Category: Personal Development

Autobiography · Personal Development

Guts

Ruby Pipes17 Comments
"climbing." © Michael Pollak, 2013. CC BY 2.0.
“climbing.” © Michael Pollak, 2013. CC BY 2.0.

At some point, I had to finish my book. Had to put down my pen and wrap the whole thing up. Submit my final drafts and walk away. It was a project that didn’t get to go unfinished. That’s what happens when you set a release date.

My stomach is still in knots every time someone tells me their copy arrived in the mail. I’m sure there are things I could have done better. Positive they’ll find all the flaws in my work and be upset they spent their money on it. But the project is done and I have to learn to move on. Have to let good enough be good enough.

But it’s made me wonder what I could have done if I pushed just a little harder. If I was more willing to take a chance. More okay with letting go of the idea it could be perfect. To risk not making the deadline and publish something I was genuinely scared of. It’s like I ran as fast as I needed to run to win the race, but not as fast as I could have. How many times have I cut myself short just because I knew my previous limit? All the times I did what I had to do to get an A, but never wondered what would happen if I pushed further.

When things turn out to be easier than I thought they would, I don’t try to make them harder. When I succeed easily where other people struggle, I don’t try to find the point where I’d be challenged. Even with this blog, I’ve found the safe spot to sit with being vulnerable, but not completely open. I write about the more comfortable scary things and push the rest into journals.

But I don’t want to do it like that anymore. I want my projects to make me uncomfortable. To terrify me. I want to make running plans, and book ideas, and blog posts, and commitments that I honestly don’t know if I can finish. And then I want to do them anyway.

I am sick of being comfortable. Of living up to it all the time. I’m sick of knowing I can do the things I set out to do. I am sick of not having the guts to find out if my dreams are tougher than me. I am sick of only standing at the bottom of hills I know I can run up.

I’m ready to do something mesmerizing. I’m ready to dazzle. I’m ready to stop toying around with the easy, the doable, the fragments of sparkle. I am ready to be valiant.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development

Growing Pains

Ruby Pipes12 Comments

“Growing up!” © Craig Sunter, 2015. CC BY-ND 2.0.
I’ve been pushing out blog posts like splinters. Only when necessary. Other than that, I’ve just been editing and pretending I’m not a writer at all.

My book release opened up a big can of imposter syndrome on me. Now I feel like everything I write is bullshit. Like the whole thing is bullshit and I’m fooling everyone into thinking I’m a writer. It feels slimy, deceitful. It feels like the whole book is a trick. Maybe that’s just because I’m scared of it. Scared of it failing. Scared of it not doing anything at all.

But I did it anyway. I’m terrified of it and I did it anyway. That counts for something. That counts for a hell of a lot, actually. So there’s that. I can look myself in the mirror and say that even though I was afraid, I did it. And I don’t do that much. Even though I wanted to take it all back, I didn’t. And I don’t do that much, either, but now I do.

This is a new skill in my arsenal. I do things that make me want to dig my heels in and shake my head. To be that person feels like summiting a mountain. Because that’s where all the good stuff is, isn’t it? All the little juicy bits in life hide behind the big dogs, the darkened closet doors, the high heights. So maybe it’s okay to be scared. Maybe it’s okay to be a little catatonic when I think about all the things going on in my life. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that’s where the goodness lies.

If that’s true, then everything is going just fine. And that’s a thought I hadn’t considered yet. That maybe there is something beautiful in hiding under the blankets. Maybe it’s not always a sign that we’re broken. That we’re hurting. But that we’re pushing. Growing pains.

I remember them from when I was a kid. Legs that felt like they were ripping themselves apart. And there was nothing to do about it. I just had to wait it out. Had to get excited that it meant I would be bigger one day. And that’s what this is, too. We can get excited that we’re growing, that we’re changing. We can hurt. We can feel it. But that doesn’t mean that anything bad is happening. That doesn’t mean that we are regressing. All it means is that it hurts. But it won’t forever. I promise. Shhh.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development · Poetry · Writing

New Book!

Ruby Pipes18 Comments

06
Holy smokes, today’s the day, y’all. The digital and paper copies of my brand new book, Unrailed, are now available for purchase on Amazon.
 
Recently, I told you all about this collection and how proud I am of it. Today, I thought I’d share a selection from it. An earlier version of this piece first appeared on one of my favorite blogs, Running on Sober. It was also my first piece to be featured on Freshly Pressed.
 
I hope you enjoy this sneak peek into Unrailed. If so, please consider picking up a copy.
 
Thanks,
Ruby ❤
 

Summertime Sobriety
 
At least once during the course of any given day I’m going to think, “This is it. This is when I relapse.”
 
Maybe it’s when I’m walking home from work. The sun kissing my shoulders and I’m not sure if I have anyone to come home to yet. Maybe it’s when we’ve closed up the office and my colleagues have gone out to bars or met up for dinner dates. Maybe it’s when I’m taking my lunch at the park and everyone has their toes in the grass, a beer in their hand. Those quiet little moments that make me feel like I don’t belong anywhere sneak up on me.
 
A pint of lager in her hand, she asks me, “Does it bother you when I drink around you? I mean, you’ve never said anything, so I assume not, but I figured I should ask or something…” Her voice trails off as I press my lips to one side and nod in appreciation.
 
“Nah. I mean, I made the choice to be here and I knew y’all would be drinking. It doesn’t bother me.” And it’s not a lie. At least, I need it not to be. It’s true that I can always just turn down the invitation to these outings. But while we’re talking about it, I’m playing out what my relapse is going to look like.
 
It’s going to be a summer day, just like this one. Just warm enough for a dress and cowboy boots. A little bit of cloud cover, so sunglasses are an option, not a necessity. The sidewalk cafés are going to be full of smiling people just off work. Everyone eating two-for-one tacos and taking shots of tequila. I’ll have had a moderate day. Not particularly awful or stressful or even interesting.
 
I’ll lock up and start walking home. Wonder what Mason is working on, if he’s home, how his day was. Flip through my phone to see if anyone sent an invitation that didn’t start with, “I know you don’t drink, but…” Brush my fingertips along the mortar between the bricks of buildings.
 
It will occur to me how exhausted I am. How tired I am of saying, “No, thanks. I don’t drink.” Or maybe lacking the motivation to even say that, and instead just shaking my head, hoping they don’t press. Tired of feeling like I’m living on a completely different plane of existence than everyone I work with or befriend.
 
So sick of how during summertime the living is supposed to be easy, but only because everyone has a frosty, boozy beverage in hand. Everything will start to feel so unfathomably big again. The unbearable heaviness of sobriety. A lifetime of excluding myself from the things other people have no problem with. I’ll take a deep breath, I’ll peek over my shoulder, and I’ll whisper, “I can’t do this.”
 
Then I’ll duck into a corner store and buy a bottle of bourbon and a pack of cigarettes. Walk down to the lake or the park under the freeway and find a bench. Put my headphones in and blast an album that tugs at my heart and makes me feel like punching through walls. And I’ll sit there and I’ll drink and I’ll smoke and repeat to myself over and over again, “You knew you couldn’t do this. You knew you couldn’t do this. You knew…” It will take me hours to work up the courage to go home again.
 
But that day wasn’t today. Today I ordered club soda with muddled lime instead. Today I sat on the patio of the dive bar next to the office and I listened to my colleagues laugh. Today I got through it. Tomorrow I’ll get through it again.