What I Need:
-Someone who will dare me to do things I'm afraid of doing on my own.
-Someone who will remind me to be kinder to myself.
-Someone who understands --- at a base level --- my disjointed thoughts.
-Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Always.
-Someone who understands that I'm prideful, willful, and afraid, but accepts me anyway.
*sigh*
In reality, I know I should be this person for myself. I should dare -- nay, DOUBLE-DARE -- myself to take that trip to Guyana by myself or to submit that pitch to x magazine. I know I should be the one who changes my way of thinking and will stop the negative thoughts before they take root. I should be the one who understands the source of my restlessness. I should be the one who calls me on my bullshit, and I spout/think a lot of bullshitty shit, so it's a full-time job, let's be real here. And, in reality, I should be the one who knows that the people I love understand my prideful, willful, scaredy-cat ways, but love me anyway.
But I'm such a bundle of insecurities and raw wounds. I have so many scabs and each one of them opens afresh whenever anything remotely painful happens to me. And rather than acquire thicker skin, I stress out and shrink into myself all the more.
Being sensitive is not nice because you're always vulnerable.
-Someone who will remind me to be kinder to myself.
-Someone who understands --- at a base level --- my disjointed thoughts.
-Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Always.
-Someone who understands that I'm prideful, willful, and afraid, but accepts me anyway.
*sigh*
In reality, I know I should be this person for myself. I should dare -- nay, DOUBLE-DARE -- myself to take that trip to Guyana by myself or to submit that pitch to x magazine. I know I should be the one who changes my way of thinking and will stop the negative thoughts before they take root. I should be the one who understands the source of my restlessness. I should be the one who calls me on my bullshit, and I spout/think a lot of bullshitty shit, so it's a full-time job, let's be real here. And, in reality, I should be the one who knows that the people I love understand my prideful, willful, scaredy-cat ways, but love me anyway.
But I'm such a bundle of insecurities and raw wounds. I have so many scabs and each one of them opens afresh whenever anything remotely painful happens to me. And rather than acquire thicker skin, I stress out and shrink into myself all the more.
Being sensitive is not nice because you're always vulnerable.
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