I don’t need more reasons to think I’m cool. I do that all by myself, some days I treat that very title like it’s my job. “Be more cool.” “Puff it up.”
That stupid ego. Aaron tells me honest things about what I might, in a day, think are the coolest words I’ve ever written. He’ll tell me without thinking that it wasn’t that great.
DEFLATION OF SELF.
He doesn’t know I had those sentences sitting on a pedestal, feeding my deranged sense of self grapes and fanning my fever with compliments and grand day-dreams about book deals and contracts and fame all because, well, I wrote some stuff down.
I am obviously waiting to be discovered.
I’ve turned a corner, maybe it was turning 30, I’m guessing it has more to do with the year prior and the transformation of my spirit.
Transformation to you? I don’t know, transformation to me? Completely. I can admit that I have a pretty unbalanced view of myself, I can tell on myself and know that some of the PTA moms might read this and roll their eyes. I know because if the tables were turned – I would.
I am still so worried that people who I know in real life will find this site and judge me. JUDGERY! WORDS! FEELINGS! POINT SOME FINGERS! Say all of the things my combative inner-voice won’t shut up to me about. Say them. Someone, please, say them. Make it real, so I can finally tell myself off and get over it. Judge me for my flaws, for the way I spell and construct sentences. For the secrets I tell. And they will find me, they do. Every day – and it used to silence me. It used to scare me, or worse, it would inflate me.
Now, it’s flattering, sure. I get a high from positive feedback – duh, this is why I continue to push publish … but I don’t know.
I was talking to a girlfriend recently about starting to sensor the things I write about. FOR THE OTHER MOMS. Because I am now faced with the things I’ve written and the possible backlash that could happen because of it. The ripple effect to my kids. And, possibly more transparent, the ripple effect to my ego.
I still want to be liked in real life. I still want to be asked to be facebook friends and not immediately removed because it says I’m a writer for jodimichelle.com with a link to my site. AND THEN THEY ACTUALLY VISIT IT. (Which, isn’t that the whole point?)
You guys, I’ve made this here website my own bleeding heart mission to stay alone. To be the rebel reason why I’m not liked by “those moms” to be the reason why I’m alone when the draft comes to be likable and friendly.
Gimme gimme gimme, STOP! Gimme, gimme more. Say nice things, like me. STOP! GO AWAY. YOU DON’T KNOW ME. Tease.
I’m the only person getting hurt in this game. I either am who I am or I’m not. Whether I advertise it to the world or not.
“…But those things don’t make me come alive from the inside out. Talking about the grace of God and the art of his people makes me come alive. It’s deep and it’s serious and it’s sometimes heavy. It’s awkward to hold and it’s too complicated for an elevator pitch. It’s hard to market, difficult to summarize, cumbersome to share in the carpool line. But when I look into your eyes I see you get it too, when we talk about the things of Christ and the mystery of this hope of glory and how I believe he wants to show up uniquely in the lives of believers on earth – it’s like someone turned on the music.”
I had no idea how to say it. Replace “talk” with “write” and this is what I cannot explain about this space. About the times spent over coffee with friends. About the stupid little stove in my kitchen and the pure joy it gives me when I feed people. About your dreams and hopes and how honored I am when you let me in. About the letters we write back and forth and even though you might know where I continue to fail – you always offer to pick me up, or better yet – you lay down next to me in my despair and you just wait.
The blurred lines and boundaries of this space, this site – they’re constantly a battle for me. It’s hard to not live in duplicity. But I’m trying.
I didn’t know what to tell you because I didn’t know what to tell myself. I’m keenly aware of my faults and what I’m worried you’ll think of me. Mostly, the ones who think I’m stupid. I see you, on every single draft I write. And they have faces, sure. But the more I let them sit there – they’re starting to look like me.
And I know better.