All of my life, there was one thing I promised myself I would never be: mediocre. Maybe I wouldn’t be Shakespeare or Brad Pitt or Helen of Troy, but I’d be interesting and have something to say. No dull life of a housewife for me: I would travel, read literature, write and befriend interesting people. And even if I didn’t do that, I certainly wouldn’t fall prey to being in a bad marriage with someone who was more a roommate than a partner.
And yet, when I did find myself, after 19 years in a relationship with someone whom I didn’t understand and who belittled me, when I found myself sitting on the couch watching re-runs of House, M.D. surrounded by a pile of laundry, when I heard about my sister’s latest adventurous travel and peeked at my stamp-less passport, I thought everything was all over. I had succumbed to what I most feared.
I tried to tell myself that whenever I traveled, I always brought my problems with me, that it was good to have a roof over my head and two parents for my children and that someday I’d write that book. But I felt like a failure. And I don’t mean to say that other people who have those things have in any way failed at life; just that it didn’t meet the image I had in my head of what on my deathbed I’d reflect on having done with my long, storied life.
And when the inevitable happened, and my marriage came to a close, I sat in a more than mediocre house, wallpaper peeling and ants crawling up its walls all through the long August days, and I knew there was more to life than turning on autopilot and letting the years tick me away. I knew that my life is mine, and if I don’t live it, no-one else will.
I cannot tell you how many years of my life I wasted doubting myself, wondering if I am actually interesting, intelligent, pretty and kind. And that doubt kept me in chains, always afraid to make a move because someone might see my imperfections or laugh behind my back, or worse, to my face. But I am tired of being small. I am tired of letting doubt and perfectionism run my life. I am tired of living for the neighbors.
And so, these past five years, I have put myself out there, met new people, survived unemployment, bad boyfriends, worse jobs, signed divorce papers, consoled and counseled my children and moved in with a new love. I have had no choice but to let myself be vulnerable. I have too many responsibilities, and I can’t afford to fail. And instead of trying to show myself as the “strong one” who can weather anything alone and stolid, I shared my pain, shared my story, talked and listened to others.
I am forever grateful for that lesson and for the experiences that came with it. I am even starting to be grateful for the pain and for the courage I summoned to endure it and to break out of my comfort zone. With the shame and the grief and the confusion I found me, and I found my voice.
We don’t always know where life will take us, and sometimes maybe we’d rather not know. If we did, would we summon the courage to push through the hard times and to ride the waves of the peak times, knowing they will crest and return to the ocean? I’m not sure, but I know that I have lived through pain. I know I have suffered through being small. I know I have endured feeling unwanted. And I can feel my strength now. And I know it comes from within me and that even when I most winded, I can summon it.
We, each of us, choose the garb we wear in the world. We choose how we see ourselves and how we will allow others to treat us. What if we choose what empowers us and makes us feel bold, beautiful and whole? What, then, will life look like?
Author: mprovorny
Honest Spirituality. 