Less Emo, More Vagabond

I don't know a single person more confusing than myself.  Probably because I know myself the best, even though it often feels like I understand myself the least.  There's so much about me that seems like blaring contradictions, and so much that I would change if I could (but that I'm okay with being like at the moment).

I'm sorry, I know this is all very vague.

It started from a conversation I had with N. earlier tonight about emotion and my relationship with that facet of my character.  Growing up, I always thought I was incredibly attuned to peoples emotions and troubles; I was often the sympathetic ear they'd turn to, the counselor who would have that one piece of advice that made the puzzle piece fit, you know?  But at the same time, I was aware that when things got real, I got emotionally stunted.  This was never more clear to me than when my grandfather went into the hospital for the first time.  My sisters, my mother and I were all sitting in our living room crying, of course, when my mom reached over to comfort me and I instinctively shifted away from her.  I didn't want to be touched, I didn't want to be comforted (and I knew I was definitely not in the position to comfort anyone else).  I just wanted to be left alone with my fear and worry, left alone to sort through my emotions and come to grips with them before I could be with people again.

While some things have changed (i.e. I no longer think I'm the sympathetic ear or the go-to counselor), that need to be alone with myself when my emotions get the better of me remains the same.  It takes a lot for me to open up in any serious way.  Sure I'll reveal things about myself and let really personal information roll off my tongue like it's no big deal, but that's because for some reason -- to me -- whatever I've said really is no big deal.  But I tend to do all of my crying jags in the shower, with the music blaring so no one can hear.  And as N. said to me tonight, I sometimes take on a very traditional/typical male response to certain things in our relationship.  In fact, N.'s often the first one to say things like, "You know, when you say things like that it sort of hurts my feelings."  And I cringe at the words because all I want to do is roll my eyes toward the sky and say, "Ohmygod, are you serious?"  It's not because I don't understand that something I've done may have upset or hurt him.  It's because the way I tend to react to these sorts of things is by holding it in close to me, dealing with it, and then never mentioning it again.  I guess I see no need to talk things to death (which may seem odd, considering I have a blog in which I talk everything to death), or to reveal that much of myself that often.

This discussion between N. and I continued into a larger conversation about our differences and, specifically, if and how those differences will affect our future.  It's been weighing on my mind lately because I've been struggling with (and trying to ignore, perhaps) this side of my nature more and more often recently, but I finally got up the nerve to ask him some really big questions.  "Do you ever just want things to change?  Not necessarily because things can be better than the way they are, but just...because.  Don't you ever ask yourself what could become of your future if you just changed directions?  What if you lived in another city, had another job, didn't have a girlfriend?  Don't you ever wonder?  Don't you ever want more?"

And he said that he really didn't.  That he was satisfied with his life the way it was.  That the "more" I'm talking about didn't necessarily mean "better," so why jeopardize the life he has now?

But he also said that it's something he worries about because he sees those questions in me all the time.  This, again, is one of those confusing characteristics about myself that I'm finally acknowledging.  Growing up, I resisted change in every shape and form, mostly because the changes that I saw happening in my life were never of my choosing and I just couldn't bring myself to see past the immediate consequences to the eventual outcome.  Change was the enemy to a girl whose only hope and dream was to be stable.  Then something happened and I learned to cope with the change.  And as soon as I was old enough to start affecting the changes in my own life, I did so at every turn.  Now, instead of the girl who craves stability, you have a girl who's satisfied for a while, and then feels the need to uproot and replant herself somewhere else.

How does this play out in a relationship where one party is happy to stay rooted?  How do you reconcile these two conflicting needs?  What does it mean when even the girl is scared that she'll never be satisfied and will always need to replant?  Does it mean she just hasn't found her place yet?  Or does it mean something else entirely?