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.
