I had to have a couple lately, and none did I love. None did I want to have. None did I look forward to having, or even think I was going to have before I did.
Uncomfortable conversations involve vulnerability, and a willingness to be open. They require an openness to another perspective. They require a willingness to be hurt, to be subject to not being met where you are, and acknowledgement that you may not be right or even seen.
I used to think having uncomfortable conversations was hard because I might not get my way. Notice I said uncomfortable, not difficult. They could be viewed as one in the same, because I hate being uncomfortable and thus being uncomfortable is difficult. But I’m talking about a different level of vulnerability than I was accustomed to in the not so distant past, and a genuine willingness to show up in my relationships. I know I tend to make it more difficult by letting fear overwhelm me and prevent me from communicating when it’s still relevant.
Recently I’ve had to really ask for what I need, which means that I had to know what I needed first. I’ve had to ask for things that seemed grossly obvious to me that I would appreciate or want, and I feel like I’ve had to repeat myself. I’ve had to ask for things that I am responsible for asking and can’t always give to myself. I’ve had to risk feeling burdensome and needy, sensitive and exposed. And I have been exposed. I have been sensitive. I have also been needy and slightly burdensome – I broke my leg and still can’t drive, so yes, I’ve needed a lot of additional help.
But I’ve also had emotional needs. I’ve asked that my friends show up for me and not just give me rides and help with groceries but be there for me as a person that cares. I’ve learned a lot about myself through this process, as well as the people around me. I’ve learned what it means to show up and set boundaries and do things that I don’t want to do. I’ve learned who is thoughtful and who is just not. I’ve learned that it is a requirement for my closest friends to be thoughtful, not just comment on social media and get a pass. I’ve learned that not everyone is capable of that level of connection, and that there are some who used to show up for me like that no longer do.
And that’s OK. I don’t have to apologize, even that at first, I felt like I did because that was easier to deal with than my sadness. I don’t have to justify why I feel a certain way or try to change how I feel, even though both are seductively alluring because again – I don’t want to feel sad or vulnerable or exposed or uncomfortable. And this shit does that to me. If I am hurt and it has something to do with you, you know damn well I’m going to do what I can to right that, even if it’s not mine to right. I’ve learned that there’s a level of tenderness and sensitivity that I myself lacked for years and wondered why I lost relationships or felt isolated so much of the time. Now that I know how to be tender and sensitive, I expect the people closest to me to be the same. And they are. And so, when they’re not, I work to let them go.
I’ve learned that people even closer to me can’t read my mind. It’s aggravates the hell out of me, but I also know myself well enough to know that I don’t always convey the message I think I am. I don’t always ask for my real need, as I bury it somewhere amongst the line items and hope it gets picked up. I tend to be indirect in order to avoid saying what I mean, not always knowing how to say it without being mean (or too intoxicated by my fear of rejection to be explicitly clear). I have a tendency to be both sensitive and blunt, forgetting to pause first and take stock of my side thoroughly before I just jump in and assume, and blame.
I’ve had to take a stance for what was really important to me. I’ve had to slow down and spend time with myself and hibernate long enough to know that it was not just me, and it had to be said. There’s a lot of stock that gets placed on what’s not our business and what is, and it can be hard for me to navigate sometimes. I know I can often misjudge a situation because of tiredness, stress, a sense of urgency and perceived need. I know I can forget that there are other ways to do things too, and that my way is not always the way, even though it works for me.
I forget that none of this is personal, either. Every day at some point. I forget that how I’m greeted in the morning or after work usually has nothing to do with me, but more with what’s on the mind of that person and how their day went or is going. I forget that I don’t always smile and sound joyful or even feel it, and that just like I have the right not to feel or be awesome, so do you. I forget that just because I am extremely observant and militant and open in all of my affairs, you may not be. And that if you aren’t, it’s probably not because you don’t want to be that way or to share with me, but maybe because you just don’t know how to yet or that just isn’t your style. Maybe it’s because I haven’t given you a safe enough place to want to share with me, because I’ve been too focused on how I’m feeling and receiving and doing.
And with discomfort, comes change. When I get uncomfortable enough in my own skin, I know it’s time to act. It’s not time to wait it out, hope to feel better, and hope you get the memo before I lose my mind. It’s time for me to relax, take it easy, and speak my truth. It’s time for me to speak it in a way that you’ll be able to hear. I’ve yet to relay “I feel” and be truly rejected. I’ve yet to say, “I feel” and not be met where I’m supposed to be met, even if it means we agree to disagree and walk away from one another.
Nothing hurts as much as we think it’s going to hurt. I have yet to die from being uncomfortable or saying shit that makes me nauseous. I have yet to be alone for good or without. I have yet to be called awful or deprived or confined. The people that are supposed to be here, are. The people that want to do this with me, hear me and share their perspective and work with me, are. The people that I want around are the people I open my mouth to so I can do my work and continue to do that work.
When we don’t tell people how we feel, we deprive them of the opportunity to do their work. We deprive them of the right to be a part of the relationship. We deprive them of the right to know us. We deprive them of the chance to get closer.
And when we deprive them, we also deprive ourselves. And then we really do end up alone.