213. What Must Be Said

I’m trying to tell you how I feel, but it’s impossible to find the right words. Everything that comes out of my mouth feels wrong, and I have to keep pausing to restate what I’ve just said. I’m anxious about speaking my mind because I cannot know how you’ll receive my thoughts.

I’m trying to formulate the perfect expression of my feelings, but the result is that I’m not saying much at all. My words won’t flow because I’m being far too cautious. I’m afraid of saying something I can’t take back or something I won’t be allowed to take back.

The problem is that my words do not exist in a vacuum. You’re hearing them and evaluating them. You’re judging me, even if you tell me you aren’t. For you do not have total control over your judgments. Some of them arise automatically, without any conscious choice. I will be judged, simply because I must be.

I can only hope you’ll forgive me if I happen to stumble into the wrong words, ones that are too clumsy, too rigid, too insensitive. Deep down, I have a sense of how I feel, and there might even be words for it, but those words feel too raw and dangerous. Instead I offer you ten words for each necessary one, in the vain hope I’ll make myself clear while also reducing the weight of the most important words.

I want you to know that I’m aware of your feelings and your needs. I want you to know that I’ve thought about what I’m saying and that my words have been carefully chosen. I want you to know that my words are significant and not mere musings. I desperately want all of these things, so I’m unable to focus on what I must do, which is to communicate myself to you.

I’m overwhelmed by my desire for clarity and my worries about speaking wrongly, so my attention is on these things instead. Everything would be much easier if I could somehow allow myself the freedom to say what must be said.