Every introductory sentence to this post that I’ve thought of started with a declaration that I’ve been struggling to be or do something. It’s true. I have been doing a lot to take care of myself, all the things that are good for me and even that maintenance of self, has been exhausting and consuming. Today was a little different. I’m wearing one of my mom’s long sleeved tops and her black poncho over. I love the color-way of this shirt: it has horizontal stripes in blue, white and red. It can’t be a coincidence that I was just speaking about wanting more of this combination and then stumbled on this tee while looking for something completely different. The decision to wear this today felt mindless at first but now I’m certain my subconscious knew I needed it. In it, I’ve felt so safe, truly and finally at home, which has been a mostly inaccessible feeling for me in my solitude in the recent months. I was able to get so much out of me that the warmth of her somewhat presence gave me the capacity for.
I’m holding on dearly to this feeling of possibility that’s often been elusive. I’m working on believing that I am capable of continuously being my entire self. Part of these efforts, is turning my intentions around all the things I want for myself, the things I value, into actionable steps. For instance, I want Tuesdays to be my writing days and here I am doing it. I want to continue to make promises to myself that I keep and this is one of those baby steps.
While I was planning out this post, I thought about how much I want to share here and how uncomfortable it continues to be, to be vulnerable. I hoped that after writing in this space for this long, I’d more readily share my now, my current and present feelings – the incomplete ones, under development ones. It turns out I’m not there yet and maybe I won’t ever be and that’s a sign that I’m continuing to share honestly.
I don’t always know how to embrace the complexity of both wanting to share my writing (which requires a platform) and wanting a private life.– Lisa Olivera
More recently, I realised that the fact that a considerable number of people I interact with in my personal life read my work on here and that startled me a lot more than I expected. When I started writing on this blog, it was to express into the void and for a long time it was strangers of the internet that interacted with me. In the last year, I’ve gotten so much more feedback from my friends and people I know personally whose opinions I really value and that sent me spiralling into imposter syndrome. On many days, I am aware that I have a brilliant collection of work on here but this reality that there are people experiencing my multiplicities which include this space, exaggerated my already existing thoughts that ‘Michelle the writer is a hoax or just less than’. This is particularly because I first interacted with these people in person and my front face doesn’t always feel like a writer.
Also, I’ve found that for the people I personally interact with, the blog posts sometimes feel like they pre-empt our conversations. While this doesn’t necessarily bother me, in my mind, it situates our conversations differently from an organic segue into a particular topic. Many times, I enjoy the way my musings on here translate to my personal relationships but on other occasions, I prefer if it remains a creature of mine in this little corner of the internet. Still, I prefer having everyone that enjoys my work to continue to do so. It has just been fascinating to observe what it means and even, if any of my thoughts here hold any meaning for my personal relationships.