The Butcher has decided that he might start looking for a new job in a couple of months. My dad has started a subtle, yet effective, campaign to get us up to Illinois to see their new house.
I get tired of how easily the same old shit sneaks up on me.
Today, I stumbled across something that had my name and “Age: 32” on it and I was like, my god, maybe I’m too old to be still living like this, like I’m still waiting for things to start.
You know what I hate most about me, aside from the crippling insecurity? It’s that I think I feel terrible things much more thoroughly than I feel the good things. I’m terrible about good things. I tuck them away, like one might put a beautiful butterfly in a box, only to take it out later and find that it crumbles to dust when you touch it.
Last year, I worked on something that meant a lot to me. I worked my ass off on it and when the time for accolades came, I didn’t get any. Which is fine, in some regards; it’s the nature of my job. And I don’t know how to graciously accept accolades anyway.
I don’t know where I’m going with this.
To speak in vague terms, something else good is happening with this project and I had to set aside some time recently and draw together the materials so that the person who’s facilitating this good thing–getting some shit you’d think would be on the national historical places list already on there where it belongs–could have some maps and photos she needed for her presentation.
I invisibly facilitate other people’s successes. I’m good at it because I like to see people succeed and I have no ability to imagine myself as successful in their place; I don’t get in the way of the work I do. I’m good at my job because I accept my place as being invisible.
Sometimes I have these moments that feel like I feel when I’m up too high. When I’m up too high, I literally cannot make my body move. I can’t hear anything; it’s like the noise of the world just turns off. It’s like the terror makes me deaf.
Ha, it’s funny. Sometimes I get so mad I can’t hear either. I wonder if that’s a form of synesthesia?
Anyway, I have these moments where I just want to go ahead and fling myself into fear and doubt. I’m suspicious that, if I could just give myself over to it and let myself work through it, I could get over it and get on with things.
But there’s no one here but me to keep things moving. And so I don’t.
I do wonder if I could learn to start invisibly facilitating my own successes.
Here’s what’s bugging me. I don’t feel different than you. I never have. I feel like I must be just like everyone else, except less sure of myself. I can remember when Shug’s cousin took me aside and said “We’ve never known anyone like you. You’re not like anybody else here.” The weight of that “we.” Or when my grandpa told my cousin I was a very weird girl.
Maybe that’s why I never really rebelled–I was always on the outside, somehow.
I don’t know. I say things aren’t different, but they are. Writing makes them different. I used to be able to write wallowing posts where I’d sit here and cry and exorcise all my demons and it’d be hard, but god damn, it’d feel better.
I don’t write like that any more. I don’t know if there aren’t any big demons left to slay or what. Or if we’re just beyond the things I recognize as being problems and kind of drifting out into uncharted territory.
I’m afraid I’m too weird for you.
I’m afraid I’m not good enough for you.
And I’m afraid in saying that that you’re all going to rush in and say nice and supportive things and I won’t know how to respond both because I don’t know how to experience the full weight of good things and also because what’s fucked up in me you can’t fix, even though I really wish you could, and so kindness from others is kind of beside the point.
I didn’t like the cathartic posts, but I liked how they helped me feel better once they were out–like cutting out something rotted. This is more like trying to stab at bugs with a fork. There’s no great revelations, no catharsis, just me and this anxious feeling that I’m doing it wrong.
And I worry that doing it publicly makes it less likely that you will love me. But I worry that, if I don’t do it publicly, I won’t have the guts to do it at all.
So, there you go.
I should probably get a hobby, like drinking myself into a stupor or pressing flowers.