I’ve spent a lot of time not wanting to share. This is a somewhat recent development, I think, because I was good at sharing when I was a kid.
When you were five, the anticipation that accompanied letting someone else play with your Barbies in exchange for an hour with their Barbie mansion was exhilarating. “Let’s swap toys for an hour. Let’s explore this new delight that is only this wonderful because it doesn’t really belong to me.” It was compromise, simplified. We teach children to share their most favorite possessions, and yet we grow up to be rigid adults who are completely ignorant of the fundamentals of give and take.
I became one of these people.
It occurred to me that somewhere in the past six years I have become someone who doesn’t want to give an inch. Every guy that I have dated, I have felt burdened by the demands of “being in a relationship”. I declared my independence if only to distance them because God forbid I am asked to change my routine. I felt justified in my actions because I wasn’t asking for them to give me anything in exchange for nothing…I just wanted to be left alone to play with the important aspects of my life without being needed or wanted or expected to do or feel whatever it was that the person needed or wanted or expected me to feel or do or say or think. It was exhausting. And being the person that I am, I refused to budge. Giving an inch was not an option, let alone giving my time…or my affection.
But it’s not that I am not capable of being needed or wanted or affectionate or giving. It’s only that I haven’t felt the desire to be these things with anyone that I’ve met. I couldn’t stand spending more than 5 hours at a time with them before I had an overwhelming urge to ride a broken tricycle through a subdivision full of pot holes while blindfolded…bonus points for the first mini van to run me down.
But now, NOW…
…I want to share. I want to open the door and show my life…my family, my past, my stupid 7th grade art projects, school musicals, bad pictures in old photo albums, songs that remind me of moments I thought I forgot until now when I feel the desire to talk about them for no other reason than it happened to me once. I wouldn’t mind giving up time that I don’t have or sleep that I desperately want just to talk until 6, 7, 8 o’clock in the morning. And I’m not afraid to say any of this. I probably should be. But does it really matter? When people all over the world wake up in the morning and say to themselves, “I wish I would have said this, or done that…” I find it difficult to remain stagnant and silent.
Life happens. And lately, it’s not happening to me…I’m not a victim of it…just a participant in it. And it feels good.