It has been said that I am too much of a giver. I find that particularly confusing because I was always taught that I need to serve others with my gifts. My heart, and my passions. That the universal obligation is to gift others an experience of ourselves that changes them, for good. So giving in excess never struck me as problem. I guess the part I never got around to learning is that it changes me too. And unfortunately for me, the change hasn’t always been as kind. In giving of myself, I was left looking for pieces of me that give me ground to stand on. Parts of me buried in people I have served and loved. People who never stayed long enough for me to get myself back.
In giving of myself, I was left looking for pieces of me that give me ground to stand on.
I noticed lately that there is an emptiness to my giving that makes me feel somewhat robbed. I always thought that there’s like a fountain of replenishment for people like me. You know, givers. That our hearts and minds must focus on giving, because naturally the universe reciprocates by filling us. I was obviously wrong, maybe a little bit naive. I wanted to give, myself, to someone that needed me. Someone that would have been in a better place if they had received a gift from me. Not money, nothing material. Just someone that needed to be loved and affirmed at their lowest point. And that is the wild part. If it was money, or anything material I could easily have made that available to them.
They wanted something simpler. Something I ordinarily would make a decision to offer but couldn’t. Because I didn’t feel that I had anything to give. Looking at where they were emotionally, I find it crazy. That in that moment I didn’t think I was placed to tell them anything that would change how broken they were. I couldn’t bring myself to hold them, even when their hands clearly said they needed it. I just stood over that hospital bed and just looked away. The tears escaping before I could hide them, keep them shut behind my eyelids. As a giver, I feel the most pained when I can’t give. Because I may have given all of myself to people that didn’t give me back pieces of myself I need to keep giving.
The worst is that I still looked like someone who can give. And it gave the impression that I just chose not to. That’s what broke me.
Now I sit in retrospect and blame myself. For leaving pieces of myself everywhere that I have been. Never being selfish enough to reserve myself. For when I genuinely need myself to be present for people that mean the world to me. These flowers, they are the only beautiful thing left that I can give. What else can one give to someone buried six feet underground. My daughter says that forgiving myself would be a better gift to her father. But how do I pardon myself when I am not whole. When pieces of myself are scattered all over, and I can’t get them back. What if that’s all I remain to be. An empty vessel that can’t pour life to those that need it most. I don’t know. Maybe I am too much of a giver, and shouldn’t be. It’s all just messed up!!!
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