By nature I am quite non-confrontational. My friends who knew me in high school might beg to differ if they recall my tough-girl mouth–but let me add that I never once came to blows or got in a physical altercation of any kind with anyone other than my brother or sister. My mouth did preceded me on most occasions though. My brother was a wrestler in high school and you bet your ass I thought I could beat him so I tried....Often. And then there was my four-years-older sister whom I fought with over eyeliner of all things. Lame, I know. Those family squabbles were my only infractions of the physical kind.
Yet, here I sit, still having to contemplate what I might say in the face of an inevitable uncomfortable conversation. At the core, it is my fault. I tend to take on the problems of others when they are imposed on me. Instead of empathy, I exude sympathy and a feeling of responsibility to help remedy the situation. My husband said it perfectly: Helping is not a bad thing as long as I don't take on too much.
I've taken on too much.
I saw this shadow on the wall and somehow it brought me the tiniest bit of peace.
I thought I would share.
. peace .