It's insomnia-o'clock again, and the overthinking is getting heavier since I started therapy again. Therapy: the place where you can be vulnerable as an adult, because even best friends can't keep up with their close-ones' frustrations and sadness. Feels like the only place where you can be truly yourself. It doesn't mean that sensitive persons are flawless - but it has to do a lot that most of the though parts of a sensitive person character - isolation, blaming, sharp observation, high moralistic statements- come from a defensive mechanism against the neighbor abuse (conscious or unconscious). The statement that this world is far from the ideal cooperative communities where everyone desires harmony.
We live in a hypocritical, unfair, egotistic, objectifying world, and there is no point on sugarcoating it after all the history books written and the social media exposure of human stupidity. But I happened to be born with a singular perspective. In a world where showing your vulnerability equals weakness and makes you easy food for sharks and opportunists -even those that do not think of themselves as such - I came to be transparent; like a clear turbulent river. A castaway, out of time soul that has to relearn to dance waltz in public. That's why I paint and write as a hobby for strangers instead of making money out of it, but hey - it is a kind of therapy. Probably it is a good mental sign to be an alien to this system.
Since my tender years, there were no standardized "play house games" in my books; more of Jane in the Jungle finding a new way to communicate with Tarzan. I knew that true friends are people that knows us in all awkwardness and choses us for that, for being unique. I was sharp, my eyes watery, my thoughts strange. Human gatherings always felt like a big shoal of fools where blending felt like survival instead of bonding -and I was not totally wrong. Whenever different interests come into play, the true colors of humankind arise. I hated reality shows for the same reason, because all the roles are so predictive. There are the ones that believe their wishes are entitlements, there are the ones that believe their wishes are utopia. There are the beauties and the fouls. And I thought I only observed them play, but didn't notice I was also a fish. I was also swimming there.
I could not understand the shoal movement and how to adapt to it, it was a mental burden -swimming against or with the current? Swiping, left - right. Backwards. How, you might think, I did not see myself part of it? Well, a small trout in the middle of the Atlantic ocean is quite unexpected and mislocated. I was always debating how to not be overwhelmed by the sharp currents of the world's nightmare or for the preying creatures - not to get eaten, not to get eaten! Not to get bitten again. Despite my efforts of hiding in places, nothing seemed to work, and worst of it all, I was missing the freshness of the water outside. So one day, I took courage and decided to swim. I knew my back flippers were not as big and strong, but my desire for enjoyment was bigger. So as a smart fishwoman I knew what to do, or at least, my intuition did: then, the large scales appeared, one by one. They grew, perhaps not with the confident of the group's societal parameters, but with inner confidence that I was there for a reason and my existence was just as (un?)important as theirs. And my experiences not so dramatic, and the group's intention not so scary. Slowly, step by step, growing outside and killing inside a part of her that only wanted to cry an ocean, or at least, bury feelings so deep that no one could see her like that again. Because, you know, shark smell tears and blood and then clownfish think it's play time.
That was not a bad outcome. Iridescent scales glowing in my skin while dancing with the sharks that once bit her. Still caring for others, still shining, but tougher. Scales that could go away in the right moment with the right company and with just anyone that grazed my skin. That was the secret, a thicker skin to confront the foolish way people behave, making mistakes, thinking inwards, looking at their belly button and not contemplating others. And then, I let myself make mistakes as well, a part of this mess that life is. Live again, desire again, silly play again... I started to finally understand it was not my fault and neither my role to correct what had gone wrong. Because that is the quest of all fish-human in this world: if you want to make it work, accept that you're also swimming to nowhere, and you have to live in this chaotic, unfair, superficial and cruel ocean that also has immense beauty. Let the beauty be visible only for those who don't see the scales, but the light reflecting on them. The ones that see you.
Swim, dance.
