I'm trying to make a commitment to writing. As close to every day as possible. This doesn't seem hard...in theory. However, in practice, I sort of hate "checking in" regularly. I can plumb the depths but it seems to take a toll. I'm not sure if that's actually true. I haven't ever taken myself to task in terms of daily writing. Here we go. I'm not saying it's a 365 project or anything, but I'm willing to give it a whirl. What a puss. Right? Here I am--shouting from the mountain tops about WRITING A BOOK and I can barely write a daily paragraph. Shit. Am I as lazy as I'm beginning to appear? Laziness is one of those qualities that I have always suspected, even known about myself but have not fessed up to--not until now. OK. So I haven't fully realized my potential, dug in and finished. I lack follow through with the slightest hiccup.
You get the idea.
So, I would like to write a collaborative book asking the question, "Are you where you expected?", to women of a certain age in the hopes of discovering a community of voices that serves to calm, enlighten, and possibly show a commonality that cuts right through, stringing us all together. Just what is that thread, through grief and loss, crippling depression and unprecedented joy, the inner stirring of a passion unexplored, the gnawing insomnia of a life unlived--missed opportunities, mistakes that haunt you, divorce, trauma, where are we in FAMILY life, loss of identity or finally feeling contented...and on and on, depending on the voice.
It's loaded. That's the point.
I love stories. REAL LIFE. I want to hear and savor the stories of the women living in this time. I want to feel connected. Is there anybody else who feels this way? I dream of feeling the presence of so many, giving the parameters, giving me permission to live on my own terms. I would like help navigating by the very nature of sharing in each other's inner-lives. To see where you've been and where you are now. That's what I crave.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
coming out
I am struggling with motivation. Note: see date of last post.
My stamina is subject to all things, especially those relating to being visible. When I say visible, I mean ME, in caps. First, who am I?
Fuck. Simple question but the answer. Oh, the answer stirs old dust in my lungs that catches in my throat and sends me into isolation for weeks. In my cell I catalog the laundry list of how everything around me, in fact, defines my identity. When you're a hop skip & a tipsy fall to 40 and you judge every decision by the hypothetical 9 person demographic running on that proverbial squeaky hamster wheel in what's left of the teensy bit of head space in your brain that actually belongs to you (or does it?)--- n wait. Now I lost my direction entirely because my thoughts are now crowded with images of all the people that I know elbowing one another to get on my wheel.
GET OFF THE WHEEL!
One thing is clear, abundantly CRYSTAL clear- I don't trust my own instincts enough to own who I am. I want to please. I want to be liked. I want people to see me and think, she's got it together. And why? For what? WHO really cares and just WHO are these people I constantly measure and weigh myself against? It's interesting. I find myself tongue-tied and sweaty palmed in the presence of some derelict from high school, manic inner-dialogue and all (SQUEAK SQUEAK, oh GOD!) wondering what he's thinking about me. I start a list of "shoulds" and round it out with 42 new resolutions. Can you say, exhausting? I sabotage everything. And for what? I want to be known. How can I let people in, let them know the real me if I'm too concerned with providing them the perfect shade of me, colored in their honor.
I want to live and breathe without all the pressure. How can I look around me and and feel accomplished without measuring myself against all the assholes running on my wheel? It's time to evict. The question is, how? I will never be a perfect image because it's not real. I am not a reflection of someone else's idea of who I should be. If I am to believe what I tell my children, then I have to concede I was created and imagined by God, a unique irreplaceable person with purpose. If I am meant to give voice to that purpose, how will I discover it if I'm constantly preoccupied with self editing?
How, exactly, did I learn to place such emphasis on how other people see me, on being liked? Where does all this shame come from and how do I begin to pull it's roots from my bones? In truth, I am incredibly depressed and feel more hopeless with each year. I have started and stopped the process of living authentically, plumbing for direction, finding my purpose with so many incarnations. I am scared. I want to pull up the covers and be done with it. It's easier to sit on the sidelines, living vicariously. But nothing hurts more. I don't want to read any more novels or delve into one more fucking vampire series. Well, I do want to. I want to escape. I fight the desire to escape every, every minute. I don't want to admit that I've wasted my life just watching. I want to be the author of my own life that I myself am living on my terms.
But how? How to mute the voices of shame, the "shoulds"? How to wipe out this deeply held belief that where I live and what I possess defines me? Deeply held belief? Wow. It's really true. I have clung to this lie for so long that it has become the truth. The lies I hear and then internalize, bury deep to a place that will never reach the ears of those who can dispel these myths. Not my closest friends. Not my husband. Not an anonymous stranger. How have I protected these lies as if they themselves are sacred?
Fucking FEAR. It creeps up, spinning me in circles until I doubt everything.
The shame cuts so deep, the evil gets into places you would never let it go if you only knew. I look into the eyes of women all around me and I see that same fear--the hiding, not wanting to be found out, wondering what the other is thinking and praying for relief. Trying and striving all the while not ever measuring up, not ever good enough.
This is evil.
Recognize it. Seize it with both hands and rip it out as if your very life depends on it. Because it does. Every minute I spend doubting is a waste of my contribution. Just writing that sentence is hard because I have to own that I am worth something. I am important. If what I tell my children is true, I am beautiful and smart and brave. The third floor apartment with peeling paint, second hand wardrobe and 3 credits short of my bachelors degree doesn't define me. There. I've said it. But do I believe it?
So I have a list: Write some eviction notices, cull the shame weeds (from everything?), remind myself of what is really true, pretend to be my own mother and listen to advice.
check.
disclaimer: I am not proofreading. I am not editing (much). I am writing and trying to do it without shame. no simple task. You see, editing makes the hamsters run faster, currently anyway. As for the future, who knows.
My stamina is subject to all things, especially those relating to being visible. When I say visible, I mean ME, in caps. First, who am I?
Fuck. Simple question but the answer. Oh, the answer stirs old dust in my lungs that catches in my throat and sends me into isolation for weeks. In my cell I catalog the laundry list of how everything around me, in fact, defines my identity. When you're a hop skip & a tipsy fall to 40 and you judge every decision by the hypothetical 9 person demographic running on that proverbial squeaky hamster wheel in what's left of the teensy bit of head space in your brain that actually belongs to you (or does it?)--- n wait. Now I lost my direction entirely because my thoughts are now crowded with images of all the people that I know elbowing one another to get on my wheel.
GET OFF THE WHEEL!
One thing is clear, abundantly CRYSTAL clear- I don't trust my own instincts enough to own who I am. I want to please. I want to be liked. I want people to see me and think, she's got it together. And why? For what? WHO really cares and just WHO are these people I constantly measure and weigh myself against? It's interesting. I find myself tongue-tied and sweaty palmed in the presence of some derelict from high school, manic inner-dialogue and all (SQUEAK SQUEAK, oh GOD!) wondering what he's thinking about me. I start a list of "shoulds" and round it out with 42 new resolutions. Can you say, exhausting? I sabotage everything. And for what? I want to be known. How can I let people in, let them know the real me if I'm too concerned with providing them the perfect shade of me, colored in their honor.
I want to live and breathe without all the pressure. How can I look around me and and feel accomplished without measuring myself against all the assholes running on my wheel? It's time to evict. The question is, how? I will never be a perfect image because it's not real. I am not a reflection of someone else's idea of who I should be. If I am to believe what I tell my children, then I have to concede I was created and imagined by God, a unique irreplaceable person with purpose. If I am meant to give voice to that purpose, how will I discover it if I'm constantly preoccupied with self editing?
How, exactly, did I learn to place such emphasis on how other people see me, on being liked? Where does all this shame come from and how do I begin to pull it's roots from my bones? In truth, I am incredibly depressed and feel more hopeless with each year. I have started and stopped the process of living authentically, plumbing for direction, finding my purpose with so many incarnations. I am scared. I want to pull up the covers and be done with it. It's easier to sit on the sidelines, living vicariously. But nothing hurts more. I don't want to read any more novels or delve into one more fucking vampire series. Well, I do want to. I want to escape. I fight the desire to escape every, every minute. I don't want to admit that I've wasted my life just watching. I want to be the author of my own life that I myself am living on my terms.
But how? How to mute the voices of shame, the "shoulds"? How to wipe out this deeply held belief that where I live and what I possess defines me? Deeply held belief? Wow. It's really true. I have clung to this lie for so long that it has become the truth. The lies I hear and then internalize, bury deep to a place that will never reach the ears of those who can dispel these myths. Not my closest friends. Not my husband. Not an anonymous stranger. How have I protected these lies as if they themselves are sacred?
Fucking FEAR. It creeps up, spinning me in circles until I doubt everything.
The shame cuts so deep, the evil gets into places you would never let it go if you only knew. I look into the eyes of women all around me and I see that same fear--the hiding, not wanting to be found out, wondering what the other is thinking and praying for relief. Trying and striving all the while not ever measuring up, not ever good enough.
This is evil.
Recognize it. Seize it with both hands and rip it out as if your very life depends on it. Because it does. Every minute I spend doubting is a waste of my contribution. Just writing that sentence is hard because I have to own that I am worth something. I am important. If what I tell my children is true, I am beautiful and smart and brave. The third floor apartment with peeling paint, second hand wardrobe and 3 credits short of my bachelors degree doesn't define me. There. I've said it. But do I believe it?
So I have a list: Write some eviction notices, cull the shame weeds (from everything?), remind myself of what is really true, pretend to be my own mother and listen to advice.
check.
disclaimer: I am not proofreading. I am not editing (much). I am writing and trying to do it without shame. no simple task. You see, editing makes the hamsters run faster, currently anyway. As for the future, who knows.
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