Pieces on Earth

I don't remember it starting until the 4th grade - the general uneasiness that would send me into hiding, the flight response to uncomfortable situations. Maybe it was much earlier - maybe I was born that way.

But folding into myself became a security blanket. When I felt vulnerable, I swaddled myself in layer upon layer of cutaneous skin, designed to keep others out - and to keep me in.

In those times, I was as protective of others, as I was of myself - always wrapping people up in boxes, editing their responses, and presenting them as acceptable, receivable, tactful. I still feared those boxes could open up at any time - springing the truth of the matter into existence.

I was the mediator, the people pleaser, the consummate conflict avoider. Even then. I learned young, how to stroke an ego, how to create a buffer between walls of discord. I played Public Defender, working  pro bono night and day, relentlessly objecting on behalf of those needing active representation. I did everything in my power to prevent closing arguments, to promote amicable resolution, and to settle.

Family tension, school tension, even fictional tension had me packaging anger, guilt, resentment. I didn't know that my often successful attempts to diffuse conflict would have me coiling my own springs tighter and tighter, until I couldn't even contain myself.

I took it all in, through layer after layer of still permeable skin. I was acutely aware of body language, facial expressions, tone of voice. I could sense an argument building way before the storm, and did everything in my power to divert it. Not today. Not on my watch. I grew hyper-sensitive to the slightest change in barometric pressure. My emotional radar was impeccably in tune.

If the itch or the nervousness, the fear or the pain, was growing in someone else, I would harvest it for them, accept it as my own and carry it with me. The crop weighed heavily on my shoulders, but better me than the weak, the weary, and the wounded.

I couldn't have known then, that over the years, plowing through my days, my experiences, my relationships, with the mindset of a diplomat, would eventually erode my own soil. There would be no room to plant crop within, no fertilization of ideas, no independence, no harvest of my own. I, myself, would become barren.

And it was in those early times that I began slipping away. It was subtle, at first. I avoided being seen in a vulnerable state. My inner voice told me to reject any amount of discomfort by fleeing, by numbing, by retreating. Sometimes I wonder if I've been hiding all of my life.

And when I couldn't hide, I lied. I feigned injuries and sickness to get out of gym class. I latched on to anyone more insecure than I was. The safety net was my own creation, and even I wasn't sure it would be there to break my fall.

Cue any state of discomfort or emotional imbalance, and all through life, I've handled it just like that 4th Grade girl. Avoiding, escaping, running, self-medicating. But then, there comes a day when it doesn't work anymore. None of it works anymore. Truth be told, avoidance has a shelf-life. Escapism is temporary, running catches up to you, self-medicating strips away all feeling, good or bad. Soon, you find the connections you make aren't connections after all. There's no authenticity, no substance to the relationships you've built when you were absent. There's no credibility to your conversations, when you can't remember the depths they've taken you to. You can't reconcile hiding and seeking.

When your day of reckoning finally comes, and your feelings begin to thaw, the realization is painful. You feel over-exposed, raw, tender. You wonder what happened to those 4th Grade playground days - the days when the biggest chasm you felt was the space between the monkey bars.

No matter how far we go in life, how much we've grown, we all have voids to fill. They've all been planted and rooted within. And maybe those voids were never meant to be filled. Maybe our gaps and faults are what make us unique and beautiful. Maybe identifying the emptiness we feel is what connects us all together in the end. Maybe these are pieces of the grand mosaic of life, and it's our job on Earth to recognize that we need each other to create balance, and without balance, our work here will never be complete.

At some point, we have to acknowledge our weaknesses and identify our strengths. We have to learn to look at them with love, compassion, and appreciation. We have to tell ourselves that it's OK to be afraid, OK to be vulnerable, and it's vital that we learn to share our gifts. The more missing pieces, the greater the canyon that spans between us, and the larger the abyss within us. Let's take a moment to step back from the edge, admire the view, and grow into our spaces together.

Much love. - L.