I'm glad you're here, but sometimes I wonder why anyone would want to read this thing. Or my WIP for that matter, a book of poetry. Who has time to be moved or awakened these days? Who am I to be the one to do it? Just another garden variety beauty talking about very unbeautiful things.
A mom, a wife, a midthirties white woman of 'upper middle class' social status (according to income based statistics in Canada that don't take into account the cost of living). It's no secret that I struggle with being defined as one thing. Most of the time I feel like I'm more of a ghost floating amongst the people.
Everything beautiful and gritty has already been written. Every underbelly has been explored by brave, unflinching wanderers. Every topic has already been disentangled to death by minds brighter than my own. I can't help but see myself through this distorted lens. I'm writing more than I have been able to in recent years and overcoming this to an extent, but it never really goes away. I can't escape this feeling that my words don't matter, that I'm a fraud. That I've got nothing important to say.
I'm just a mom. My woes aren't significant. My words often lack clarity. I don't go out of my way to be ultra inspirational.
So why are you here, anonymous people? Why peek into a life? What are you doing right now, anyway? Cooking a butt burrito? Why not read the back of a shampoo bottle instead? Ah, the nostalgia of that. As a kid, I was so focused on the dark side of life that I'd often look around the bathroom for items I could use as weapons if a murderer burst through the door at any second. Obviously, I didn't stand a chance, but it made me feel brave to think I could possibly loofah a bad guy to death.
Anyway, what's in it for you? What are you getting out of this? It's not that I'm not grateful. I just struggle to see what my writing, or this collection of incomprehensible, often poorly edited string of thoughts that passes for writing, has to offer to the world.
Hence why it takes me forever to do things: imposed self-doubt, severe imposter syndrome, unflinching perfectionism, always trying to perfect the mess inside my mind. But it's impossible really, because if I wait too long, I'll be 80 years old, never having explored all the things I want to do. I just want to touch the edges of everything. But sometimes I don't think I deserve to hold space. The curse of being a passionate overachiever who often underachieves just to escape expectations she feels she won't ever be able to meet. It's a catch 22, really.
I'm getting better with this now, and the external validation feels nice, like when people tell me they like my writing voice. I'm only human, after all. But it doesn't assuage the little girl inside me who feels frighteningly small, whose strong opinions, feelings and passions were often muted so as not to cause discomfort for others. Nothing changes if I stay silent. Just little ripples of stagnant water. But if I speak up and let my voice be heard, I break the dam open. I know the consequences of this. They're typically not good.
Don't say the things they're all thinking. Don't name the feelings and the problems. Don't let them see the scattered contents of your heart dumped out like a purse after a bar night. People will leave.
Maybe they will, and maybe you should.
Maybe you should.
Anyway, thanks for sticking around even when I do dump it all out. Thanks for confirming my existence in the fray of all that is, and all that ever was.
🤍 - M
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