Working On My Chapter 50

My heart is pretty much an open book. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.  According to my heart, I've had my own story to tell and one day it would be read. Despite my heart being an open book, it is hard for me to let other people read my book. There are pain and secrets in there, and I can’t help but think – what if she reads my book and hates what is inside?

I am naturally an emotionally vulnerable and open person, yet to let another person inside feels invasive and painful. This is my paradox. It’s like a massage that hurts yet feels good at the same time. I want desperately to be understood, but in order for that to happen, I have to let others open that book and read what’s inside. The prospect of another human being knowing my secrets and emotional vulnerability is scary yet comforting, but I can’t seem to reconcile the two things.

I’ve opened my book to people in the past. In response, they’ve ripped the pages, spit on them, crumpled them up and burned them in effigy. I don’t know that I’m willing to take that chance again. What is the alternative? I’m not someone who can walk around with a closed book and subsequently a closed heart. I’m careful with books that belong to other people. I gently take care when reading their stories and not judge them by their cover. I wouldn’t intentionally destroy their stories, yet it’s human nature to hurt people. I’m sure in my lifetime I’ve skimmed over the pages of other people’s stories and not taken care to understand them. I wasn't as learned back then as I am now, however.

I’m sick of my stories at this point, and honestly, I don’t want to read my book anymore. I’ve been reading it for over four decades and I know all the stories and how they end. The pages are worn, old and yellow, and I don’t want to care about them but I do. I want to open someone else’s book and learn about them. I want to see their secrets and be privy to their pain. I want to know that person inside and out, just like I know my book. I’ll never get tired of her book. I’ll put it away in a safe place where no one can find it. It will be loved, and I will read pages of it each night. I won’t ever take that book for granted, or at least I’ll try not to.

We are our stories and our pain. We are our joy and our triumphs, and I want to know what is in your book. I can’t get close to you if you don’t let me see inside of it. So will you? Will you open yourself up to me? Because I’ve shown you my pain, I’ve shown you my scars, and yet I’ve only seen your cover. I’m waiting for you to be open for me.

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