I love being uncomfortable. In movies, I'm drawn to story lines and plots that in some way hit too close to home. In conflict, interpersonal relationships, work, and the news of the day, I watch and study, my mind pouring over notes looking to extrapolate some divine insight I can use for a later purpose.
Perhaps "love" isn't the appropriate term. I guess I'm just not wholly repulsed by it - this notion of discomfort. Because I know if I remain okay with it - this discomfort, I won't run from it. Hide it. Bury it. Only to boil and fester in my soul for all time. I'm more repulsed by hiding behind a veil and pretending that all things are the bright, rosy equivalents of themselves. I've always been inquisitive. Being around adults as a child, I wanted to understand the world as they did. I wanted to see parts of people they weren't wholly ready or willing to acknowledge. So I asked what I could get away with, and sometimes what I couldn't. In some cases, people told me far more than I needed to know...but I look back on it now and recall snippets of words and conversations that remind me just how long I've been studying people and trying to make sense of the nonsensical. That didn't make me a very popular child...and it's made me a cautious and mildly intolerant adult.
I'm baffled sometimes by my general frustration with people. I feel a bit embarrassed to think so often that people need to be a little bit more honest with themselves and each other, especially when I live my life carefully ensuring that people know precious little about me. In my relationships, I find that I'm always being leaned on. Told more than I wanted to know. Asked to rationalize things I couldn't begin to relate to. Even as people speak their words, there are times when I see the truth behind the words, the truest intentions. The good, bad and ugly of the human spirit. And I wonder what people must think of me that they assume I know the answers to the riddles that mystify us all. Especially when I'm still trying to figure out the meaning of my own existence.
I stay in that state. Asking. Wincing. Railing. Simmering. Wondering. Imagining. So much so that the reel that plays in my mind almost becomes more interesting than the reality I see every day in front of my face. Assembling puzzles, taking them apart and putting them back together until I can make peace of what I see. Rinse. Repeat. Until the discomfort and unrest becomes wisdom.
I guess that's why I get so angry when people swoop into my life and try to tie up my existence into nice neat little packages without my permission. I feel like they're trying to take away my opportunity to learn in the way that brings me the most peace. I also think they're showing their great arrogance in understanding "how I work." Let me process my own discomfort. Let me bathe in it and rejoice in the rainbow of emotions it stirs in me. That's how I remember that I am truly alive.