How Much is Too Much?

My tendency to overdo things has spread to more than just one-two-many pieces of chocolate, slices of cake and pictures of adorable babies. Indeed, I am an over-indulger when it comes to most aspects of my life. I always want more of the story, just one more minute of the movie, 10 more pages of the book—it's never enough. I've found lately that I'm the same way with the emotional stuff of life. I struggle with knowing when to quit.

I talk too much—my arms and hands flailing wildly about as I speak, shout and, most likely, repeat myself over and over again. I have a tendency to say whatever comes to mind, to rant on and on without thinking (or sometimes breathing) until I start to get lightheaded and short of breath.

It's really been bugging me lately.

I want to be stoic—a warm, inviting stoic, but stoic nonetheless.

I am getting tired of talking so much. Regretting so much. Wishing I could retract so much. And of telling myself over and over again, slow down, Lia. Slow down.

I don't try to be this way. It's just "the way I am." I hear an idea, a thought, a problem and my brain readies for battle, hell, it might even toss the first spears. Whether I am being "attacked" or just asked for my opinion, I go ALL in. I am a too-open book of options, answers, solutions, confusions, help, bigger problems, accusations, comforts. I just want to help.

I want to be helpful. I want to be—and be known as— a go-to kind of person who can be relied upon in a time of need, or any old day of the week. I long for acceptance (therein, respect) from my family, my friends, my peers, because it's what keeps me going when all else fails. I cringe at the thought of someone thinking me lazy, or careless or selfish or unwilling.

The more and more that I go on, it sounds all about me. And I guess maybe it is. But not consciously. I don't think, how can I help myself by helping you? It is just a given. I help, and in that I am helped. I comfort and feel comforted. I solve (sort of) and I feel fixed.

Maybe it's just these little daily/momentary victories that I am searching for. Enough of them to load into my pockets and provide me with the contentment I need to get through the day. Maybe it's just that my wild mind is stuck trudging through boredom most of the time that I am chomping at the bit for any little problem, any little chance to show that I am worthy. That I have a voice. That I am still here, as much as I may often feel like I am disappearing.

Medicated or not, 150 miles per hour all the time is no way to run. It promises quick wear, little control. So much guilt and frustration. Speeding, I often feel lost in certain areas (most recently, my career) and it should be no surprise. How do I detach from what drives me at such dangerous speeds, and slow down, take deep breaths and–for once—just be quiet and listen?