Honesty…

One of the many things I struggle with in my daily interactions with other people is the dilemma of how you can be honest with yourself and with others without coming off as a rude person that eventually drives everyone away from him?

Today, I was listening to a podcast by Dr. Jordan B Peterson on 12 Rules Thousand Oaks: Truth in Speech, and Meaning. One thing caught my attention, how many times have I altered my speech, my meanings, my behaviors, my free will, and what I really wanted in life to please, given contentment, bring joy, or help others in their own journey.

In the podcast, Dr. Peterson talks about school papers and the nonsense that some professors make their students go through. I’ve had that. Six years ago, when I was doing my masters degree and during my final paper (my thesis) I got it rejected because it did not go inline with the academic single minded wave the professors have had.

They asked me to change my conclusion to say that my findings need further investigation because of lack of literature. I changed my entire thesis and suggested a higher possibility that my findings are critical for future researches in this field and affirmed my conclusion to remain almost the same.

And then I heard during Dr. Peterson’s podcast that altering what we really want to talk about or how we want to talk about it or even lying to oneself in order to achieve what we eventually want alters things within us, changes us (or that’s as far as I could understand with my level of intellect). And that, over the years of my education at school, from basic school years till my high school graduation was a destruction and a betrayal of my own self. Nonetheless, I find that it was essential.

And there I sit with my mind with this dilemma. At a certain point during my own analysis (which happens while I am writing these blogs), it feels like I am suffering from Stockholm syndrome. I am not necessarily in love with the education system back home but I also found it to have built me, gave me the knowledge, made me fall in love with philosophy with mathematics and taught me the English language (such contrasts of interests…I know…).

Honesty… We finally get to the topic in the title. I have found it terribly terrifying to have dived within myself, spoken to myself, scared myself out of my own self. I have spoken to my darkest side, the most pessimistic one, the one we all avoid or hope not to meet anytime within our life times. I have sat with him, in the darkest most remote rooms within myself and spoken to him. The angry one. The one that has accumulated so much hatred, so much anger and disgust to towards the whole world. I have met him.

I found him when I was about seventeen years old or maybe younger. As a teenager, that’s what you get when you have all the time in the world to spend with yourself. I invaded his space and for nights and days, I was having conversations with him about my life and what it did to him. That flourishing young man who was growing up in a busy city who got bullied for years, left out, absent father, and bit by bit his sparkle faded till it died as he retrieved to these dark corners of myself.

I found him wounded with anger and hatred towards the everyone and everything even towards myself. At the beginning, he didn’t want to speak to me. The conversation was fierce. He did not want anything to do with me. He saw me as a weak individual who was unable to go through life without any damage. But who could anyway? He blamed me for not being able to stronger, tougher, fiercer, for not being able to protect him, stand up for him, allow him to enjoy life, my company…

And then I realized many things… I have written hundreds of lines in conversation with him which got lost as I moved from one country to the other… I realized that he who lives within me is me. He is the hurt, disappointed me, the true colors of my own existence. The actual unvarnished version of me. The honest me. The part of me who has had it with trying to paint the picture that my consciousness wanted to paint for all these years. He made me realize that things were not Okay. That I was not Okay. That what happened to me for all those years was not Okay. And he made me remember moments that I have stored with him in these dark rooms of his, of mine.

I still remember the rage he had in his words. The screams he had on those papers I had written. I also remember the amount of flowing tears that fell these nights. Back then, I did not know really what was happening to me. Sixteen years later, I understand that I have intuitively started my healing process from such a young age. I had no voice to scream, no platform to talk, no friends to vent, busy mother who put food on the table for years and a mentally absent father… I had my papers, my dairies, and my imagination…

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