Open Door Policy
Every now and then, a thought crystallises in my mind, and something that didn’t make sense to me — or something I hadn’t ever considered — suddenly fits into the puzzle of my understanding of myself or of the world. There are parallels with my experience of writing music, and these are two of the closest brushes I have with anything beyond this life.
Today, for the first time, I understood at least in part why I struggle to open up to people, and why I don’t know how to process the idea that others (beyond my little family) care for/about me, or love me. People sometimes comment on or praise my openness, and I suppose that they have a point. There are things I am comfortable addressing that others would shy away from, and I try to be as transparent as I can be when writing. But this tends to be restricted to observation, comment, and response to the world at large, or fixed assessments I have made. Rarely do I write or talk about what’s actually going on behind the curtain.
To a fault, almost, I am willing to offer a listening ear, support, encouragement, love, and even advice where requested. Whatever someone is facing, I try to do what I can to be a safe person, or to make it better, if possible. Whether this comes across, or is how it’s perceived, I don’t know, but that’s my intention. Because I know what it is like to be in all manner of difficulty, and there are ways that I have felt that I would never wish on anyone, so I try. Another motivating factor, which ties into my realisation, is that I know what it’s like to feel like nobody cares.
Now, it’s true that some people who ask don’t really have any interest in hearing what you might say. I am not bothered about those instances. But there are people who I think mean it, and when they ask the question, I have the same involuntary response every time. When it happens, I can feel it in slow motion, and I can see the realisation in someone’s eyes that I am not opening that part of me. It’s a shared sadness, and someday I hope to figure out how to trust them.
How could anyone care? How could anyone love me in that way? I have never as an adult had relationships that close, with the exception of Emma, and maybe Ethan to a lesser degree. Everything is transient, and when the next change hits, I am trained to adapt to the hollows that appear where friends once stood.
The realisation that I had today is that I struggle to believe people genuinely care, perhaps as much as I do, because some of the people in my life who are supposed to care, and supposed to love me so clearly don’t, in any discernible way. Maybe they’re trying their best. Maybe they’re not trying at all. Either way, the effect is the same.
Sometimes traumatic conditioning persists long into adulthood. Those people who are supposed to never did ask the question. If they don’t care, why would anyone else? Why should you think anyone would?
Mine is an open door policy, but I slam it shut when anyone opens theirs. I am sorry. But I am trying my best, and now I understand just that much more about the mess that makes me me.
