I feel like I am going to explode. Literally, like I have so much inside that needs to come out that I have to DO something because if I don’t get it OUT, I am going to collapse into myself and create some kind of black hole that consumes everything that comes near. I try distracting myself… Do the dishes! The laundry! Is there anything happening on Facebook? Twitter? Hey, how is this friend doing today…? I better text them to say hi and check in! (Sorry, friends, I promise I really do care.)
It’s an ongoing issue I have, avoiding my own emotions. My own needs. Surely there’s something I can do for someone else instead right now! Who needs advice? Who needs my time & attention?
I sit here, phone in hand, waiting for the ping of a text or notification.
It’s a problem.
So today, I will write. I will open the door for it to come out. I’ll sit down and consider what’s inside, rather than trying to distract myself with what’s outside.
Honestly, this writing/blogging stuff is months in the making. I never EVER considered myself a “writer”. I knew that I expressed my emotions best by writing; there’s just something about the process that works for me, thinking about each word and sentence before committing it to paper (or screen). It’s careful. It’s crafted. It’s communication on my terms… much to the chagrin of my past partners who received more than their fair share of lengthy handwritten letters and late night rambling emails.
But… when I started on this healing journey last year, and started journaling again, and then read a part of said journal out loud to a group of women and they all told me I should publish it someday and that I need to keep writing… Well I thought they were all crazy. What?? Me, a writer? That’s very kind (and my ego is totally loving the validation) but this is just my journal. Who wants to read this crap? What do I even know? I am a nobody.
That was 6 months ago. And to be honest, I haven’t been doing much writing since. I’ve struggled with it, not sure what to put down on those blank pages. And I began to feel a new kind of pressure and expectation, that now I have to be a GREAT writer since they all said I was. Well, shit. What can I write about that would be interesting? Who will my audience be? WHO WANTS TO READ THIS CRAP?
I haven’t done a lot of writing, but I have been doing a lot of growing and healing. And I see the lie now. The very, very deep lie that stops me from doing anything that may possibly be worthwhile. Deep in my soul, it’s there, and it whispers to me…
I am not enough.
It’s been there a long time, this fear of not being smart enough, not being pretty enough, not being a good enough mom/wife/daughter/sister/friend, not being (insert adjective here) enough. Always doubting myself. I’ve believed this lie my whole life, chasing after the approval of others to validate me as a person. Get good grades to prove I’m smart enough. Spend hours looking in a mirror to alter my appearance to be pretty enough. Do anything for anyone at any time to prove that I am a good person who cares about them so they will also care about ME. But you know what?
It’s a lie. A big, fat, giant, piece of crap lie. I have spent my 36 years looking to others to tell me what I am worth. Am I worthy of your love? Am I good enough? How can I prove I’m good enough? What do I need to do? Who do I need to be for you to like me? To love me?
And I’m not doing it anymore.
Because you know what the truth is? I AM ENOUGH. I am worthy of love. Not because of who I am, not because of my intelligence or my looks or anything that I can do for anyone else… I am worthy of love simply because I am. I am here, I am alive, and we are ALL worthy of love. Every single damn one of us, for no other reason besides being here. Wherever we are, whoever we are, we do not have to prove ourselves to anyone.
YOU are enough.
I am enough.
So… I shall write. And if none of you like it, TOO FREAKING BAD!