feeling understood.

When I was 7, I had a crazy stutter. It came up when I was excited about something and trying to explain it. Or when I was nervous and trying to get that energy out of my body. I was told by my sophomore-year English teacher that my brain moved faster than my mouth and that maybe I should learn to slow down. To pace out my sentences and try to articulate them more cohesively, to make them easier to understand.
When I was 22, I started talking to my therapist about my desire to be understood. She asked me why that was so important, I told her it’s the same feeling I get when I meet someone and want to bring them to where I grew up. In my mind, giving someone these spaces of growth would help them see me better. All of my mother’s gifts I made with macaroni and glitter, the photos of me and my brothers in jr high, the dresses I wore to prom in high school, and the walls that line with the smell of the citrus trees from my back yard.

I had hoped that context would be given to whoever I let enter that space. Somehow that seemed to be easier than slowing my pace like my teacher suggested. I would just invite someone over, let them look around, and somehow be able to say “This is me, please understand. Please see this, it is what I feel I look like.” It sounds ridiculous to write out. Maybe the visual isn’t coming out right, let me over-explain myself:

Feeling understood is like having someone find all of your collections. Silverware, photos, plates, old jackets, papers you taped on your walls, and busted journals you wrote in every year of life. Feeling understood feels like all of these things held up to a light for someone to marvel at and say “There you are.” Maybe, as the years go by and I have had folks enter my collectible spaces, maybe then I can slow down because I still have not learned how. One day, it will not matter who holds me up to the light with whimsy and curious irises. But instead, what will matter is that I have given that intrigue to myself. That I am able to give that understanding I craved all of my life, back to me.

So the question I have now is not so much about asking if people understand me or anyone else. The question I have now is, why does it matter at all?