I search for my muse in coffee shops, on iPods, in friend’s faces. I sit and think, “maybe today, I will write like I mean to, like I want to, like I’m meant to.” But words get lost in Twitter streams, in frantic readying for this or that, in bottomless glasses. My ability to string beautiful words together suffers for all this ADD living I’m doing, but then maybe I’m not supposed to write beautiful words, just words, and that needs to be enough.
Here’s something though: I can’t live with how I write now. There’s got to be something more. Something better. More metaphors perhaps, longer sentences, more meaning.
The other side of my brain wants today’s words to be enough.
They never are, they never are.
It’s a bomb in my head.
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I have a friend who tells me that my greatest challenge is to be OK with who I am and to feel enough; not less than. Daily I am confronted with this potential lesson, a flower unbloomed, and each day the bud shrivels and falls to the ground as I grind it underfoot. Not meaning to. But still.
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Someone’s recognized something good in me, an as-yet, a potential-bloom, and I can’t believe her. I lament to my husband, “When will she discover I’m not up to it? I can’t do this thing? My words lack. I’m not the person she thinks?”
And he says, “But you are.”
“That is that.”
My sighs are heavy. My mind is weak. I grasp for the words and hold on. I want “that” to be “that.”
Whyever can’t I believe it for myself?
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I’m jealous of one thing. Not a house, a ring, a man, a body, a life. I am jealous of a person’s ability to not apologize for who she is. To live completely in the knowledge that she is flawed, but good. And fuck you if you don’t like it. I want that fuck you. I want to say it and mean it; not because it’s dirty, not because it’s shocking, but because FUCK YOU.
And by “you,” I mean “me.”
Insecurity is a bitch that lives in my head.
Fuck you.
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I dream of standing before my other self, or having four arms, of hugging the reflection and giving the “A-OK!” sign with the hands that are free. Of looking meaningfully at the other self, of telling her, “you are enough. you are enough. you are enough.”
Of having her believe it.
Of having her bloom.
Right in front of my eyes.
My muse.
What do you want to tell your mirror self?
I want to tell my mirror self that I am strong like I used to be 5 years ago. That “he” can’t hurt me and I don’t need to be scared. I have a special man to help me with that. I am not there yet though. Maybe he can help you. Email me for his info. He is really great at getting inside your head.
Did you notice something?? After you re-read?
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You used the word WRITE. It’s in you. It’s dying to just be. The girl in you is screaming to just write. WE all know you are awesome. If you need, I’ll send you a picture of me with a big middle finger yelling Eff You, you are good… you are awesome… right NOW!!
I mean, “write” now.
It’s who you are, Deb. You fucking rock. Accept it.
What Sugar said.
Also, you inspire me. So thanks for that.
You DO rock – You ARE strong – I see it in everything you write.
In my mirror? I just want to remind it that life isn’t a tit for tat. That I shouldn’t care what other people do, or don’t do. I should only be happy with me … and be thankful for those who care enough to take the time to be there and appreciate the reciprocity.
I’d like to meet the people who AREN’T flawed.
Wait. There AREN’T any. And yes, those who can wear their flaws proudly like badges of honor are the ones I really want to be around.
And you are one of them. Flawed Folks UNITE.
xxx
Wow, for a moment I thought maybe you were inside my head. That insecurity that this ‘charade’ might be up and I will be exposed is something I live with each day – I however manage to also throw out a few FU’s that sound convincing enough to an outsider, but on the inside I am still desperately trying to believe. I hope you find your muse and your belief that you (just as you are) is enough, because I think you’re pretty awesome.
~K
Ah, this puts me in mind of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. Our voices in our heads are SO unkind! WTF? I swear, mine is more vile than AM talk radio. Although as I get older, I get more deaf or distracted (or both) and don’t listen to the voices quite as much.
I think our insecurities have been talking again!
Having other people tell you something and actually believing it within your soul are two different things, so I know it doesn’t help you but you ARE the type of writer so many people can only hope to be.
Nothing I’ve ever written has taken anyone’s breath away, made them cry or given them something to aspire to. You do that.
I’m thinking you (and I) need Lizz Winstead’s self-help book. Remember the one she told us about, called, “Fuck You!”?
What freaks me out is when the mirror talks back to me, but the lips on my face aren’t moving. Pretty trippy stuff.
The mirror and I have a relationship- he keeps his mouth shut and I don’t smash him. It would work better if I couldn’t hear his whispers when the lights go out.
I love your blog. I love your honesty. You inspire me. :) So tell THAT to your mirror.
In fact, this post inspired me to talk to my own mirror. So. Thanks for that. :)
Just wanted to write that I get it. Completely.
Oh, yeah…. and, I think you just did. Write.