No more Ms. Mousian

Aaaand…I wasn’t satisfied with the free write, so here I am again. What can I say? When my writer side is awakened, not even a horse dose of Ambien can put it back to bed. I gotta wear this sucker out.

Doing this blog has, like I’ve mentioned repeatedly in my “voice memo thingies”, simply been an exercise in pushing the boundaries of what makes me comfortable. Adopting the title of “writer” is not something that has come easily. I rejected it for so very long because it seemed like it came with a lifestyle that wasn’t “naturally” mine, and one I was completely unwilling to take. Not to mention, it was something that was pushed on me at a very early age, and all my life I have resisted easy classification. I’d see my peers happily take on such limiting titles as “The Brain”, “The Jock”, “The Artist”, and I wanted absolutely no part of it. To me, it felt like taking one on would have a serious impact on what I would likely focus my attention on. If I was to take on a title, it was going to be one of my own choosing.

If you’re wondering, “What is this ‘writer lifestyle’ she was so scared of?” It was the lifestyle of a writer who was a compulsive composer, a slave to the written word, and mostly, one who shares his or her thoughts and passions easily- which I believed was the only writer to be. For a time it was very easy to hide my inner self behind pretty words or flowery sentences. But passion? That odd magnetism that drew pencils to my fingers and blank pages to my lap? I didn’t have what it took to reveal mine. Mine had to be protected from those invested in changing me into their ideal person. I was a mouse, overly concerned for my survival, when all the while I was safe in a cage, and everything I needed was in reach. I couldn’t risk anything, or at least, would only make the smallest risks, the only things my tiny mouse heart could bear.

And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of acting like a mouse, consumed by passion on the inside, but devoid of all signs of it on the outside. I’m tired of going with the thoughts that say, essentially, that there is no point in my expression. It’s like saying, “There’s no point to crying, because you’ve shed tears before”. “There’s no point to laughter, because you’ve filled a room with laughter before.” Or, “Others have wept and laughed better than you”. I want the “wow, I did that”. The one that only comes after the “wow, I can’t believe I did that”. This is part of that step.


Get uncomfortable

What’s on my mind? Seems like a simple question, but there’s too much there. Do you quantify it by weight, by size, by effect? It doesn’t matter. There is a lot, and more than I can define.

With so much of what has happened in the past several years, things around and within me, I’ve come to realize the truth of what I believe, and how strongly it affects what I do, as well as what I think I can do. And the belief I have internalized most strongly, likely as sacred a belief as believing the sky is blue, is that I am inherently and permanently inadequate.

Yet…it’s such a clash because I see myself inside and…I love her. My inner self fascinates me to such an extent that writing about it makes me feel rather silly. But she wants something of me. Her freedom. For so many years I took it on as my goal in life to protect her from anyone who would have her be different. And after such a long captivity, I was pleased when I realized she survived relatively unchanged. But she is not satisfied remaining protected. Now feeling safe, she wants to be free. And it terrifies me.

I hate the fear that has kept her bound for so long, yet…it’s safe. Will she die if she is exposed, if her spirit is allowed to inhabit my arms, my skin, my voice? She did once, when I was very small. And for her protection, I made a very diluted copy of her, the one who inhabits my body now. Maybe I’m scared for her death…and my own, should she be given freedom.

But there’s no lie that can swallow the truth. The diluted spirit that possesses me now…is already fading. While she grows stronger, it grows weaker. There is nowhere left to go. I believe her inadequate…and myself as well. If we were to merge as one…would the belief change?

To best fear, one must act in spite of fear. To best shame, one must act in spite of shame. There’s no easy path to adequacy for me. I must be content in the discomfort, breathe while in the unsureness, until I realize I’ve survived. Inadequacy comes when something is measured against something else. This time, there need be no sense of inadequacy when I’m the only thing against which to measure. A measure I already fill…adequately.