I keep wishing I was someone else

Lifestats: articles – too many; Google – carrot cake vegan icing (no dairy diet); Money earned – not enough; Count of fear – high.

I wish for a lot of things. I wish I were more conscious of myself, more self-aware, more grounded; I wish I were less frustrated and happier. I wish I had better boundaries, better body, better everything. I wish I did more work, I wish I had more self belief.

I wish I didn’t have to write things out, and if I do, I wish for more audience. I wish I had a better blog, about something else, less self-obsessive than my tired mental health. I wish I were less dramatic. I wish I were better at meditation. I wish I believed in my dancing and singing enough to actually practice it. I wish I had the courage to leave social media when I need to work. I wish I had a cleaner room. I wish I could watch Netflix series all day, without feeling the guilt – but I also wish I watched 2 episodes and then followed the inner drive that tells me to do some work. I wish I didn’t try to subconsciously cook and clean more because I’m unemployed and my partner is supporting me – I wish I applied for jobs more, not appeasing some invisible female duties. I wish my partner were less frustrated. I wish, I wish, a prayer of the powerless.

I wrote this poem, about a year ago “Where do you keep your power”. Recently I tried to read it out loud in rehearsals, and man, I break in tears. As most poems, I wrote it for others, but for myself – if I stopped questioning myself all the time, if I believed. I can believe. There is a space for me to believe in myself, and I have to have courage to inhabit it.

I am ashamed for writing this. There are people with bigger problems for sure. Here I am, in this empty space I created in myself, too scared to step out. I’m not fighting for my life – or am I? I’m fighting with my brain, which tells me all the time that I suck. I am fighting with my habits, with lack of self love. I am grateful for all the good things – maybe not grateful enough; I look at everything with perfectionist eye of “things to be fixed” – so the things that don’t need to be fixed don’t even get noticed.

I wished I wrote all the articles I come up with, or at least most. I wish I didn’t lose belief halfway through the thought, nevermind the project. I wish I could help people, I wish I could change people’s lives. Is that naive? Perhaps I’m just the funny girl. Perhaps all that angst is for nothing and I can do some stand-up comedy. Look at me, all dismissive. That is worthy, too. I feel like I have so many sides of me and I can’t create a stable personality, a stable brand, idea. But perhaps I can. Maybe it’s okay to be all that I am. The poet, the singer, the voice. The writer, the teller, the dance. The messy, crying, sensitive, self-obsessed, humorous, witty, occasionally ironic, mostly charming, fucking intense person that I am – nevermind all the things I want to become.

I am capable of change. But if I don’t like step one, change will not satisfy me either. If I can’t celebrate my current self, exercise everyday – despite extra endorphines – will not move me into self-love. It could help, but the thinking of “I should be doing XYZ, instead” will stay.

Perfectionism is capitalism of self. All we want is more, more, more. And better. It’s okay to be more efficient. But conditional self-love doesn’t fucking work, now does it?


I’m afraid to finish my play

Today is the day. The deadline has arrived.

That may well explain why I’m sitting with a flurry of notes, a new document open on page 5 (five! I’m using a format that reads 90 seconds a page, so ideal document length here is 35-40 for a 1 hour play). I am panicking. I am scared. I am…

I am an author.

My significant other, locked in his own room, with his own play, said today “I worry I might not finish on time. But it’s such a nice problem to have”. He is right. Writing a play is a necessity (we’re artists!) and a luxury (we can afford to do it). It is, by rights, a pleasure.

That doesn’t explain why I’m writing a blogpost, as opposed to working my way through connecting and correcting scenes.

I’m deadly scared. And what I’m realizing is, it’s part of it. It’ll never go away.

I’m scared that it’s cheesy; that the characters don’t connect and will end up, as one reviewer stated, “2D” (the other reviewer loved them, but it’s hard to focus on positives).

I’m scared I’ll fail what I set out to do: make a difference, offer a story, share pain and beauty. Fear that I’m suffering without this elusive artistic satisfaction to look forward to.

And the only thing I know how to do is – use that fear. Infuse my work with it. Live it, breathe it, exhale it.

I’m scared that I’ll fail…. if so, I better fail big!

Six hours to go. Clock ticking. Wish me luck…

Photo 27

Safe! and other stories

Google searches: best laptops of 2014

Mood: tense, but positive (just keep breathing)

Theme song: “Under Pressure”

Putting the show together is going great. Procrastination to work ratio getting better. Have an amazing director who keeps my head from exploding, and a great boyfriend who takes care of the music.

Pressure! I love pressure. I’m best under pressure. Although right now, I feel fear. Can’t see forest for the trees.

Just found this on Mo’Nique’s Twitter: False Evidence Appearing Real. I like it. When fearful, I can’t put pictures together, even though I’m best at connecting things – pictures, thoughts, notes, people…. Can’t join dots. But I think I’ve done my bit of fear. Now I can do my bit of work. Sunday (= showtime) cometh…. 🙂

Stress Is Sneaky

Google searches: free avi converter; All About That Bass karaoke with backing vocals.

Mood: shaky

Stress levels: 7/10

So I forgot that stress is sneaky.

Your garden variety stress – I can handle. I’m getting better at it. I notice the tension and release, manage and self-manage. I meditate. I exercise. I eat sensibly and get enough sleep.

And then there is the sneaky type.

Sneaky type doesn’t let you just acknowledge its existence and move on with your own. It gets in the way. It stands in the middle of the road and gives you the finger. It makes a general nuisance of itself until there is straightforward consistent targeted action and even then it doesn’t go away, preferring to jeer from the sidelines.

This is the kind of stress that I have for acting. Even more so for acting my own writing. Even more so for acting my own writing in front of my mentor, whose opinion I value very highly, and my peers, whose opinion etc.

It comes to the point when I have to remind my white-faced, tense self that I actually like doing this. It is so terrifying that, if I didn’t trap myself (have a deadline; get friends and family to rehearse with you, so you have no choice), if I didn’t make myself, I would not have rehearsed. I am struggling as is.

You know what? This is wonderful.

All the struggle I go through is wonderful. Every step on that road gets me closer to the time when I don’t fear it as much. Every moment of fear I struggle through towards my goal will help me. Every second of tension carries the promise of future release.

There are things you do, because you’re no good and need to get better. There are things you do, because you’re naturally good and they give you satisfaction. There are things you have to do, regardless. There are things that are necessary.

This is. And so, I struggle on.

Quick note on fear

Today a thought popped into my mind, uninvited: that I will never amount to anything, because I have too much fear.

After hearing that, loud and clear in my head, I backed up and wondered: do I really think in this way?

I am a heroine of my story. All the greatest heroes are terrified, but they go on. All successful people struggle and persevere.

I must go on. Fear or not. Fear is not a choice: subverting it – is.

Fear of Flying

Google searches: too many

Mood: up and down, out in space, all over the place

Diagnosis: fear of success

You’d think that I wouldn’t be afraid of good things. You’d be wrong.

Good things are new things. New things, in certain mindsets, are to be feared.

Today started fantastically. We corrected another song. It was a glorious feeling. The happiness had me jumping up and down. I also received my tax return – not a huge sum of money objectively, but more than I’ve had in a bit.

And then I didn’t leave the house and struggled with getting to work. It used to happen more. I’m grateful that it doesn’t.

I do want more control over my fate, more discipline and creative freedom. The fears resurface every once in a while. Rarely now. I have my bf’s constant support, which helps a lot. I have mentors and friends. And so…

… back to the regularly scheduled broadcast! A blogpost. A late one, maybe too late to be read properly. But there was no blogpost yesterday (sorry readers 🙂 needed internet holiday, and I wrote two the day before). My goals for this blog were to write every day and understand how to promote myself. Well, I can hardly post a link every single day – even the most devoted friends would tire of this. I am giving myself a month or so. Just to write every day. To find my voice, find my feet. Create a habit and discipline. Just so that whatever happens, I know I have this.

If you’ve read this far, I am grateful for you. If you haven’t, I am grateful for writing itself. 🙂

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