Where have I been?

Where have I been?

Photo by Lorelei

I’m here. Working, living, exploring thoughts and attitudes and dreams. Thinking about dreams and next steps. Thinking about the worth of my current situation. Whether that situation has anything to offer to anyone reading. Whether it’s not worth much at all, and I should keep it hidden, keep the focus of what I share outwardly on beautiful photography, and pretend my world always looks like my photos.

I’m writing. Or at least, I’m trying to write. I am writing a book, and it is daunting. It is terrifying. Because I have this vision of what it will be, and to think that I might finish it, and find that it doesn’t match that vision, that it doesn’t achieve what I imagine it will achieve, or it doesn’t feel the way it needs to feel, is a horrifying prospect. That outcome would tell me all sorts of things about my own worth and capability that I don’t want to hear.

And so I write, I research, and I let the process become drawn out. I have a hundred valid reasons. It’s so hard to find time when I’m working. It’s so hard to write when I don’t have all the background information that I feel I need. I can put it off because I’ll have time this weekend. But all relying on these reasons does is validate the fear inside myself: that I can’t actually do what I’ve set out to do. It validates that fear by saying you’re right, you can’t, but it’s not your fault, it’s because you’re working and you’re tired and you’re busy and, of course, if you just had time, then you’d do it right. Of course you could do it if you had time. But maybe you just don’t. These other people that do… they’re unique. They had more time.

I know that this is wrong. I could have told you it was wrong months ago. But I didn’t know, so clearly as I might right in this moment, that this is what I was doing.

Sabotage is a sneaky friend. She is always lingering, waiting to flatter me and smother me with love and reasons why it’s ok to stop and rest. And maybe just rest a little bit longer, and a bit longer, until the opportunity to achieve that dream is past.

Is this the too-good mother? Do I have a too-good mother inside of me that just wants desperately, more than anything else in the world, for me to not feel bad about myself? To not repeat the months and years of self-doubt that maybe she endured? And so she bundles me up in platitudes and large heavy blankets and tells me, it’s ok. Of course you could do it. But you just haven’t had time. That’s not your fault. You are amazing the way you are.

This blanket she has me wrapped in, it’s scratching and making me itch. And I will lose my mind if she keeps me swaddled in it much longer.

Maybe I’m not amazing, just the way I am. Right now in this moment. Maybe I am amazing the way that she sees me, which is all the things I see that I might be, but am not. She sees the potential. She sees right to the heart of me. But, she does not serve me by pretending that I already am what she sees. I serve myself by handing the blanket back and saying, thank you, but I’ve got this from here. If I don’t hold myself accountable, I’ll never actually be what you already believe I am.

It’s time for me to take the reigns.

It’s time to start writing. Again. Because I have to finish this book, and the one after, and the one after. And I have to do it right.

I owe that to you.

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