I caught myself sound-byting my pain. It was sort of interesting to witness, I wanted to be authentic and here I was doing something pretty similar to what I’ve always done – giving just enough to make you feel you know me, then pulling all of the intricate moments of my life away, leaving both you and I a little unsure in this connection. I would wrap those words in a little sparkle, take some back to make sure I’m not ‘being too much’ again. I give you a sanitised version of me, always.
Last week was the first time I asked someone if I was ‘sometimes’ intense, the answer, ‘yes,’ shocked me. When I speak, or when I write there’s a veil. A sort of ineffable lack of me there, though I’ll project the exact opposite. After a conversation with me, you’ll wonder too.
Did I really understand you? You’ll think. There will be a strange lack of clarity in our communication that you can’t quite define. Did I connect, at all? I’ll think, then scurry away in a ‘shame spiral,’ wondering what’s wrong with me. Wondering how I can say it better next time. Wondering how I can present it, so it won’t hurt to be ‘me’ again.
The subject of the communication is not what matters, here, I need you to focus on me while I have your attention. The subject is the price of inauthenticity.
I won’t take long on this. Not because I don’t want to. I have to grasp the essence of this. I have to work with what is necessary.
The price of inauthenticity is your time. The price of anything, someone, much wiser that I, once said, is the time you spend on it.
As you cajole your darkness, or wrestle it kicking and screaming into the smallest corner of yourself, you, in turn, shrink.
Is that what you wanted?
And, as for your energy, did you think forcing it into a tiny fraction of what it could be would allow it to work for you? What happened to your passion, that metastasized into a hidden rage? What could that power be, if you began to slowly express it?
Bleed your emotions out through words, through art. They hurt you to feel the full expanse of you not because you are bad but because you are alive and life incurs intensity.
An intensity of growth, an intensity of feeling – they are never exclusive.
The price of inauthenticity, is that you will fall between the cracks of letters you write, the syllables of words you speak. You will degrade the essence of who you are, and you will degrade the bridge upon which others can reach you as you do, you will make yourself an island.
And, as someone wiser than I once said, no (hu)man is an island.
While I have your attention, I ask for your focus to feel into the depth of who you are.
Are you there?
Are you with me?
Remember, just because you paid doesn’t mean you have to keep it. Paying the price inauthenticity, always comes with a refund.
I struggle back to hide and curl into myself. Now I’ve said what I need to, I want to expand on it. But I don’t know how to yet. So I ask for your patience as I rebuild my bridge, plank by plank, rope by rope.
It’s okay now, to leave, I give us both permission to wrap this up. We can meet again soon, in a space of greater truth, where prices don’t really exist at all.