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.

The Word ... According to Me

There is this particular phenomenon that occurs with every new year and certainly resolutions are a part of it. The problem is, resolutions are what I call only "the tip of the iceberg". What fuels these yearly promises one makes to oneself in the heat of fervor and the fading light of the dropping ball in Times Square on tv?

I have various hypothesis generated over a few glasses of Mumm Napa Blanc de Noir sparkling wine (yes, even if it tastes much better than the stuff from France, it would be a sacrilege to call'em champagne, according to the winos ... or the oeno-whatchamacallem). Now, where was I? Yes yes - The New Year Frenzy, as I've just christianed it. Hic. (more please .... *bubbles* mmmmmm....)

As I was saying before being so pleasantly interrupted, the scenario's very easy to imagine: the holiday season comes to an abrupt, crashing close and you've barely glugged down the last gloppy drops of eggnog straight from the container whilst holding your turkey feast-greasy fingers away from you (well you ARE wearing your santa-wannabe-fuzzy-red-embroidered-with-poinsettas/santas/reindeer/anything-Christmas best outfit right??) ... post-Christmas sales are here! And so you emerge from the shopping, eating, presents, eating, shopping (and don't forget, drinking) in a near-stupor and catch sight of yourself in a mirror. Enough said.

What have I achieved this year? Anything? What have I DONE to myself?? You look in horror at the lovely outfit you've bought yourself for the New Year's Eve party & pray that it's at least 2% spandex. Even your long-suffering clothes hanger/treadmill'd probably slam itself shut on you should you try to do some last minute (oh, maybe 8 hrs worth) of reparation before the party.

So New Year's morning finds you bleary eyed, sitting at the breakfast counter with a cup of coffee, a bottle of aspirin and pen & paper. You are simply DISGUSTED at the thought of your excesses. Wielding your worthy pen you think, " ... and we shall vanquish them!" No more drinking! No more fried foods! HALF the shopping! (There is no such thing as "no more shopping") Exercise/yoga/meditate! Do charity! Why, the finest swordsmen would quail before this fine display of guts, determination and desperation.

Need I mention that most resolutions go out of style before January's halfway through? If I could gather all the loathing, self-deception and denial generated at this time of the year and turn it into energy, the earth wouldn't have to worry about depleted energy sources ever again. Hmmmm. Kinda like the river of slime fed by the negativity of populace of New York City in Ghostbusters II.

Seriously, something about new beginnings compells us to examine ourselves honestly. Stripped down to the bare bones, it is not usually a pretty picture. Too many obligations in life has stripped you the of who you are:

• working well after you're past your last reserves of strength & patience, trying to get along with a spouse when all you want to do is wring his neck for being a selfish, insensitive & immature lout sometimes
• trying so very hard to show your children what a loving parent looks like after work and a few tantrums between your boss and your toddler
• being polite & loving to your mother after barely sidestepping yet another mine in the minefield of your relationship
• and your in laws ...
  

where has that sweet, loving, trusting, unerringly honest size 6 individual gone? Comforted by white lies, food, tv and teethgriting holding back of self, the individual is no longer ... or at least it is almost impossible to identify'em in the mirror under all those layers of fat, guilt, denial, unhappiness & anger.

What would happen if we allowed ourselves to live honestly? To freely say what we feel, do what we'd like to when we'd like to, love whom we want to and sleep as much as we need to - what a life huh? Perhaps that should be our one vital resolution, to be ourselves, our true selves.

Genesis

And so it begins ... the birth of my "blogworld". It will neither be "based on a true story" nor pure fiction, but a collage of my mind newly emerged from a loooooooooooong state of hibernation. Enjoy, critique, despise, laugh and/or despair at, just know you are welcome to take a stroll with me through the labyrinth of my thoughts.

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