One of my aims for #TheMagicYear is “stop trying.” There is a need for validation lurking in my subconscious. I’m digging into it and at the root is a lack of certainty. I don’t know that anything exists (including myself) unless it is reflected in a physical, material way. Being prone to anxiety and depression, deciphering intuition from delusion is so tedious a task, I rely on what I can touch, see and feel to determine truth. (Even when I see things, I’m not certain I’m seeing them correctly.) So I’m constantly double-checking; seeking confirmation that I’m right, that I’m real, that I’m portraying myself the way I wish to be seen.
If this sounds exhausting at all, that’s because it is.
When I explained this exhaustion to a friend, she told me to “Stop trying. That’s your problem. Just BE.”
BE what, though?
The sassy, independent free spirit? The astrology loving, yoga posing minimalist? The worrier, so preoccupied with answering life’s larger questions (Why do marriage and children seem like such natural choices for everyone but me? Am I presenting myself in the best possible light? Am I gonna die miserable because I was too stubborn to be vulnerable?) that she misses the important details of everyday life? The humble secretary who asks for approval on minute decisions for fear of making the wrong one? The single, tomboyish homegirl too pragmatic for feelings? The girl who lays in bed, begging her mind to be quiet so she can sleep?
Maybe I’m all these things.
Maybe I’m no “thing,” but a woman clinging to passing phases; afraid she’s not real without a “thing” to hold on to.
[Author’s Note: I promised my readers a book by the end of October. Tomorrow is October 31st. The book will not be ready by then. I should apologize for failing to keep a commitment, but this likely won’t be the last time. My ego doesn’t want you to think I’m flaky, but the truth is: I am. Any contrition on my part would be a farce.
The book is coming, though. It will appear, one day, out of thin air. Like the last Beyoncè album.]