Some days, I am very opinionated.  I admire those people that say what they think, not to be cruel, but to remain honest and true to their characters.  I am not one of those people.  Not yet, anyway.  I still quail from telling my complete opinion, it its hardest, most brutal form.   However, I believe honesty must be brutal to be itself, so every time I say something and gentle it, I feel that I am lying in some way.  I can not be as brutal as I want to be.  There are so many people in my life that can and are.  I do not mean to say that they are heartless, on the contrary they are some of the more heartful people I know.  They are simply unashamed to think what they think, and to believe what they believe, no matter if it clashes with someone else.

I envy that strength.  I want it.  However, I struggle to find that strength to speak when I am so afraid of hurting someone, or of lacking compassion, or offending someone and causing severe, unpleasant repercussions for years to come.

Today was a day where I was opinionated.  My father in-law came over like he does on Mondays, and caught us up on family drama.  I didn’t like how he and his wife had handled part of the drama, and I proceeded to say so, in no uncertain terms.  I think I was brutal.  I think I was honest.  I think I did it.