Effects of pressure on man in the moon marigolds

Something is wrong with me.  I have always known that I am not OK.

No one has ever been able to make me feel OK for any length of time.  Especially me.

I scream my rage and frustration into the silence and it is swallowed whole.

I claim responsibility.

But what about the bouts of depression? Does some part of me know best and allow pain and sorrow, depression and grief, for my own good?

My spiritual friends think so.  They also believe some Force is watching out for them.

I am jealous.

There have been intensely disappointing moments.

I wanted to be a cheerleader with all my heart.  I thought, if I was a cheerleader I would be Popular and I wanted nothing more than to be Popular.  And I would be skinny, too, because there are no fat cheerleaders.

I tried out 3 years in a row.  Adolescent, chubby, unlovely me.  And I lost every time.

Soul crushing.

Then I thought if I could be Drum Major…but I lost that competition too.

A couple of years ago, I began to think if I could just be a Writer, everything would be OK. And I do get so on FIRE from writing–I’m luminescent.  I experience intermittent feelings of everything falling into place.  I feel exactly right.

And it is unspeakably delicious.

Then I get a voice mail from someone asking about creating a web site.

I haven’t returned the call.

Oh no.  Another client.  Actual work to do.


Self esteem might be a palliative of pressure.

I’ve watched my child take steps toward building his own self esteem.  I’ll never forget telling him that the man who was able to drive himself to downtown Atlanta for college inception could figure out how to get his own tag registered.

The way his eyes lit up as he realized the truth of it for himself.

I have made lists.  Oh, yes.  Gratitude lists.  Achievement lists.

For example, I am the woman who gave birth at home.  Couldn’t she write posts single handedly?  She would not be afraid every time a client calls that this will be the assignment that exposes her for the fraud she fears herself to be.

Pressure is being pushed against.

I recall years of vocal and band competitions.  I’m sure I was afraid.  But I don’t remember even being nervous.  And I earned a medal every single time.

What changed?

Music was so integral to my soul that I viewed every occasion to perform as an opportunity to showcase what I could do.  I was confident.

Where did my confidence go?

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