Wide awake at 4 a.m. staring at the high desert clear night sky illuminated with stars. And out of nowhere I’m flooded with painful childhood memories. Feelings of humiliation, of being overlooked, ignored and alone are overwhelming. There are no adults in these memories. There’s no one to blame for my interpretation of these rather mundane childhood events. I’m keenly aware of my thoughts and my feelings. And I weep. I simply weep as I behold the child that was me. I see her pale blue eyes stare back at me from the mirror. I’m deeply aware of her ever present belief that she simply is not good enough and it is why she does not deserve praise or recognition or comfort. And I accept this as truth. There’s no self-pity. It just is. Even now, as I write this, I feel the heaviness in my heart and my eyes sting with tears as I ponder this deep realization that somewhere and somehow, early on in my life, I embraced the belief that I’m simply not good enough. It’s painful to admit and I feel ashamed that it’s only now coming to the surface. This childhood memory feels like a rationalization that I deserved less than because I was not good enough. Nothing about me was good enough. And this deep-seated belief has permeated my entire life. Why at this late stage did these memories come flooding back? What triggered them? I thought I had dealt with my inner child. Apparently there’s much more work to be done. Not good enough. For now, I sit with this unwelcomed insight. I notice the sadness. I feel it deeply. I feel the heaviness in my body. I’m finding it difficult to smile. I want to be alone.
The other day I decided I needed to resume this blog. It had been awhile since I even looked at it. I’ve always been hesitant to really share what I write, but I feel compelled to write. There’s a need to express, to emote. Painters do it with their brushes, singers do it with their voices, and writers do it with their words. But I’m not good enough to consider myself a writer. I don’t even know when to use commas. And yet, I feel compelled to write. Even without an audience, I feel compelled to write. But don’t we all want an audience? Isn’t the point of expressing ourselves to be heard, to be understood, to be validated? Is the expression itself enough even if there is no one who listens or seeks to understand? I don’t know. How many times have I not shared my words out of fear of feeling too vulnerable, or of offending someone or a belief that no one really cares what I think. After all, who am I? Why do I write? Is it to persuade others to my way of thinking? How can I possibly influence or persuade anyone to see things as I see them. What gives me any credibility to put anything out into the world? Do I write to somehow validate my very humanity, my essence, to help me make sense of this crazy thing we call life? I would say yes to this. And what stops me over and over again from sharing my words? Ahh, I see now. I’m not good enough.
And so, by publishing this post, I practice allowing myself to be vulnerable. I counter the belief that I am not good enough and say yes, I am good enough. Namaste!