Confessions of a "Closet Case"

Do you ever look into a mirror and think, "THIS is who I am"? You know what I'm talking about, that certainty that W.Y.S.I.W.Y.G. and all's-well-with-my-world kinda feeling? No? Well, me too. Me too.

That face in the mirror is a farce, a mask that genetics and cultural perception has imposed upon you - only gravity and time have been true but unfortunate sculptors thus far. Who can gaze apon this visage and know how much intelligence, emotion and spirit dwell within? They can't see the scars of your pain, the buoyancy of your hope, the seething vortex of your creativity, nor the fragility of your love.

Am I bitching about the cards life has dealt me? Absolutely. Only the stupid and the dead don't complain and since I am neither, well, here I am. My father used to tell me, "Only compare yourself to those better than yourself." Am I immodest if I say there isn't anyone I can compare myself to then? Would it horrify my father if he knew only god-knows how much therapy's been required for me to even ask that last question?

The bare bones of it all here is, who are you really, deep deep inside? My culture dictates that I must be a modest, elegant model of achievement, the pride of my parents, an asset to my husband and dutiful member of society. This is where that handy closet comes into play.

Modesty doesn't do one one iota of good if one wants to advance in the world, whether it be in the corporate world, or doing volunteer work. Trying to be modest whilst selling one's talents can cause fatal cramps - wasn't that one of numerous surgeon general's warnings?

Anyway ... to be true to oneself is just not the done thing. I am a thinking, intelligent person who wants to write, really write like I've known I wanted to since I was eleven and already good at it. I enjoy doing number puzzles, the challenge of creating the most sinful version of any baked good, shopping for a really good deal, reading "good trash"/ancient & Elizabethan history/Penthouse Letters/US mag, tweaking African Violets and otherwise growing plants that'll contribute to my culinary pleasure.

I think I'm not really supposed to be doing much of the above-mentioned activities. I've been banned from reading since I was nine. Though this has not been enforced much since I've gotten married, it is still a frowned-upon past time, along with anything that doesn't seem remotely dutiful ... I think the cooking and gardening's okay, but only if it doesn't make me any fatter than I already am or take time away from being a good daughter, wife and mother. The shopping's not so bad as it fulfils my genetic destiny as a gatherer/nurturer ... writing's bad - too self-indulgent ... a sex drive?? Oh nononononono, good Catholic girls've never heard of it. It's okay to procreate though.

So am I a BAD BAD person? I love all these things I shouldn't do in life as much as I believe repression is purgatory/hell on earth. Oh, and I don't believe in guilt or regret either - wastes too much energy you know? I hide in the closet of other people's ideals and perceptions way too much. Every now and then I peek out ... coast is clear ... yes, that's me you see streaking, through the landscape of my life, leaving everyone who saw open-mouthed and slack-jawed. You oughta try it sometime.