We know these feelings. We recognize them. We remember just how to scream into pillows and sob on staircases. We’ve been here often. We’ll return before we’re ready.
At dinner Mark stops me when I say, “I think I’ll be fine.” He holds steady until I meet his eyes.
“No. There is no ‘think’,” he says gruffly, “I know you’ll be fine. Better than fine. I know it.”
I feel almost guilty for believing him. For acknowledging the fact this is just another one of those moments we go through, that go through us. That we always walk away from. Every time.
Over and over I repeat the story. Each time becoming further removed from it. Until it’s nothing but a monologue I recite when prompted. Something I can put down and walk away from. Like the dress I threw in the trash because I was wearing it when Mason told me he wanted a divorce. Pretending I could separate myself from the statement by separating myself from the clothing.
No, it may not be that easy, but it is similar, isn’t it? We hand the words off to anyone who will listen, keeping only a tiny piece of them in a coat pocket to be discovered next season. And bit by bit time softens the edges of everything. Staircases worn down after thousands of years of footsteps. We do not remember what they looked like when they were new. That is not what makes them precious.
Before I really know what’s happening I find myself on craigslist. Job hunting. Not for any reason in particular. It’s not a necessity. I just want something to do besides writing. Because writing is hard and working for someone else would be easy.
I fantasize about having a boss, about making coffee again, about learning to redesign an old website. I daydream about working in retail, about employee discounts, about clocking in. I catch myself wishing someone would come into my room and tell me how to spend my time. A paycheck to show I’m contributing something. A good answer to the, “So what do you do?” question.
It’s the same struggle I’ve faced for years. The same valley I’ve found myself in again and again when my writing gets scary and uncomfortable. I see it stretching out in front of me, all introspection and vulnerability. And instead of trudging forward into it, I want to turn tail and run.
So many pieces of partially finished projects scattered on the floor that I feel like I never get anything done. It doesn’t build into anything. It’s just a thin coating. I have created no mountains, no mole hills. I haven’t stayed committed, haven’t buckled down hard enough to build. I have done the easy thing instead.
And I’m tired of that. Tired of taking the easy way out. The easy way in. Tired of not living up to the potential my mom keeps telling me I have. Tired of making excuses for why I haven’t done this or that or stayed interested long enough for things to really pan out. I’m tired of committing half-heartedly and then pretending I don’t care when nothing happens.
I want to make big goals. I want to accomplish big things. I want to stop worrying so much about what I think other people expect of me. I want to do the deep digging and find out what it is I’m really after. Because I have my suspicions that it does not involve a nine-to-five job in an office.
I know it doesn’t.
The things I build my dreams out of are written words published in places other than this blog. They’re longer form stories that I spend weeks revising. They’re rejection letters and late nights. They’re all sweat and sobbing. Tired eyes and worn down keyboards. I build my dreams on long runs and heavy lifts. On failed pull up attempts. On early mornings and long phone calls with friends. And it’s time I start being okay with it.
Because I’m never going to make anyone else happy without making myself happy first. I’m never going to live up to someone else’s expectations if I just made them up in my head. I’m never going to be fulfilled by doing what I think other people want me to. That’s the recipe for a life of resentment and exhaustion. That’s exactly the thing I don’t want to do.
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.
Ruby Pipes 