Communication is one of those funny little things. You take it for granted, and you don’t appreciate people who have the same communication style as you until you’re attempting to communicate with someone who clearly doesn’t “speak the same language” as you. Even when you thought you were both speaking perfect english. I’ve been learning a difficult lesson involving communication over the past few months. It’s pretty apparent that I do well with written communication. There might be misspellings here and there, grammar errors or missing punctuation…but I use words to say pretty much everything I want to say (and sometimes under the influence of champagne the things I don’t actually want to say).
I’ve been known to write a lot of letters, especially when there is something weighing on my heart. I don’t like the idea of holding back how I feel and consequently I’ve been that girl who has spilled her heart out to a boy via Facebook message, locker notes, love letters, etc. I was always the friend who wrote way too much in everyone’s yearbooks, and I take Birthday cards really seriously. My love language must be language…but even my non love language is language. Seriously read my angst ridden 7th grade diary and you’ll have no trouble believing my hatred is best channeled via writing as well. I can be cuddled and coddled and kissed all day long but if Prince Charming isn’t flat out saying “I really like you“, I’m still going to need reassurance. Reassurance for me doesn’t come in the form of fancy dinners (although I do enjoy those), it doesn’t come in the form hugs (once again, still like those), or snapchats, or text messages filled with solely cat emojis. I can’t read these languages, you might as well be spelling out your affection in Dutch (which as you may have guessed, I also can’t read).
In relationships the value of compatible communication can’t really be overstated can it? One of my many potential suitors could imagine he’s sending all the right signs (because to him they are the right signs) only for me to feel utterly baffled by his strange strange behavior. If you find yourself pondering “Why does this cute boy keep meowing at me?” chances are you’re speaking different languages, and chances are you’re going to have to throw in a few kitten references to get your point across.
I spill my heart a little too freely. I do that whole “wearing my heart on my sleeve” thing. Sometimes transparency makes you seem crazy or obsessive, other times it’s the only option you have when it comes to keeping your sanity. Before I made the move to my little Canadian kingdom my heart was heavy. I’d just barely begun to realize I had something I wanted to hold onto, but it was too soon, it was too early. If I hadn’t been planning on moving across the continent I would have held it in. The timing wasn’t right, I was still at that delicate new stage. The stage that you’re supposed to be nonchalant, when things are supposed to be simple.
I had a choice to make. I could either ignore the rush I felt when he entered a room, the way his smile made me melt, the way our morning snuggle sessions had become my favorite memories from the summer or I could say something. I could spill my heart to him, the way I show up on the daily to do here. My heart begged me to follow it, it urged me to speak my mind, and even though words are one of the only things I can really do properly, the idea terrified me.
But I did it, on pink parchment in gold gel pen. I’ve never had a more difficult time explaining a thought or a feeling. The feeling that I knew so much and so little at the same time. I didn’t know his favorite flavor of ice cream, or his parent’s names, or his political views. But I knew other things, like the way I closed my eyes and saw his, or the way his kisses made my world spin, you know…cheesy things like that. And those things, those things seemed so important.
In the end I followed my brain. I’m over here learning about lobsters and revising cooking instructions and pretending to not feel irritated that the Starbucks here can’t master my iced mocha. My heart didn’t guide my decision, and to me that feels like growing up. Yet, I think what’s even more shocking is that following my brain didn’t mean ignoring my heart. My heart didn’t loose it’s voice, it had it’s say and even if things don’t work out the way I think I want them to, I’ll be okay.
My life isn’t all black and white the way it felt like it was six months ago. It’s less harsh, less cinematic and dramatic and it’s this big mesh of grayness all over. Turns out following your brain doesn’t mean silencing your heart necessarily, it doesn’t mean knowing where things are going or what on earth you’re doing. & That is quite possibly the most grown up realization I’ve ever had.
How do you best communicate? Have you ever spilled your heart? How did it turn out for you?