Discomfort

All day today. I have felt ill at ease and uncomfortable. Just off, somehow. It’s not surprising, with quarantine, and forced homeschool as opposed to the kind we chose before, all the uncertainty economically, and otherwise... of course things are out of whack.

But it’s more than that. Without the usual distractions and tasks and errands, there is more boredom, and stillness. Not outer quiet, at my house anyway, but more inner quiet, as the to do lists have necessarily shrunk. And today I have had to start to come to terms with where that has led me.

Over the years, I have been told, by some who know me well, that I should beat myself up less. That I talk to myself too negatively. That I am harder on myself than on anyone else.

I decided to write down every not-so-positive thing I felt today. Whether it came from me or was, I felt, communicated to me somehow by someone else, I wrote down the emotion or thought I had, no matter how fleeting. This was a hard list to read by the end of the day. I was actually shocked, by the length, and by the harshness. Am I really talking to myself like that? Do I really walk around smiling and having normal interactions while lugging around all of this?

Turns out, I do.

How have I allowed this to carry on, unchecked, for years... maybe my whole life?

I sound like a hopeless, depressed, skin-wrapped pile of pure misery. But anyone who knows me wouldn’t describe me that way. I mean, the whole list isn’t the truth. There’s perception, and old patterns and voices that aren’t even mine, that rear up and attack periodically. But on that list, there are also plenty of things that I believe.

Nothing on that list is loving toward me. It’s important to be honest with myself. And this is honest. This is how I felt over the course of the day. But I don’t deserve most of that list, from myself or anyone else. The list making started because of a feeling of nasty discomfort that I couldn’t shake. But now, my discomfort comes from seeing my list. Knowing that it is unfair. Unkind. Unhelpful. Unwarranted.

That feels like maybe... good discomfort? Discomfort that, instead of leaving me in knots, is gently telling me maybe there’s another way. That the way I have been speaking to myself has not been working, if what I seek are peace, joy, and fulfillment. I don’t know yet where I go from here. I am uncomfortable with that.

And that’s ok.

Stepping Out of My Cave

Twenty or so years can pass in a flash. My last twenty have. I have been married, had 7 babies, and 2 miscarriages, worked in acting/voice over/make-up, changed views on many things and held steadfast on some, lost my son, picked up what pieces I could find, and cobbled together something resembling a life. Change has been constant. And now there’s about to be more.

I am done having babies. I am older and I think wiser. But this past fall sent me through what felt like a fire- of memories, of things that have needed to change or be dealt with for ages that I have been too tired or busy to take on, of new choices and chances to look at taking, of facing what’s broken (including myself), of the possibility of me being someone and something entirely new and different than who I thought I was or could be, of realising some things will never change, as much as I may wish they could.

In some ways I feel like I was living in a cave before and didn’t even know I was. A cave of self protection, fear, mould-fitting, restriction, expectation, and robotic repetition. It felt safe and normal. The fire of fall forced me to run out of that cave, and now I find myself out here, painfully blinking in the light and afraid to take a step in any direction because I can’t see my way yet.

I nearly vanished. I was all these things for other people, but absolutely nothing to myself. 

Before life and the world got their hands on me, I was somebody. I was a girl who dreamed of performing, who wanted to change her name, who hoped to travel far and wide, who imagined writing books for kids, among so so many other things. Now instead of dreams and creativity, I have questions. I have doubt. Self doubt, mostly. I abandoned my self for so long, she almost gave up.

Almost.

I may be a lot of things, but weak isn’t one of them. I’m noticing that after the hell I have been handed, losing my boy, that I lived. I still don’t know how. But I did. I am beginning to examine this  life I still have and figure out not the how, but the why. I am here for something(s), and I no longer think that’s hiding out forever in a cave.

So if I seem distracted or confused or scared or bold or confident or insecure or happy or sad or talentless or skilled or weird or normal or kind or reserved or quiet or obnoxious, I am. I’m going to try some things. I’m going to ask questions. Maybe I will get it wrong. I will definitely fail. But I am going to excavate that girl that I was, and was supposed to get to be, if it kills me. Or what’s the point? Living other people’s version of me? No thanks. 

Maybe I’ll start with changing my name. Suggestions welcome.