LAYERS

I have been avoiding writing.  I have been actively voiding writing.  Writing is a release for me, it always has been.  It has always been something healing for me to physically do.  And when I physically do it, I feel transformed.  I feel layers and layers of myself peel away.  The layers are of my own doing are the ones I feel the most.  The layers that belong to others’ opinions I usually feel fully when they are coming off and strangely I often fight to keep them on. I am afraid of weaknesses in me that will be revealed in my nakedness.

But something happened yesterday and I found myself sitting in a belly of warmth.  I felt embraced and encouraged.

Recently I read: it is easier to deceive someone than to convince them they have been deceived.  I have been deceiving myself and there have been moments, sweet, sparkly, magical moments where I am in the knowing. Where I know I have been deceiving myself and the sweet truth which is sweet not because it is easy to look at  but sweet because of the simplicity and lightness that is the truth – is known to me and my body responds and I breath deeply and feel a greater connection to living truthfully.

Yet when I glimpse the lightness of that, I pop back into the thinking mind, nearly running from what I feel like a possible true purpose of existing is…the simplicity of being.  To be without layers of self protection, to live without agreeing to roles that you play for others and accepting images that make others comfortable but don’t accurately reflect your purpose.

I repeatedly turn my back on that very important, slightly quirky feeling of not giving a damn about the layers that others project upon me.

Intellectually I know they will project regardless if I like it, accept it, think about it, worry or get angry about it.

I do it too…

I project how I feel about others onto them and decide that is who they are and then get offended when they don’t live up to the role I have assigned them.  It’s not so far fetched to believe that others do the same.

I have been deceiving myself for many years that if I live up to the roles I have been assigned by others, if I execute my role perfectly they will love me.

They will accept and adore and respect and care and then they will want to know the real me.

I have deceived myself into believing that if I live up to the roles assigned me which I have accepted to be true, that one day I will be able to look at them and say: that wasn’t the real me but I would like to show you the real me, let you in, relax a little and just be myself.

It’s so absurd to admit that I had to lower my eyes momentarily to make sure I wasn’t dreaming this notion altogether.  But I am not, it’s really how I have deceived myself.

Moreover, imagine what would happen when I looked at these hypothetical individuals and said, basically: I have been deceiving you, that was not the real me.  This is the real me.

They would not want to wrap their head around that because they would then have to admit that they were deceived, and it is difficult to do that.

I am admitting my own deception now and feel a physical struggle while in the quietness of my bedroom, in the darkness of the early morning with no observers, only the stillness of admittance joins me here.  And still it is difficult to admit that I have been deceived.

By me.