It's my darling wife's fault. No wait; it really is. She's the one who - completely in line with her musings of the last seven years or so - has convinced me to 'disrobe' and stop playing the role that I have been kidding myself was my REAL self. She's convinced me firstly that I am playing a role, and that the role that I felt that I sometimes play is in fact the product of small expressions of my real character making it to the surface. When we discussed it, the truth of it was impossible to miss.
Impossible to deny.
This acceptance alone is beginning to change me. It's as if I'm slowly rediscovering what it feels like to be at ease once again. It's been a very long time since I actually liked myself, but I can remember the feeling, and I think that it's time I allowed myself to embrace that idea once more. Life is too short to continue feeling guilty about almost everything, especially all the things over which I have had no control whatsoever. Life is too short to feel guilty about being imperfect.
It's time to start taking risks again. Time to start speaking my mind more often, and damn the consequences (that whole firing scenario). Facing and taking risks has almost always proven to be a positive thing for me. In fact, I struggle to think of a time when a risky choice has turned out negatively. What I've been doing, however, is focusing upon the negative possibilities of a great many choices, and I've become bogged down in fear and anxiety about a whole host of stuff. I've stopped being the person I used to be, and I've felt stuck. Bottling up having my say about the things I see which go against my innate sense of what is right is doing me no good at all. Time to change that. Time to make a job for myself which uses my established - yet dormant - skill set.
I know you'll appreciate the living supportiveness in this: my little epiphany started a week or two ago, when, in the middle of a TV program about Gorillas, my lovely lady turned to me with a sweet smile and said "You're a bit of a Silverback, aren't you, My love?" I think you'll agree that it's not easy to overlook that kind of loving compliment, especially when I know that there is an element of truth to it, in more than one sense. No, I'm not four hundred pounds of hairy muscle, these days I'm 2**lbs of a blubber/muscle mix (heavy on the blubber, unfortunately) and distressingly devoid of hair, although a silver-haired back would not be a good thing from any perspective. I have, however, had my moments of blunt - even primeval - male dominance, and I can still beat my chest and make "Uh-UH!" noises if necessary.
I don't really want to get fired, but it's definitely a possibility as some of the safety valves are loosened and I begin to stop protecting the incompetent, stupid and lazy from some 'direct' feedback.
Wish me luck.
If you can't wish me luck, buy my fucking book, which is funny and worth every cent/penny of the paltry amount it will cost you for the e-version on Amazon. It's called 'Signs of (a) Life', and it's written by me, Liam Samolis.
Go on; I double dare you. Tell them the Silverback recommended it...