It can feel like a truck drove over you. A sentence, a statement, or a question reached you, and the last thing you remember is telling yourself, "Hold on, that's not what happened. That's not who I am."
"In reality, something else happened. What I did means something else."
I could go on and on.
I sometimes do.
If I don't explain, the last message the universe hears is one I don't believe in, one that isn't true. Because if it were true, I would do anything in my power not to be that person.
I explain my reality not to change what happened, but to ease a hurt that comes from how I expected things to be.
The explaining feels soothing. It isn’t.
I think of what to say. My face heats up. My stomach clenches; I hold my breath and speak again.
When I notice I'm explaining myself to no avail, I stop.
I notice. I feel the discomfort. I breathe through it. My body knows what's true.
Staying gets easier the more often I do it. Staying here allows me to stay somewhere else too.
Notice before reacting. That's the gap.
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