Unfathomable Oddity

For the life of me I can't remember the last time I felt like writing. Perhaps it has truly been a year since I felt any semblance of need to just sit down in any chair and jut down every piece of musing that goes through my head. I have been trying to understand what was the cause of this unfathomable oddity that I am experiencing for the past year—not being able to write or not having any reason to is quite actually an irregularity that I have never undergone before since the first day I could write.

And then it came to me one day, after hours of perusing my own blog and trying to understand the catalyst of my sudden burst of inspiration.

The sole reason that I have stopped writing is because I no longer find the need to dump my thoughts on this particular platform anymore. Not because I have resolved all of my issues and past traumas, or that my head has become a better sandbox to process everything by unravelling or decoding everything that my own mind created.

Rather, the difference between my current situation and any point before 2019 is I have someone that I can completely be honest with. Someone that I can talk with to disentangle or puzzle out any jumbled mess that I have in my complicated maze that I call my mind.

I am immensely blessed with the presence of a significant other whose mind is similar enough for us to agree over any beliefs and values, yet different enough to keep any arguments and conversations interesting. Accordingly, whenever any particular dark, cluttered, difficult, confusing thinking struck me, I do not get myself worked up or overwhelmed anymore.

Another huge difference that I could only comprehend just now is the fact that I no longer find the need to lie myself to hype myself up. Perhaps, it was due to my childhood trauma and my sense of survival, I always found the need to let myself think that I was fine even during state of profound vulnerability. It took me years to understand that the act of lying to myself is just another way for me to shield myself from how uncomfortable I am of certain circumstances. Being my own hype woman required me to smooth out any parts that look either horrible, unworthy, or just generally unpleasant.

Now, I am privileged enough to have a significant other with the kindest and gentlest soul that accepts my flawed self—that those horrible, unworthy, or generally unpleasant parts do not lower my value. He constantly reminds me that these horrible, unworthy, and generally unpleasant parts of myself, that usually too sharp to be swallowed by other people, are actually what makes me more human. And after tens of thousands conversation that I've had with him, he kindly helped me find a conclusion: I do not need to be happy with my sharp edges, I only need to acknowledge their existence and accept them as parts of me that have been helping me survive.