It has been just way, way, too long since I've updated.
When I started Project ME, I thought of journaling as a way to keep myself on track and to have an almost continuous anecdotal account of what I was doing to use in evaluation. I still think of it that way. Well, let's see. I haven't journaled since the day after Christmas, so what does that tell me? Knowing my propensity for avoidance, I would say that I was a) avoiding admitting something, b) avoiding writing in general, c) avoiding moving on, or d) all of the above. Tick tock, class. Which is it? What, you choose d) all of the above. My aren't we clever.
I am avoiding admitting that I have not been mastering anything, unless maybe it's master too much. I haven't been really out of control. I've avoided most of my worst pitfalls. I have not yet eating an entire bag of Lay's Ruffles or consumed my weight in chocolate. I have stayed away from my own form of the crack house, KFC. I haven't been keeping the Sabbath, even by my own lax rules of what that might mean. I haven't been having quiet meals at the table. I have managed to watch very little television (most nights), but to be fair, that's because all my favorite shows have been on hiatus. They come back this week. I haven't journaled, but that much was actually obvious.
Well, there. That took care of avoidance a). I have admitted my sins. Confessions, say the mythical "they" is good for the soul. I guess I do feel a little better about putting it all down in writing.
Now, for avoidance b). I have been avoiding writing in general. What a sad state of affairs that is. I love to write. There is something completely magical about taking your thoughts and dreams and ideas and fantasies and giving them life in such a way that other people could, if they chose, share them with you. It's a conjuring trick and Lord knows I love a good bit of conjuring.
So why would I avoid something that gives me such joy, you may ask? A part of me wants to say because writing is work and I am basically a lazy woman, but I suspect that isn't really me answering. That little bit of negative thinking comes straight from my Mom. She had her own sort of conjuring, I'm afraid. I don't think she meant to do this, I know, were she here, she would deny the intention, but I think my Mom painted me in a negative light because it helped her to feel better about how different we were and much I had veered from the path she had been forced to follow. She saw my natural relunctance, apprehension and shyness and found laziness. She saw my desire to know, to understand things, as being too smart for my own good. She saw my thirst for positive attention as showing off. She saw my creativity as lying. She was my mother, and I loved her, I still do a year after her passing, but she took me and buried me deep inside a golem of self-doubt and self-hatred, and then wrote the magic words, I love you to make it come to life.
What has all that got to do with writing? Writing comes from somewhere deep within. I swear sometimes when I right my mind isn't even a part of what goes down on the paper. It's like a bit of my soul has escaped and jumped right through my fingers and onto the screen. The thing is, whether she meant to or not, my mother, and just about every experience I had growing up, has made me believe with all my heart that anything I enjoy must be wrong, that anything I want this badly cannot be right to have. I don't deserve the good fortune of being able to work magic. I'm simply not good enough. Even as I write those words, "I'm simply not good enough", in an attempt to show how wrong they are, I know, really know they are true. I'm not.
Or, maybe I am.
Yeah, so rather than face the nagging voice that tells me enjoying myself is just wrong, I avoid writing all together. This is one place that I really must learn to say Enough. No, I have to learn to shout it. ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!
So, tht was b).
Lastly, I come to c) avoiding moving on. My therapist tells me that I have catastrophic thinking. Everything is all or nothing for me. This is true. I have been fighting the urge to just give up, pack it in, call it a day... pick a metaphor and run with it. I started this as a year long experiment on purpose. I knew if I gave it no timeline that I'd quit the moment I failed to live up to the glory of the first few days. I almost did any way. So now the challenge is to remember that even if I'm not doing well at my own goals, even if I haven't mastered enough in any part of my life, I still have months to go before I can stop trying. It's harder than I thought it would be and I'm finding that I'm not really sure who that person is inside the layers of baked on clay. I wonder, when she comes out and walks the world unemcombered for the first time, what she'll be like. I hope I like her. I hope she'll remember to be kind to me.