*tap tap* Hello? Is this thing on? Is anyone listening?
Ah, there you are, my devoted friends. You know I love you. I know you love me, for whatever silly, misguided reason. I'm grateful for that. But sometimes, knowing you're there, reading the product of the union between silly, random thought and unreliable motivation, is enough for me.
I can't let it be enough.
I know, I know. This whole process was supposed to be me moving away from my Delusions of Grandeur, coming to terms with my life as it really is, and having it all be good enough for me. Unfortunately, there's a fine line between contentment and complacency, and I've far too often lately found myself on the wrong side of that line. I've moved from the small pond, in which I was a big fish, into a much bigger pond -- but instead of swimming faster and further in order to catch food and find sunlight, I've found a small corner of the bigger pond in which to play my big-fish games. I'm still only talking to certain people, and I'm still scared to venture outside of my warm, safe, cozy little comfort zone.
Is this personal growth, I ask ya?
I do not mean to come off with a lecturing attitude. I think the best thing for me to do at this point is remove myself from the pool for a while. The problem with social media of any form is it gives you the impression you have more friends than you really do. Granted, you may amuse the people you meet in the digital ether, and they may amuse you, but this is not real life -- no matter how you may sometimes wish it was. In that digital ether, I'm cute and funny and effortlessly intelligent. In real life, I'm painfully awkward, so shy it comes off as rude, and not good at facing my problems.
That, my friends, is where I have to focus my attention now. I have to find the world again, and really stand in it so I can assess my true mass, get a sense of my real dimensions, and find contentment and satisfaction in that. I've got to pull my head out of the barrel into which I've been shouting and see what's going on out on the sidewalk.
I may return soon. If it's very soon, though, you'll have to infer from my presence that I've given up on making my "real" life adequate for my ruined, complicated ego. Maybe that's not so bad, but I have to be able to say for myself that I tried.
Until then, some of you know where to find me. If you need me, please reach out to me out there. I'll have my phone nearby.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Fine Art of Breaking Down in Public, or An Open Letter to A Friend Who Never Was
Dear Almost-Friend,
Sometimes, people have to lock themselves in their mental basements with their demons to figure things out for themselves. This is not fun. This is not easy. But this is something that everyone has to do for themselves. Nobody who cares about you can drag you into your basement. Everyone who cares about you is absolutely willing to drag you out of your basement. But in the end, you have to remember, dear Friend, that this is a rite of passage, this is an unalienable part of being human. You have to face off with your fears.
In the meantime, all of the people who want to save you -- the crusaders in their white cloaks carrying gleaming swords and shields -- aren't doing you any favors. Yes, it's nice to surround yourself with people who say they love you and will tell you what you want to hear, all in the name of friendship. It's easy to forget that all relationships are built on give and take, even if the forgetting is only temporary. Maybe it's convenient to have these fans who adore you -- but be careful of ever saying they adore you unconditionally. That's never true. All things wear conditions, Friend.
But as I said, they're not really helping you. They're flattering you and making you think you have more power than you actually have. This won't help you when it comes time for you to truly face off against that demon-infested basement. You'll realize the sword you're carrying is made of tin, and the shield is glass, and you will again wail for help and postponement of the inevitable.
Those who really want to help you will do it for their own reasons. They will force you downstairs and lock you in with your demons. You will be forced to acknowledge that you are not as smart, professional, or capable as you thought. You aren't beautiful. You aren't responsible. You're as flawed as everyone else. You've hidden behind labels for your dysfunction for a long time, Friend -- but we all have labeled and unlabeled dysfunctions. Yours isn't better than ours. Yours isn't even that rare or special.
But we all have business to attend to. We all have everyday life we have to take care of. Dropping out of life and your responsibilities isn't an option, unless you're willing to face the consequences. For most of us, it's loss of job, companionship, and livelihood. For you, who have made your own job and worn a badge of pride in your stated lack of need for companionship, this isn't a problem, really. However, maybe now you're starting to realize that the consequences will catch up with you just the same.
In the end, your refusal to face your demons or be a grown-up is your problem, of course. Everyone's entitled to their own personal party full of stupid mistakes they'll regret later and asshattery everyone wishes they'd someday leave behind.
When you start to force your drama on other people, however -- well, that's where I have to draw the line. You may think your silence is a great way to keep your breakdown from becoming public. That would be true if it was just a lack of whining about your circumstances and asking for your crusaders to come to your defense. Unfortunately, your breakdown has become very public to those of us who know you and have hitched our wagons to your drowning star. In the end:
You have no right to drag people down with you into your basement.
These are your demons. You have to face them alone. Only your true friends will tell you that, and still expect a phone call in the morning.
So there you have it. I've unhitched my wagon from you, because I've had enough of you making your common dysfunction much more than it is in your own mind, and your lies, and your avoidance. Surround yourself with crusaders if you want.
I still expect a phone call in the morning.
Sometimes, people have to lock themselves in their mental basements with their demons to figure things out for themselves. This is not fun. This is not easy. But this is something that everyone has to do for themselves. Nobody who cares about you can drag you into your basement. Everyone who cares about you is absolutely willing to drag you out of your basement. But in the end, you have to remember, dear Friend, that this is a rite of passage, this is an unalienable part of being human. You have to face off with your fears.
In the meantime, all of the people who want to save you -- the crusaders in their white cloaks carrying gleaming swords and shields -- aren't doing you any favors. Yes, it's nice to surround yourself with people who say they love you and will tell you what you want to hear, all in the name of friendship. It's easy to forget that all relationships are built on give and take, even if the forgetting is only temporary. Maybe it's convenient to have these fans who adore you -- but be careful of ever saying they adore you unconditionally. That's never true. All things wear conditions, Friend.
But as I said, they're not really helping you. They're flattering you and making you think you have more power than you actually have. This won't help you when it comes time for you to truly face off against that demon-infested basement. You'll realize the sword you're carrying is made of tin, and the shield is glass, and you will again wail for help and postponement of the inevitable.
Those who really want to help you will do it for their own reasons. They will force you downstairs and lock you in with your demons. You will be forced to acknowledge that you are not as smart, professional, or capable as you thought. You aren't beautiful. You aren't responsible. You're as flawed as everyone else. You've hidden behind labels for your dysfunction for a long time, Friend -- but we all have labeled and unlabeled dysfunctions. Yours isn't better than ours. Yours isn't even that rare or special.
But we all have business to attend to. We all have everyday life we have to take care of. Dropping out of life and your responsibilities isn't an option, unless you're willing to face the consequences. For most of us, it's loss of job, companionship, and livelihood. For you, who have made your own job and worn a badge of pride in your stated lack of need for companionship, this isn't a problem, really. However, maybe now you're starting to realize that the consequences will catch up with you just the same.
In the end, your refusal to face your demons or be a grown-up is your problem, of course. Everyone's entitled to their own personal party full of stupid mistakes they'll regret later and asshattery everyone wishes they'd someday leave behind.
When you start to force your drama on other people, however -- well, that's where I have to draw the line. You may think your silence is a great way to keep your breakdown from becoming public. That would be true if it was just a lack of whining about your circumstances and asking for your crusaders to come to your defense. Unfortunately, your breakdown has become very public to those of us who know you and have hitched our wagons to your drowning star. In the end:
You have no right to drag people down with you into your basement.
These are your demons. You have to face them alone. Only your true friends will tell you that, and still expect a phone call in the morning.
So there you have it. I've unhitched my wagon from you, because I've had enough of you making your common dysfunction much more than it is in your own mind, and your lies, and your avoidance. Surround yourself with crusaders if you want.
I still expect a phone call in the morning.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Talking to Strangers
Last night I accompanied my husband, who is a brilliant bass player, to a nightclub at which he and his band were performing for the night. After the predictable delay to allow sports fans to finish watching the game on television, the night got started off properly. I took photos. I'm not a photographer. My spouse is not only the musician in our little family, but he's also our photographer. Unfortunately, he can't play bass and take photos at the same time, so the duty fell to me for the evening. Out of dozens of shots taken, I got maybe half a dozen usable photos.
The gig went well after the delay. The band had great energy and the crowd liked them. During the first break, my dear husband found his way back to me, and some ladies from the next table came over to me to talk to us.
Cue the anxiety.
I think it's one of the strangest truths about writers. We love the art of writing for many reasons, but not least of all because it, of all arts, is as close to anonymous as art can be. Many writers even choose to hide behind an assumed identity when they publish their work so they don't have to go through what seems inevitable and maybe even pleasurable to many other forms of artist: meeting the public.
Take my husband, for instance: His art form is the most public form of art there is. Some of his fellow musicians perform before crowds that number in the tens of thousands, and the live performance may be broadcast for millions of people to see. Even actors don't have that sort of unrehearsed, unedited instant saturation. Most musicians not only enjoy the saturation of attention, they thrive on it, and a musician in his or her element, on stage on a good night with a receptive audience, is a fulfilled creature. I feel awful for those musicians who are like me and hate crowds.
At any rate, as we sat there together with these two very friendly women engaging us in conversation, I started to feel nauseous. As long as we talked about my husband's band, though, I could cope. I'm proud of him and have no problem demonstrating that pride. At one point, however, my darling spouse deflected the conversation to me and the fact that I'm a writer. Two guileless, delighted faces brought the force of their combined attention to bear on me. I stammered and tried to guide the conversation back to the real star of the moment, the man sitting next to me. He wasn't having it.
So here I was, staring down the barrel of one of the scariest things a writer can deal with: talking about themselves.
"What's the book about?"
"How do you come up with your ideas?"
"How long did it take to write the book?"
"Would you sign my copy?"
The last question is the easiest, but not for the reasons you'd think. It's because it's like signing the check at the end of the meal; once my signature is affixed to the book, the process is over, right?
I know I'm expected to be witty and engaging. I know I should be able to gush and glow about my work and demonstrate to readers that they can trust me with their precious and finite reading time. I shouldn't be broken like this and incapable of reaching out to even the other friends of my husband's band. I sit in my solitary confinement and watch, beaming with pride, but I don't approach people.
Maybe this isn't true of all writers. Maybe I'm hoping that other people understand my violent aversion to all of the gracious politics of publicity.
In the end, I did manage to stammer out the premise of CORONA, and I promised to sign copies when and if these worthy and wonderful ladies chose to buy my book. I gave them business cards (a prop I'd invented to spread the word of my work without having to be personally present) and gave them my thanks for their attention. Then I left the gig before the second part began because I felt exhausted and completely worn out.
The attention of the public is like spinach to Popeye for some artists, but for me, it's like Kryptonite to Superman.
I can't ask you to sympathize. Only a few people can do that. I only ask for you to not hate me if you meet me and find me to be insufferably rude, awkward, or impolite. I don't mean it. I want you to understand that if you approach me about my work, I'm incredibly grateful, but unrehearsed in the fine art of adequately expressing my gratitude.
The gig went well after the delay. The band had great energy and the crowd liked them. During the first break, my dear husband found his way back to me, and some ladies from the next table came over to me to talk to us.
Cue the anxiety.
I think it's one of the strangest truths about writers. We love the art of writing for many reasons, but not least of all because it, of all arts, is as close to anonymous as art can be. Many writers even choose to hide behind an assumed identity when they publish their work so they don't have to go through what seems inevitable and maybe even pleasurable to many other forms of artist: meeting the public.
Take my husband, for instance: His art form is the most public form of art there is. Some of his fellow musicians perform before crowds that number in the tens of thousands, and the live performance may be broadcast for millions of people to see. Even actors don't have that sort of unrehearsed, unedited instant saturation. Most musicians not only enjoy the saturation of attention, they thrive on it, and a musician in his or her element, on stage on a good night with a receptive audience, is a fulfilled creature. I feel awful for those musicians who are like me and hate crowds.
At any rate, as we sat there together with these two very friendly women engaging us in conversation, I started to feel nauseous. As long as we talked about my husband's band, though, I could cope. I'm proud of him and have no problem demonstrating that pride. At one point, however, my darling spouse deflected the conversation to me and the fact that I'm a writer. Two guileless, delighted faces brought the force of their combined attention to bear on me. I stammered and tried to guide the conversation back to the real star of the moment, the man sitting next to me. He wasn't having it.
So here I was, staring down the barrel of one of the scariest things a writer can deal with: talking about themselves.
"What's the book about?"
"How do you come up with your ideas?"
"How long did it take to write the book?"
"Would you sign my copy?"
The last question is the easiest, but not for the reasons you'd think. It's because it's like signing the check at the end of the meal; once my signature is affixed to the book, the process is over, right?
I know I'm expected to be witty and engaging. I know I should be able to gush and glow about my work and demonstrate to readers that they can trust me with their precious and finite reading time. I shouldn't be broken like this and incapable of reaching out to even the other friends of my husband's band. I sit in my solitary confinement and watch, beaming with pride, but I don't approach people.
Maybe this isn't true of all writers. Maybe I'm hoping that other people understand my violent aversion to all of the gracious politics of publicity.
In the end, I did manage to stammer out the premise of CORONA, and I promised to sign copies when and if these worthy and wonderful ladies chose to buy my book. I gave them business cards (a prop I'd invented to spread the word of my work without having to be personally present) and gave them my thanks for their attention. Then I left the gig before the second part began because I felt exhausted and completely worn out.
The attention of the public is like spinach to Popeye for some artists, but for me, it's like Kryptonite to Superman.
I can't ask you to sympathize. Only a few people can do that. I only ask for you to not hate me if you meet me and find me to be insufferably rude, awkward, or impolite. I don't mean it. I want you to understand that if you approach me about my work, I'm incredibly grateful, but unrehearsed in the fine art of adequately expressing my gratitude.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Reprehensible Personality Traits -- or 2011 Projects
I'm going to cut to the chase here, and list my personality improvement projects for 2011 without flowery preamble.
- I have to find a way to stop hating pregnant women and resenting their happy announcements. Resenting other people PERIOD isn't cool.
- There's got to be an anger cap around here somewhere. My fury is starting to do awful things to my blood pressure.
- It's time to stop being alienated from my family, already. I miss them too much.
- Letting other people dictate the satisfaction I find in my writing is the Old Me. The New Me shouldn't allow such nonsense. So, time to write again and not be terrified of the process.
None of this used to be a problem. This all started last year, and in order for me to fully slam the door on 2010, I have to throw its horrible children out with it.
Wish me luck, please.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Authenticity and Asshattery
I was told recently that I've become too "dark." I don't know what the speaker was implying that I had become too "dark" for; was I now no longer eligible to wear a costume at Disney and pretend to be Snow White? Did I no longer qualify for the Glee Club, the Lollipop Guild, or the Boosters? Should I collapse under the pathos of it all and smear on the kohl as a card-carrying member of the Goth Brigade?
It hardly matters. I know exactly what this person was getting at, however. To be perfectly honest, I was actually kind of afraid of getting this message, but that's all been a part of what caused my decline.
I have decades of practice at being inauthentic. I often find myself assuming the mannerisms, colloquialisms, and even the regional accents of the people around me. I study people to determine what kind of person they like best, and I work very hard at becoming that kind of person, just so I can be liked -- maybe even loved.
I have not been authentic. When my heart hurt, I didn't share it. When my life sucked, I dressed it up in roses and paraded around like nothing was wrong. All that toxicity doesn't leave the bloodstream just because you choose to not acknowledge it. It backs up instead like raw sewage, and sooner or later the bilious nastiness of it will infect everything. That's what happened to me last year. I worked so hard at being a lovable person for so long that I ignored the rats and the ants and all the other signs that my picnic wasn't real.
2010 was hell. I tried for the first half of it to still wear the brave face, to pretend like I was maintaining, and that was far, far from the truth. Some wonderful things happened in 2010, but the number of awful things that happened sent me reeling and made it almost impossible to appreciate the good things, in the end. I would never wish that hell on anyone -- not friend, not enemy, not soulless Vulcan, not perfect stranger, not willing sacrifice.
But one thing all of that taught me was that I truly do not care anymore what anyone thinks of me. It doesn't matter, in the end. People will either love me or they won't. That's their business. I have my list of the people I would really rather keep in the loved-ones camp, and I know how I feel about them, but I can't force anyone to love me, and I can't dress up my true self in inoffensive costumes just to make it easier on people. I won't hold my tongue for an inordinately long time just so I don't seem like an ogre-slash-bitch-slash-meanie. This is who I am; if this person is too dark for you, well, there are tons of sunshine-y people in the world -- take one of them, and leave me alone. When I shine, it'll be from real, authentic joy. When I sulk, it'll be from true, authentic pressure.
Just be sure that the next person you choose to be part of your Happy Days Parade isn't wearing a mask of their own.
Also, just so you know: here are the things that will make me sulky, maybe even stinging and violent:
That's pretty much it. Every other moment will be crammed to bursting with as much sunshine and good will and jolly laughter as I can manage without barfing over the asshattery of it. No matter what mood you find me in, however, rest assured that, finally, it's real.
It hardly matters. I know exactly what this person was getting at, however. To be perfectly honest, I was actually kind of afraid of getting this message, but that's all been a part of what caused my decline.
I have decades of practice at being inauthentic. I often find myself assuming the mannerisms, colloquialisms, and even the regional accents of the people around me. I study people to determine what kind of person they like best, and I work very hard at becoming that kind of person, just so I can be liked -- maybe even loved.
I have not been authentic. When my heart hurt, I didn't share it. When my life sucked, I dressed it up in roses and paraded around like nothing was wrong. All that toxicity doesn't leave the bloodstream just because you choose to not acknowledge it. It backs up instead like raw sewage, and sooner or later the bilious nastiness of it will infect everything. That's what happened to me last year. I worked so hard at being a lovable person for so long that I ignored the rats and the ants and all the other signs that my picnic wasn't real.
2010 was hell. I tried for the first half of it to still wear the brave face, to pretend like I was maintaining, and that was far, far from the truth. Some wonderful things happened in 2010, but the number of awful things that happened sent me reeling and made it almost impossible to appreciate the good things, in the end. I would never wish that hell on anyone -- not friend, not enemy, not soulless Vulcan, not perfect stranger, not willing sacrifice.
But one thing all of that taught me was that I truly do not care anymore what anyone thinks of me. It doesn't matter, in the end. People will either love me or they won't. That's their business. I have my list of the people I would really rather keep in the loved-ones camp, and I know how I feel about them, but I can't force anyone to love me, and I can't dress up my true self in inoffensive costumes just to make it easier on people. I won't hold my tongue for an inordinately long time just so I don't seem like an ogre-slash-bitch-slash-meanie. This is who I am; if this person is too dark for you, well, there are tons of sunshine-y people in the world -- take one of them, and leave me alone. When I shine, it'll be from real, authentic joy. When I sulk, it'll be from true, authentic pressure.
Just be sure that the next person you choose to be part of your Happy Days Parade isn't wearing a mask of their own.
Also, just so you know: here are the things that will make me sulky, maybe even stinging and violent:
- Disrespect. I work hard to respect everyone I find intelligent, quirky, and in some way like me. If you disrespect me, you are done in my world.
- Disrespect directed at my loved ones. Like the first bullet point, but far more so. At this stage, not only am I dark, but also courtesy breaks down, and my tongue becomes sharp and homicidal.
- The loss of a loved one, either by choice or not. That's never fun. Even if I cut someone from my flock for my own sake, it'll smart for a while.
- Writer's block -- or the Desert of the Soul. This is actually the opening strains of the Aria of Madness; if I don't record the voices in my head on paper, they grow louder and louder until -- well, let's just not find out.
- Fear. There are many things to fear, and I'm conquering all the ones I can, but I can't get rid of them all.
- Weakness. You know, realizing I once again ate too much or took things too seriously. My process is a steep hill, and climbing it is exhausting.
- Choice. Sometimes it's good to wallow in your own darkness. Well, for my kind of person it is, anyway.
That's pretty much it. Every other moment will be crammed to bursting with as much sunshine and good will and jolly laughter as I can manage without barfing over the asshattery of it. No matter what mood you find me in, however, rest assured that, finally, it's real.
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Deconstruction of MJ
Hello. My name is Mary Johnson Heiser, and I'm addicted to the need to make of myself more than I am.
We can get into all the reasons I am this way: my striving, status-hungry mother, my family who spoiled me and convinced me at a young age that I was someone special destined for greatness, my awareness that I'm not beautiful, so I'd better make up for it in other ways. But in the end, it doesn't really matter. I am addicted to inflated self-image, to self-importance, and it's all just an attempt to tile over the weak spots in the floor of my soul. In the end, when the strength and beauty of that veneer was tested (like it was this year), it didn't hold, and all of my illusions went crashing through that weakened floor and tumbled me into the darkness of my basement.
Ugh, that metaphor was redolent of cheap writing. My apologies.
Anyway, I've tried several things over the past year to get a grip and pull myself out of this basement, all while trying to deny the basement even exists. I didn't want to look into the honest mirror and acknowledge that I am not special, I'm hardly even important. Unfortunately, every worthy human life has to start at that benchmark. Accept that you are human, flawed, mortal, and will someday die, then make something of what you have.
I did not start where everyone else started. I was a holy relic once, carried with the same reverence and treated with the same awe-hushed care. I was barely allowed to learn to walk. I was worshiped for my cuteness and I was told repeatedly I had a great destiny. Who can deny that?
Even so, something inside me knew better, and thus began the deterioration of the floor in the chapel of my mind. My doubts ate through the strength of it and undermined any small victory I experienced. I couldn't laugh at myself, and I detested any joke made at my expense, because it only highlighted that rapidly decomposing floor. I told people I was clumsy and forgetful (which I am), but only because I was masquerading as a human being, and I noticed that all humans needed flaws to acknowledge. I did not allow any allegation of fault or less-than-worthiness in to the awareness of the Superego. I searched for beauty in my face, grace and elegance in my form, and when I failed to find it I only said that physical beauty was an illusion.
I glorified all of the things that made me imperfect, then. I was infertile, so I said that God didn't make a mistake when that trait was assigned to me: I could be Auntie Mame, I could be a world traveler, I could be an accomplished, if childless, grand dame with no secret terrors of child-rearing in my heart. I was afraid of men, but I hung out my shingle and offered dating advice to my poor, confused friends in bad relationships, holding out my single-woman status as a badge of pride in my refusal to settle for less than perfect. I was haughty and proud of nothing.
This year, I've been forced to look hard into that unforgiving mirror that's located in everyone's basement. I see myself now as a lazy, fat, spoiled, and selfish girl, railing at the world to tell her how brilliant and perfect she is so she doesn't have to face the reality that she's neither of these things. Even when I'm told this, I don't believe it because I know it isn't true -- but I want the world to tell me anyway, over and over. Maybe the cacophony of adulation will drown out my self-doubts.
That doesn't happen. It only makes the illusion weaker. Everyone has to start with the realization that they aren't special, they are just another human being crawling over the surface of this world and scratching symbols in the dirt.
Because I never started at the basemark of this understanding, because I never allowed it to be a part of me, I was ill-prepared for the things that knocked me off my flimsy pedestal and sent me crashing through the floor and into the basement. Every attempt I've made to escape the basement this year has been unsuccessful -- until now.
Even so, I am learning to appreciate what's happened to me. I needed this year. I needed the violent lessons, the broken promises, the heartbreak and the denial of ego. I needed to find closed doors all around me and the word "No" stamped on each one of them, barring the way to the fulfillment of my selfish, childish demands. I needed to sit in the dark in my basement, alone and un-rescued, and I needed to pay attention to the small voice whispering in my head this one simple secret:
You are common. And there is nothing wrong with that.
I'm still not 100% healed, but I gotta tell ya, I'm getting there.
So hello, fellow humans. I apologize for being a douchebag. I promise, I will try harder to be less of one.
We can get into all the reasons I am this way: my striving, status-hungry mother, my family who spoiled me and convinced me at a young age that I was someone special destined for greatness, my awareness that I'm not beautiful, so I'd better make up for it in other ways. But in the end, it doesn't really matter. I am addicted to inflated self-image, to self-importance, and it's all just an attempt to tile over the weak spots in the floor of my soul. In the end, when the strength and beauty of that veneer was tested (like it was this year), it didn't hold, and all of my illusions went crashing through that weakened floor and tumbled me into the darkness of my basement.
Ugh, that metaphor was redolent of cheap writing. My apologies.
Anyway, I've tried several things over the past year to get a grip and pull myself out of this basement, all while trying to deny the basement even exists. I didn't want to look into the honest mirror and acknowledge that I am not special, I'm hardly even important. Unfortunately, every worthy human life has to start at that benchmark. Accept that you are human, flawed, mortal, and will someday die, then make something of what you have.
I did not start where everyone else started. I was a holy relic once, carried with the same reverence and treated with the same awe-hushed care. I was barely allowed to learn to walk. I was worshiped for my cuteness and I was told repeatedly I had a great destiny. Who can deny that?
Even so, something inside me knew better, and thus began the deterioration of the floor in the chapel of my mind. My doubts ate through the strength of it and undermined any small victory I experienced. I couldn't laugh at myself, and I detested any joke made at my expense, because it only highlighted that rapidly decomposing floor. I told people I was clumsy and forgetful (which I am), but only because I was masquerading as a human being, and I noticed that all humans needed flaws to acknowledge. I did not allow any allegation of fault or less-than-worthiness in to the awareness of the Superego. I searched for beauty in my face, grace and elegance in my form, and when I failed to find it I only said that physical beauty was an illusion.
I glorified all of the things that made me imperfect, then. I was infertile, so I said that God didn't make a mistake when that trait was assigned to me: I could be Auntie Mame, I could be a world traveler, I could be an accomplished, if childless, grand dame with no secret terrors of child-rearing in my heart. I was afraid of men, but I hung out my shingle and offered dating advice to my poor, confused friends in bad relationships, holding out my single-woman status as a badge of pride in my refusal to settle for less than perfect. I was haughty and proud of nothing.
This year, I've been forced to look hard into that unforgiving mirror that's located in everyone's basement. I see myself now as a lazy, fat, spoiled, and selfish girl, railing at the world to tell her how brilliant and perfect she is so she doesn't have to face the reality that she's neither of these things. Even when I'm told this, I don't believe it because I know it isn't true -- but I want the world to tell me anyway, over and over. Maybe the cacophony of adulation will drown out my self-doubts.
That doesn't happen. It only makes the illusion weaker. Everyone has to start with the realization that they aren't special, they are just another human being crawling over the surface of this world and scratching symbols in the dirt.
Because I never started at the basemark of this understanding, because I never allowed it to be a part of me, I was ill-prepared for the things that knocked me off my flimsy pedestal and sent me crashing through the floor and into the basement. Every attempt I've made to escape the basement this year has been unsuccessful -- until now.
Even so, I am learning to appreciate what's happened to me. I needed this year. I needed the violent lessons, the broken promises, the heartbreak and the denial of ego. I needed to find closed doors all around me and the word "No" stamped on each one of them, barring the way to the fulfillment of my selfish, childish demands. I needed to sit in the dark in my basement, alone and un-rescued, and I needed to pay attention to the small voice whispering in my head this one simple secret:
You are common. And there is nothing wrong with that.
I'm still not 100% healed, but I gotta tell ya, I'm getting there.
So hello, fellow humans. I apologize for being a douchebag. I promise, I will try harder to be less of one.
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