My Journal Entry
I love it when someone compliments my writing, or a photograph I took, or the way I have visually curated something. I feel like a child that has been picked out for something special. I feel the pleasure that comes with acknowledgement for something that holds meaning for me, that really matters to me. If I manage to wire a plug, great, it is an achievement, but it is not the essence of me. I do not care to be recognised for being gifted with electrical wires and gadgets.
When I was a child, I drew, painted, made clothes for my dolls, wrote stories which I illustrated. I wrote my own versions of Dr Who plots and sketched new monsters to accompany them. I liked to help with baking. When I grew a little older, I started to sew my own clothes, and write in diaries. I painted flowers on pebbles collected from Scottish rivers whilst on holiday; I made up tunes and song words; I learnt to knit and embroider and stick wooden clothes pegs together to make tiny rocking chairs. I read under the bedclothes until the words merged, I daydreamed. I daydreamed about the worlds I read about in books: the wizards, the fairyfolk, secret worlds held together with magic, outsiders whom nobody understood, and mysteries that unravelled threads of excitement and anticipation.
A compliment for something that I created was the spark that set me alight. That is was I wanted to be best at, to feel that I stood out. Creating is what mattered to me. Whilst I was pleased to receive praise for anything, a maths grade included, it was a pleasure by proxy. If it made my teachers and parents happy, I felt accepted and acceptable.
If someone received a higher grade in maths, or a medal for a sporting event, I applauded them, that was their thing; then I applauded myself if I had improved on my previous performance. However, if someone else’s story was read out over mine, or they achieved a higher grade for English, or a piece of artwork, well, I felt a distinct pinch in the area around where my ego resided. That was inner wisdom speaking to me. That was what mattered.
I went on to choose options that I thought would get me a good job and make everyone happy. I did in fact want to work in fashion, I loved clothes and fashion and styling, but that was not a sensible option. Had I pursued that career path, I might have succeeded in combining the things I loved and become an editor in chief for a fashion magazine? Today I would be working with sustainability and promoting ethical fashion choices. Who knows? I will not put myself in that position again. It is not too late!
“Slowly I looked at stories from my past and used them to patch up the holes of today.”
I followed the crowd because I needed to be accepted, approved of, and liked. I did not have that easy outgoing personality that seemed to be the desirable character trait and so I tagged along, I laughed, I nodded and I copied, yet despite that, I was always different, on the periphery. I continued along this path for many years, aiming to please, trying to convince myself that I wanted power suits, and the title ‘manager’ whilst simultaneously striving to break out, to showcase my difference through my clothes and music choices. I learned behaviours that enabled me to fit in, putting on a show of gregarious extroversion when I could muster it up, but I did not feel comfortable in my skin. I never really knew why. Eventually I learned three things:
1. firstly, that although I am sociable, I am an introvert who recharges in alone time and whose interests tend to be things done alone or with one or two others;
2. secondly, it is OK to be an introvert;
3. thirdly, it doesn’t matter how many people like me; it is not my responsibility to make people like me. It is my responsibility to be kind and to be me.
I have ticked some boxes, the ones that I really wanted and that matter to me. I tried and failed to tick other boxes, but I have never been good at going against my grain and so I failed. I am excited that my ‘husband and children box’ has been ticked, education ticked, but yes, I am still waiting for my life to happen - The me part, the part that is left once everything else is dealt with. As I stated at the beginning, I am truly grateful for some of the wonderful people in my life, my family, and the experiences I have had, but I felt for a long time that I have not started making me. Turning fifty, and it could be any age for you, was the removal of the identity veil; it was the start of exploration and dipping my toes into long-forgotten waters, in what interests me. I began to write, slowly, more and more; I began to take more photographs and learn about photography. I learned how to set up a website. Slowly I looked at stories from my past and used them to patch up the holes of today. The emerging picture is of someone who I now recognise as myself.
‘Hi there, where the hell have you been?’
‘I’ve been inside you … waiting … waiting for the right time to show up, and that time is now. You are ready. Let’s do this! Now, what do you want?’