Your free will sets the choices for the voices you prioritize. Figuring out who to believe can exhaust an atrocious number of our years if we’re not careful. The chance to get our lifetime grooving any direction we prefer often entails toning down the torrent of opinions bombarded about precociously. (Un)Stressing you involves tuning out the blues cues. And by ‘stressing’ in this case, I’m not referencing that after-effect of the extra tequila shots you slammed the night before your big presentation or the way your (now married) ex-lover’s text sits a tad saucy between your legs. We’ve got to acquire the right muzzle to quiet the jacked-up rubbish we let seep into our brains. Hearing our truth above the twaddle is not so simple to model. Until the fated exercise when I devoted myself to finding ‘Norm’. Dousing the dribbles of our divided attention can be a tricky test.
If y’all have gotten away with lollygagging around sans any churning of plentiful push-pull scheming then I’m writing you off as well-drugged deadbeats. Because I’ve rarely sourced a human lacking a deserved timeout from their own or others’ incessantly heedless nattering like it matters. Making friends with our internal critic has its drawbacks to incentives. The snag is how awareness is a bitch of a nag once it’s in place. But, the hitch of knowledge is the superior motive of taste you probably won’t want to shake. Pretty consequentially, in swoops my ingenious therapist freshly suggesting that I lay an actual name to the loudness chaffing my core’s preferred honesty. She straight up asked what I thought this intimate bother could be called: Gladys? Natasha? It didn’t take me long to listen inside of me. This was the date I gave birth to ‘Norm’.
Blatant ironies aren’t normally my body’s means of speaking to me. Yet, here ‘He’ was mildly smirking back at me. It was laughable, aloudly. You see, our discussion this healing session had focused upon how far from normal I felt the overreaching arc of my life decisions landed. Being me doesn’t typically coordinate nor correspond with cookie-cutter conveniences. That’s why I had the a-ha instant that made me label my private analyst monster ‘Norm’. Almost everyone, inclusive of my devilish doppelgänger, prays for me to be NORMal. His moniker is the perfectly playful stroke for the tense attackers combatting my positivity precision. Our inner to outer unsolicited hullabaloo warrants a giant F-you! Trust me, this is progress. For me. We can squander our schedules grading or evading our most dope definers of temperamental renovation.
Lately, my narrative has been looking for the best agency for me, while my own influence dukes it out during an ongoing interwoven intuition intervention. (I know, that maybe makes your heads ache too, huh.) I’ve allowed myself to occupy others’ fantasies, live out fairytale romantic beginnings (alas, usually replete with dodgy endings), alight a hefty touch of mythically-proportioned professionalism, and be portrayed as a saint to a sinner. My mid-living fifties meltdowns have me hovering at that Bell Curve peak with a static percentage of desperately desiring to give more fucks away. Same as giving barely any fucks about what anyone else considers is the correct course of action for selecting the achievement of those very fuck-filled gifts I wish to dole out. The mind of maniacal minutia is a terrible thing to try to alleviate.
We produce vats of wasteful dialogue debris personally. Equal to what comes at us similarly to bombs raining through war-torn cities. It can appear out of left field. However, someone produced that puppy. Hysterical space to abandon in a barren minefield of insecurities all of the guilt we keep too closely about thinking we’re supposed to be showing up for others before we tend to whatever the expletive we aim our hours to embrace. You are a rarity. Never really compassionately fit for comparative parody. As are my homophobic high school cronies, the shoplifters’ united groups my sordid scarcity genes relate with rather easily, and even that toupeed-accused impeachment-machine of a misogynist national leader the world navigated. We are each angelically symmetric parity of uniquely unicorn-esque energy. We ought to be answering to ourselves principally.
We’re living high-fives when we’ve learned to distinguish junky jive.