Every day is a new day of wonder in the world
I don’t like opening up about myself. I find the inside of myself quite ugly.
Right now I can feel the resistance to write what is in my heart. I know that it will turn people off. It will change the way I am seen. It makes me uncomfortable and it makes me question — why should I write this?
Am I manipulating a reader by scrawling out my lack of self-worth for all to see? What is the value of sharing “negative” things? (Just cheer up!)
When I think about my “journey” of self-improvement, I often see only the image of myself treading water.
Wasn’t I supposed to get somewhere? Wasn’t I supposed to climb a mountain or ford a mighty stream, demolish dragons and, well, change?
The realization that I am still me — and that I’m always alone — that’s really tough.
Inside this winding cavern of thoughts I often find myself right back to one of those paralyzing dead ends — a thoughtless idiot who really doesn’t deserve love.
You don’t have to comment — oh girl you are perfect beautiful etc. I know intellectually that all people are worthy. Ergo, etc.
When I look at photos of little me, with my green eyes shining, I try to do what Rachel Puckett suggests: treat myself the way that little girl deserves to be treated.
I remember being that little girl exactly, and feeling these same exact things. What has changed?
Every day is a new day of wonder in the world: and sometimes that wonder is stanky black tar pits or the trash can at the dog park. Sometimes that wonder is: how do I get from this minute to the next inside this drying cement of a day with any light inside still lit?
I don’t know what the use is of telling you this except that I promised myself that I’d try to cut closer to the bone. That I wouldn’t hide. That I’d be more than just invisible angry feministy mom.
When I go for the cut, I still feel like I’m missing the body entirely.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t really understand how to feel seen the way I see myself — on good days or bad.
I wonder how to see myself.
I don’t know how to subtract myself from caring what others think. And to keep writing means to always be entangled in that caring.
Zed, I love this confession. I think it rings so true for all of us, and maybe that's the answer to your value question. But, I know, if your mind works like mind, you won't accept such a simple answer. I've increasingly come to question the whole dynamic of the goal of getting somewhere. This constant yearning for something else, something better--it may be good for producing great art, but, wow, it can be rough on the soul. And, that feeling of loneliness you speak of, I think that's what we are all trying to alleviate in some way or another. But, alas, I'm not sure if it can be done. I think there is always a part of us that, no matter how much we want it to be seen, will always be alone. This perfect union, or communion, that we seek, well, I think (or, hope) that maybe that's what heaven is like. Here on earth, I feel like I'm stuck with the tension of trying to accept these conclusions I'm coming to, or continuing to fight against them. Both options require so much energy, and neither get me any closer to the undefined goals that I think I'm wanting to achieve. Life is so tricky. Am I responsible for making it that way? Do I have a choice? I know one thing--communicating with other like minded people has been the closest I've felt to whatever it is I'm looking for....
Thanks for your honesty, Elizabeth. I tend to shy away from anything that deep in my blog - maybe out of laziness. I appreciate your writing!