Being Honest, and Kind, With Yourself
My friend Beth gave me a look when I told her about this month’s topic.
“Lies.” Her eyes narrowed. “Lies and promises.”
Whoa! That was unexpected. “Say more.” I prompted. “What do you mean?”
“I just don’t think it’s possible for me to be that honest with myself. I mean, even if I just try to journal, to put down my thoughts on a certain day, I’m thinking ten years out, y’know?”
I wanted to ask her what honesty is to her. Is it easier to be honest about some things and harder about others?
Rolling her eyes, she went on. “Trying to figure out what I want to be reading when I pull my writing out again in 10 years … I don’t know if I’ll get anything done, so I just can’t journal ‘cause I can’t even think about looking at it.
“How do you be “honest” with yourself when you can’t stop creating some story about your own life? You don’t know how you would make it all happen and don’t even know if that’s what you’re going to want in 10 years anyway. How’s that supposed to work?”
Does being honest with yourself feel like you have to take an ice pick to your own psyche? To root through every aspect of your awareness that you can possibly see? To lay it out and judge it? Does being honest mean you are somehow damaging yourself? Giving something away? Does it feel like a punishment?
I wonder if it could be softer than that.
She settled a little deeper into her thoughts as she started addressing her own questions.
“I guess it comes down to acceptance, doesn’t it.” Glancing up at me, she scanned my face as if my look will cue her next move. “How do I know if being present is taking me where I want to go? Maybe I’m fooling myself.
“I actually had a talk with someone about this recently,” she went on. “I’ve changed a lot in the past couple of years. Some friendships have changed because of it, some have gone away. Am I being the real me?” Beth paused for a moment. It seemed like she was starting to recognize the complicated tangle of what-ifs that kept her thoughts dancing at metaphoric gunpoint.
I think there are a lot of ways to look at being honest. In my experience, real honesty, honesty without judgment, is relaxing. It always comes with a sense of effortless kindness. Even if it’s mixed in with other emotions at the same time, honesty always carries a tone that offers ease. I know this from my own experience, but she has to know it through her own experience.
“I guess I’m getting better at accepting that I’m just not for everybody.” My heart felt lighter hearing her say that. I just kept listening.
“I mean, I want to live, right? I want to feel free! I want to know that my living needs are being taken care of, that I don’t have to struggle with money. It would take three people to replace me at my job - I just want to know that I’m appreciated. I want to enjoy my life.”
Hearing herself in a new way, she let out one more breath. “It really is just the mind that gets in the way, isn’t it. I know I’m supposed to be living in my heart, but that mind … man! It just takes over!
“How can you possibly let your heart lead the way without breaking your mind?”
Most people talk about breaking the heart, not the mind. She’s got a totally different lens on this.
“The mind has to break, there’s no other way that I can see. And it’s going to fight to not break! Uuugghhhh … I'm tired of the fight.”
Nearly blind to her own clarity and wisdom, she noticed my smile before her eyes dropped to her lap. Her shoulders crawled up toward her ears. “I guess I’m learning.”
I couldn’t help smiling and loving the moment, loving Beth, loving hearing everything she was sharing so honestly, so kindly. I love when people become their own best teachers.
“I don’t know that the mind has to break,” I contemplated out loud. “That feels like the mind, actually the ego, is still working to be all dramatic, making this an ‘either/or’ situation, like it’s the mind against the heart and one of them has to win over the other.
“If you leave a little space, they might work together,” I offered. “It might change the conversation. I feel like they’re meant to work together.”
Looking at her lap, Beth admitted, “It’s really uncomfortable.” I wonder what would happen if she just surrendered her judgment for a little bit, if she would just breathe and not have to solve anything.
“Yeah, it can be really uncomfortable.”
“If I’m being honest," she said, “I just don’t know if I can do it.” Her eyes raised and looked at me, exploring whether there should be shame, rebellion, defeat, pride or or some kind of punishment for saying this all out loud.
“Wow. Thank you for being so honest.” I smiled. “And speaking to it feels really kind, actually.”
I didn’t ask her this, but I wondered which is the discomfort her heart would choose for her? The kind that needs constant effort to maintain control or the kind that restores her freedom?
Beth smiled back, almost trusting, and changed the subject.
(Photo credit to Searmi Park and Autism Mustang Alliance)
