Maybe I'm broken in an abundant amount of places, or maybe the way my brokenness translates is unpalatable. Every time this is ... reiterated ... to me, I have a singular, go-to, flight-or-fight reaction.
The above posture is difficult to recover from - and not just because of sand in the ears. It's hard to live life out loud when you feel like you're always doing it wrong. Pulling your head out of ... whatever you choose to stick it in ... often requires some clean up. Sometimes I believe it would be better to just stay hidden. Granted, it's most likely dark, and possibly it smells bad, but it's safe.
But the truth is, isolation - too much of it - is a one way train ride to Crazy Town. Luckily, I have friends who will only let me buy a weekend, round-trip ticket. Friends who know me well enough to recognize that's where I'm headed emotionally/mentally, and where I'll stay if I'm not gently pulled back (or in the case of one or two individuals, kicked squarely in the ass and dragged).
I've been hiding my head for a while. This past week, people who love me noticed, and commenced to woo, cajole and persuade me that the time had come to pull it out. I did. Now I feel like I need protective pads and a helmet - I'm exposed, unprotected, defensive.
Yesterday, I had a discussion with an old friend that led to him getting quite an earful. When we finished talking, I apologized for being so honest. He laughed, and then asked, "Why? I tell people all the time, if you can't be real, I don't want you in my life. I'm not afraid of your junk."
I felt like I was home.
So I've pulled my head out. Here I am. Fractured. Broken.
And trying desperately not to be afraid of my own junk.