I can understand why people want to work long hours at impersonal jobs where they make lots of money. At jobs where you solve problems by tweaking inputs and equations, and where interactions with other people are somewhat safe and controlled.
People are messy. I’m messy. I’m a mess of hurt, and doubt, and struggle, and worry, and insecurity. My needs are never constant, and over the course of just minutes, my mood can shift dramatically. I can be so ugly, so ugly that I can look at my mess and not want to touch it. Dealing with other people doesn’t just mean that I deal with their messes, it means that they have to deal with mine. I forgot how scary that can be. I forgot how much I’m afraid of that.
I think we all are.
I’m terrified, and yet I’m desperate for it. Desperate for someone to dive deep into this mess and help me find my way out from it, or at least to make this place okay, and not just cover it up and pretending it is like I’ve been trying to do my whole life. Yet, as soon as someone comes and commits themselves to doing so, I fight to keep them from doing it.
I guess that’s where things really get messy, isn’t it?