To Breathe

I wrote a poem once, probably the best poem I've ever written, about a girl who is underwater. She's sitting there, just below the surface, looking at everything through the cloudy, rippled lens of the water. Everything looks soft and pretty from her point of view, light and comfortable. It's beautiful.

But the point of the poem is that regardless of how pretty it is, she's still underwater. Which means she either has to come up and take a breath, face reality, or she's going to die. This has been a metaphor for my life for as long as I can remember. I've always felt like I haven't started fighting for air yet. Like I'm someone who is content to just float there until I die.

Fighting is hard. Fighting means coming up for air, breaking the surface and seeing things the way they actually are, rather than the way I'd like to see them. Seeing myself for my flaws, seeing that despite my insistence that I'm doing my best with my gifts, I am actually wasting them. I am actively wasting my time. I am filling it up with everything except my deepest desires, because it's easier and because I'm afraid.

What am I afraid of you may ask? The same thing I've always been afraid of. Failure. There's a line from the Joy Luck Club. She says, "What a shame, you fall down. No one push you." I always think of that when I start thinking these thoughts, start letting myself have a taste of reality. I'm afraid that I've talked myself up for so long, said I was a writer and then when I actually go to put words on the page I will suck. I have the thinnest skin for critique in my writing group. I clam up and get angry when people give me honest feedback. And it's because of my insecurity. My flagrant, pathetic insecurity.

Do I have the potential for greatness? This is a question I've always answered with a loud OF COURSE. I am great. But the thing that really scares me is that when all is said and done I will not measure up. I will be mediocre, at best. I know when writing is good and I know that mine is not on par right now. I don't have the magic I want to have. I am in the middle ground between recognizing what is good and knowing that for now, I don't cut it.

But I have to fail in order to succeed. I can't be afraid to suck because this writing, these experiences will lead me to enlightenment. I will practice until the hard work becomes a second nature to me, until the words flow like they do on those rare occasions when I'm inspired. I can't sit around and wait for the flighty bite of that inspiration. I've got to make it my work ethic. And I have to do it soon.

My self-worth is completely tied up in this. In my insecurity, in my fear of failure, in my paralyzing inability to even try.

I've got to get free of this somehow. It starts tonight. I'm sitting here, in front of this computer until I find the path. I need to know where I'm going with this book, my direction and make a map. I need to follow it to its end. And I need to move on.

Mostly I need to decide if I'm going to give this up or not. I feel like I would explode into a million pieces if I do. But I know that if I keep waiting, keep deferring my dream, it will be even worse. It will rot inside of me, and nothing good will be left.

Take a breath. Come see what it looks like in the sun.