Lemonade & Silver Linings

At this point in my life, I can admit with little doubt that I am my biggest obstacle. This isn’t about avoiding the minutiae by taking the easy route of blaming myself. It’s more the result of an intense amount of time spent thinking over many years. Anything else I may identify as an obstacle falls under the general category of “Me”–as in I actively make those choices.

I know this because when I truly want to accomplish something, the motivation is strong enough that I think of doing little else. I avoid doing things I should do because I’m engrossed in what I want to do. Painting my house this past summer is an excellent example of what I joked about as being a near obsession. The “shoulds” in my life are getting on my exercise bike. Doing laundry. Drinking less wine. Sending a novel I wrote a few years ago to an agent.

I have plenty of excuses for not being responsible for what I should do because I rationalize what I want to do by telling myself I’m saving money, it’s practical, or it’s a nice day and I’d rather be outside doing something I consider worthwhile. The laundry will get done at some point when I have run out of clothes. I spend so much time outside on yard work, or climbing ladders when I paint that I figure it actually is exercise. Why ride a stationary bike in a basement on a gorgeous day? I can do that in winter. As for wine, well, I like the way it tastes, the way it relaxes me and allows me to feel unburdened by myself. I do not get this reward from eating Cheetos. And the novel? Well, it’s just not good enough.

And that’s how it all comes back to me. Not good enough. Or — just not motivated. How about scared to death of treating that novel like it may be decent and worth doing something with? The million dollar obstacle is what about writing something completely different and worthy of attention?

Therein lies the rub. What if that something different is very personal? I ask myself whether the story really has to be told. And why? Whom will it hurt if I tell it? Is that what I really want? These questions are the roadblocks I have strategically positioned to keep myself from doing more than writing a two-year long string of posts using the simple Notes app on my Mac.

Efforts to overcome some of the hurdles I’ve erected sound like, “If I tell my story, it will help others”. Almost immediately, my inner critic responds, “That story’s been told over and over again. Nothing new here. Move along”. I feel a sense of relief until the urge to write returns. I listen to the wise words of others knowing I will be encouraged until I knock myself back again, fearful of what may happen after I hit the publish button.

I know I should be able to do this because I’ve done it before. I have overcome a huge obstacle in telling a story from childhood — one that ironically influenced the story I’m struggling with currently. Talking about a traumatic event and writing about one are two very different things. Writing about something deeply personal is painful. The process of writing about it makes it feel real again. Although I am capable of living with the reality of what happened and have dealt with it head on from the beginning, I continue to struggle with how to write about it for a public audience.

Fear of judgment is the key. I was able to overcome the childhood trauma by confiding in a parent years later. By talking to a friend. With each telling, the associated fear peeled off like the layers of an onion over time. Making peace with and having a cordial relationship with the person who caused the trauma also helped. Still, I can see now that I’ve avoided writing what happened here. But it isn’t fear of judgment.

It’s shame. Why not deal with that privately, then? Because I have nothing to be ashamed of, I tell myself. But I can feel it in my chest right now, pressing against my breastbone. I take a deep breath, acknowledging the anxiety that is blooming.

I’m afraid of being shamed for something that happened to me — something I had no control over. Worse? I’m afraid of shaming the person who caused the trauma.

If that isn’t completely ridiculous, then I don’t know what is.