Controlled Maturity

                Over the course of ten years, I’ve met with a group of guys for one purpose. Married, single, college, high school, post graduate, middle-aged, the spread of ages of the different faces to come and go is wide. Meeting religiously for years, I can confidently speak about any area of my life with these men, without shame or recourse, knowing I will be accepted, corrected, praised, or made fun of without the promise of shame, all while putting my insecurities to feature. Words about feelings have become second nature with this group; in this room. Nevertheless, the realities of living vulnerable daily, that is, the willingness to release the authenticity of myself, has continued in its protection.

               
                I sat in the parking lot, the conversation began to turn to a place I was unready, unwilling to go. 16 years old, I knew of one thing, how to make myself laugh. Regardless of the circumstances, I had a selfish focus of personal entertainment, unaccounting for the persons involved. “Andrew, it’s time to grow up, it’s time to get mature”. The truth in the statement did little to help me with the process of realization. Becoming an entirely different person, admonishing the fun, giving promotion to the sober, this was my picture of maturity.

                
                Ten years later, ignoring her for months, years, a friend began to try and unlock the person that I had told sit in the corner and be quiet. A few months ago, I began to wonder. I wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe this person is there, but he wasn’t accepted 10 years ago, why would he be now? Was I living my life to the fullest, was I living my life at all? Was I living someone else’s?

I made a choice.

               

                 I made a choice be OK with me when I make a mess, an offensive joke, hurt feelings. Clean up the mess, and be OK with the trueness of you. I made a choice that is becoming a discipline. Trying to mature the 16 year old personality within without suffocating him, while still being me has been less than smooth. Letting it out, and being rejected, feeling like the little boy told to go stand in the corner. Forgetting to manipulate situations in hopes of maintaining control and minimizing pain has been hurtful. I sat this week, wondering if letting this vulnerability go in my emotions and releasing the joy inside was a mistake, with rejection arriving so often. Refusing to prove myself, but rather be, I have entertained the lies of rejection, incompetency, failure, and realized control has protected me. Releasing control meant unleashing dormant insecurities. These thoughts I tried to confront, with little success. Until I heard this notice:

 “My thoughts are not your thoughts, even about yourself”