What armor do I have on me, preventing you from seeing-into-me?
(What armor do I have, preventing me from seeing-into-myself?
Oh, that’s perhaps the more significant question?)
What are the costumes I put on, that act as protection, a shield, admitting access into me only to a certain depth, often quite shallow?
I can step into costumes such as… being a mother. A sister. A wife. Colleague, neighbor, friend.
Or costumes where I am a clown, the joker, the wall-flower. A silent observer, all-lights-on-me, the dependable one. Or the victim, perpetrator, by-stander.
Oh. So. Many. Choices.
I have quite a few costumes in my wardrobe, some more used than others.
It’s not b a d to have and use costumes.
They serve a purpose, for sure. Propping me up, acting as an exoskeleton when I don’t have what it takes within me to step into a certain role. But once I’ve learned the how’s and what’s of it, what then? What might be if I then get out of my costume, trying the waters all on my own?
That’s what I wanna get to.
To a more conscious use of costumes, far from an automatic, habitual use. Where I rely less and less on them, stepping into situations and relationships as me, more fully. Thereby opening up for the depths of me to be more accessible (yes, to myself, as well as others).
What costume/s do you habitually put on?
In meandering conversation with Mayke Vullings, we speak about intimacy and costumes, coming at it from two very different standpoints. In the end though, we are in complete agreement that we want to show up in life in ways that invites intimacy, and getting out of ones costumes definitely enhances the likelihood of more intimacy. To hear more, check out episode 13 Intimacy and into-me-see from the podcast Tankespjärn with Helena Roth.