. I wanted to be responsible, but I was careless. I wanted to show commitment, but revealing to myself I was instead deeply conflicted.

Even now, I find myself trying to assert how capable I am, but I know I am wounded from the aftermath. I know I should lick my wounds, know I’m scabbing and count the things worth running after.

I have a need for structure, though I can’t tell if that’s still from coming out of a situation where I was given a prescription of more structure by someone who tried to control everything. I saw the futility of it, it was largely the opposite of the “trust, do your best, and oh well if not” way I had grown to do things.

It killed me being shamed into doing things I didn’t agree with. I was a compulsive truth-teller, noticing that there wasn’t really any malice behind the others’ words. They were doing what they thought felt right, and were offended for me when I didn’t. They didn’t know what else was going on though, and i couldn’t articulate it. I noticed reading some texts that at least I’d put up a fight in the beginning, they just invalidated and minimized what I was going through, or operated on bad faith. They were completely closed off to their worldview being inapplicable to everyone else. Still, they were pointing to things that I wanted. It was a coincidence though, because their way of going about everything gave little room for peace. Their way, being SO certain that anything else wasn’t going to help, meant that they were incredibly strict and controlling with themselves. When something went wrong or they needed to course-adjust, they weren’t going to be flexible.

I’m reclaiming myself, trying to bring safety back into my body and identity and fun back into my being.

I should start planning more fun things. They ended up turning everything fun into a chore—a necessity, to becoming who they felt ‘needed’ to be become unto. That’s the thing—I was certain this was going to lead me /somewhere/, but it was about doing things and I enjoyed and becoming a bit more of a person I didn’t mind being. Maybe this way of wording it led to it being invalidated. It led to the habits being taken for granted. “Didn’t mind being”. Now I know how much I liked the person I’d become, and was becoming. A lot of others did too, even to their surprise. I wanted to integrate things I felt was important, but at the base, at the core was already a confidence that I was doing fine enough. That I was going to wind up doing something that I enjoyed, at least.

I was vigilant, and doing something I believed in AND that I’d chosen without any outside approval. This may be self-destructive but it took back some power. This is the way the world works sometimes. If anything, I’d gotten active outside disapproval that I still hate I was given. But I persisted. I tried. The days I found it difficult to do that thing found me sitting at home that night. I teared up while eating food, worrying how I was going to feed myself doing this and that I had a much easier go at things with the old thing. It felt so good in hindsight though, but only because of the conviction, of the boats I’d burned upon arriving. I felt it as a fear and saw it as watching a person other than me going through it. ‘There, there’ I’d think. I was compassionate with myself and earnestly tried the next morning, knowing that I wasn’t quitting [the joys of beginning] and that the only solutions was working harder. I wish that didn’t stick as such a hard-wired program that I ignored when I reached some success with side-projects. Instead of thinking ‘well, I know it was going to take off eventually. But this is just an initial launch, it’s not even that great’, I would have known to CELEBRATE. Ah. Hindsight.

So I guess I value perspective. Understanding. Fun. Meaning. Faith. Independence.

Since I heard “First is the worst, Second is the best, third is the one with a hairy chest” being sung in 2nd grade, I knew I’d come unto something special. Second is the best. It seemed true, though I realize only if I’m putting myself there. I can be incredibly competitive, to the point that it’s been easy to get me to do something by insisting I couldn’t do it. This should not be my preoccupation.

I hated school because of how much it ate up our time. It seemed like a big scam— wake up early, go to school, and come back and do more school? I probably would have been fine if it ended there, but tricking us that it ended at 3pm? I think I expect people and things to be very honest and upfront with me. I read today that reading others’ intentions is a valuable skill. It is, undoubtedly. I don’t know why lately it’s been difficult to read others’ intentions, while knowing my own. Is it because I’m reading the wrong intention? That would complicate things. Am I adjusting my intention based on what I think they want to do? Probably. These things have become subtle but these days, the line between me and others is getting clearer. I noticed the guilt I used to feel coming home to my family after a run. I wanted them to start exercising more, knowing just how inactive they were because I was more inactive before leaving home and coming back. I felt a lot lighter, more confident, and proud of myself, but coming home knowing they were doing something that could lead to an early death triggered the grieving part of me that I thought was buried. I think a preoccupation with not wanting them to die so early is being blamed at 1st grade for my mom’s high blood pressure. It was because my toys were all over the place—I was playing with different sets of toys as villages, conspiring among themselves and others. I turned anything and everything into a toy and found a way to make them interact with one another. But I thought I could clean them up, it’s no big deal. She told me no, I couldn’t or something like that and my vision lost focus for a second. Whatever—for some reason, I knew it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t trying to give her blood pressure, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. How was I so independent in my thinking? But it did clue me into her mortality. Into her effort. I can give grace now, knowing the absolute madness that it is getting a newborn. She’d come from the hospital and just given birth to my sister. It was her second birth in America, with me in Egypt. She was always so self-conscious about her English, and I can understand why. Was going back a hard thing for her, since the first time led to her being unheard?