Writing About Growing Up Is Hard To Do

I've said before (somewhere, I know) that growing up is hard to do. And it is. But writing about it seems to be harder. Or more writing about grown up things is harder. It's more personal, and makes me feel more vulnerable.

I hate feeling vulnerable, because I felt that way for way too many years. It hurts to allow others to see my "soft underbelly" for lack of a better term. My heart is no where near hard, but I'm normally able to write about things and not care about their reaction. But yesterday, I wrote (where my family could see it, i.e.: not here) about not being angry with my mother anymore, and how I'm trying not to bottle up my anger any more. So far, I've not had any reactions. Of course, it could be because no one has read it yet. But it could be because they don't believe it.

The waiting is hard.

Today, while talking with Ace, I realized my biggest problem with my mother was that she didn't seem to want to let me have my own opinion about things. Do you know how hard it is to get through life stifling your opinion on everything? It was eating me up. And I've changed so much on so many things since I stopped talking to her. I'm more relaxed, more open to ideas, less stopped up emotionally.

And yet, I'm still feeling vulnerable when it comes to expressing myself in public on most things. I'm starting to want to scream about it. It's silly, and I know most people either don't care or want me to express myself, but it's an ingrained habit to not say anything.

I'm going to go. The dishes in the sink won't wash themselves. Besides, I think I've expressed myself enough for now. And here, it doesn't leave me feeling vulnerable. It's nice.

TTFN!