When we deny or run away from our problems, it works. Initially.
There is a certain freedom that comes from denying or running. It’s liberating to realise we don’t have to necessitate a solution — that not all of the pain we hold has to be continued, solved, or settled. We have limited reserves and ability, must choose, so we instead take the easy way and run away. It’s easier to hide and pretend. But deep down, this just cuts us in a different way, and we know it.
You become afraid to live and love completely. You’ve grown afraid to invest yourself entirely in anything due to the underlying fear that eventually you are going to leave, turn, or run.
When you run away from your problems, you feel empowered. You are taking your life back by ignoring all the parts of it that do not particularly please you. Whether you have general mess, a broken home, cracked relationships, or work debacle, we can turn and bury ourselves elsewhere. For a while, the absence seems better.
Except, when you run away from all of your problems, you eventually start tripping. First over immediate, loud things — the kids, your drinking, and eating. And while sleep is respite and tomorrow offers supreme hope, the things that happened yesterday linger just beneath your mind’s surface, ready to poison the new day.
The problem with denying is that we’re trying to apply a definitive solution to an indefinite, ongoing problem. We’re attempting to tie up the loose threads of our lives before we’ve detangled any of them. We’re worried about the facade of a monstrosity.
We all want quick, easy fixes, a star chart, never drinking or eating sugar again, but we’re missing that our emotional ties run deeper than those surface-level issues and that we can never fly far enough away from ourselves to escape what it is that lives and lies unresolved within us.
Our issues aren’t imbedded in others, the behaviour that plagues us, or the people who have hurt us. Our unresolved emotional clutter seeps into every facet of our lives, stealthily enough to remain eternally undetected. It’s the hesitation deep inside that balks when you’re close to the edge and breaking through to what you want.
It’s why you really don’t struggle through with not drinking — you don’t resist the first glass that hard — or how the sense of self-doubt creeps in when you’re challenged. It’s the same old pain of trying again when you failed last time. You don’t have a frame of reference to carry on forward.
You’re trying to fill more wine into a full glass and yet you cannot figure out why you keep spilling it.
Pain can be avoided almost entirely but the darkness that accompanies denying it cannot. It’s impossible to escape that. When you constantly run from yourself, it wears away your soul with a vengeance. You become afraid of yourself from the underlying fear that eventually you’re going to leave. That you aren’t going to be loyal throughout everything.
That you’ll be gone when the gloss fades, the kids revert, and you drink or eat again. What you promised with lying lips. When you run from yourself, when you’re mostly a mess, you don’t get to be anywhere. You know you won’t be staying, so you stand apart and uninvolved in your life. You check out from what you need to feel alive.
It’s proportional: the more problems you have that you run away from the more you are running from yourself. You’ve long left the person you could be, the version of you who is reliable and passionate and strong. You lose pride and soul.
Your life is proof that the more you run away from all of your problems the more you run into others. You create two worlds within yourself: one that you won’t enter and one that gets shattered with ease. You are a ground mine of open wounds that pore at the slightest scrape. What will happen is you end up denying or running further, harder, and faster, to avoid the blood you are trying to contain.
The farther you run from your problems, the farther you run from yourself, and the harder it becomes to eventually find your way back.