I play favorites.  Always have, always will.  I love and hate intensely.  When I’m upset, you’ll know it.  When I’m happy, you’ll know it.  And, if I care about you, I will go to the ends of the Earth to support you and make you happy–often to my own detriment.  But, if and when you stop appreciating it–or throw me away–I will stop appreciating you and will throw you away.  I’m an odd duck that way.  I give what I get, almost completely.  When things are disbalanced–out of whack–whatever, I will do everything–whether it’s conscious or not–to tip the scales back in favor of equality.  I think I’m like this because I’ve dealt with a lot of disbalance in my life, and I absolutely hate it.  Most of the time, I’m the one giving everything to someone or something else.  As I’ve gotten more savvy about interpersonal relationships and how the world really works, I’ve gotten hip to the fact that people will only do what you let them get away with. 

Part of this whole “being myself” and “loving myself” and “taking care of myself” thing has been learning to identify these no-win situations.  And it’s something I know I’ve been able to see from the very beginning.  Figuring out why I’m engaging in these scenarios when I know what will happen has been an interesting process.

For a long time, my ex was someone I referred to as my favorite person.  But, sometimes, I wonder if it was actually true–or just some thing I called him.  In any case, it was silly to call him that because–really–my favorite person should be myself.  And that’s what I’m trying to shift now, I guess.Not that it hasn’t shifted already–my ex has long since stopped being my favorite anything, but I suppose I’m still working on making myself a favorite anything also. 

Part of shifting to that, I’ve decided, is shifting how I see the world…how I spend my time…how I engage with people.  One of the major shifts I’m hoping to implement this year is a hiatus from writing.

I started seriously writing when I was ten years old, and it was something I loved intensely.  But it was never something I took all that seriously because I knew that I had natural talent, and I knew it wasn’t a practical/viable career choice.  I needed practicality–and that just wasn’t ever gonna be an option. 

Writing, for me, has always been about grief and loss and sacrifice.  It was about sorting through things.  It was making sense of things.  And I always felt like devoting myself to it made those things manifest in my life.  The times when I was most prolific were also times of extreme grief for me.  I took time away from writing a few times.  And I went through a depression when I did so.  However, I think it was because I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings without writing.  I think, in the last few months, I’ve really felt more equipped to deal with my emotions without having to write about them.

I started thinking about this a while ago, honestly.  I’ve had tons of ideas for projects and have even started working on some of them this year.  But something’s been missing: motivation.  Now, this isn’t really all that new.  I’ve always thought my weakness was a lack of discipline.  I have always been the type of writer that has to be compelled to write.  I don’t do well with schedules.  I can’t force things. 

Lately, I’ve felt more of a need to be in the world.  I’ve felt compelled to do things–not think about them so much.  I want new experiences, and I’ve been restless.  And, more and more, I’ve identified that writing is not really a healthy endeavor for me.  The writing life is a solitary one where you create your own little world.  It’s part of my MO of pushing people away and being an outsider.  Instead of being part of things, I observe and analyze.  And it made sense when I was a kid to engage in this behavior, but it doesn’t make sense for who I am now.  While I have often found connections with other writers, I have found them–by and large–to be neurotic and self-absorbed.  I don’t want to be either of those things.  I notice that “being a writer” encourages that asocial side of me.  And I realize that my place in this world isn’t as the “brilliant” observer of humanity.  My place is to be in it–to be part of it–to change it…one person at a time.  That’s why teaching appealed to me.  It’s why I want to be a counselor.

And I think that my life has led me here.  My life has led me to roads where I could be more than who I always had been.  I was always the outsider, and my choices led me to be the insider–the doer–the one with dirty hands.  I fell into professions and met people who had big ideas.  But none of that involved standing on the sidelines.  And I’m not content to be there anymore.

So, I’m giving up writing for a while.  I’ll still write a blog sometimes.  I’ll still engage in writerly activities.  But the activities won’t be solitary, and when I write, it will be to connect.  And that, I think, will help me choose the things that make me most me.  And it can’t be found behind a keyboard.