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The anthology of my daily life. |
| I have started a million blogs, and I have failed at keeping up on 999,999 of them. I'm hoping that this one sticks, but in all likelihood, I will instead delete this after realizing, full of shame, that I haven't updated it in three months. |
| I am a constant analyst. I have to understand the world around me in detail. If someone cuts me off at a red light, I need to know why they did that. Were they late for work? Did they have to pee? Did I look like I would be too slow to get stuck behind? This need to understand the world has worked both for and against me over the years. One way that it has benefited me in a difficult way is that as I get older, I must understand myself. In my last entry, I talked about how self-doubt cripples me and I've been trying to understand why. I think, after a lot of reflection, I've figured it out. When I was a child, I loved to write and draw. I won't go into detail, but my upbringing wasn't special because, like many children, I come from an abusive household. Drawing and writing were my two escapes from my reality. I would write about beautiful places and describe them in great, vibrant detail. I would draw dinosaurs, horses, beautiful women that I wished I could look like, and quiet mountains. I could not control the trauma around me or its effect on me, but I could create worlds for myself where I could find respite for a short time. Initially, my parents, teachers, and friends were supportive of my creations. They often told me that I was a gifted writer and artist and that encouraged me to create even more. Through my middle school years, I was convinced that someday I would become an author or a professional artist. After all, my parents had already completely discouraged my dream of becoming a paleontologist by the time I was 11, they couldn't object to a serious profession like journalism or becoming an art teacher, right? Wrong. So wrong. By the time I was in my mid-teens and starting to look at colleges, my parents began to criticize my work more and more. Whenever I would express interest in pursuing a creative career, they would tell me I probably didn't have what it takes and I'd end up failing. I became so discouraged that for a time, I stopped writing altogether and ended up going to college for business - I dropped out after a year. It wasn't my path and I could not force myself to continue. It's been 20-odd years since then and I am still climbing out of the pit of discouragement they dug for me. I feel it whenever I want to show someone my writing or post a new painting...the doubt. Voices in my head tell me that I'm not good enough and that I'll never make it as a creative professional. Even though I've been published several times, am a published illustrator and have a small, supportive following on social media, I still hear my parents in my mind. I wonder when those voices will finally become quiet. I do not believe the voices will go away until I can come to an important understanding with myself: whatever I pursue must be for me, and not simply to prove everyone else wrong. If I'm going to go down the path of becoming a creative professional, it has to be because I love what I'm doing, not because I want to shove my success in someone's face. If I must prove something to someone, I must prove my worth and skill to myself. That's what I'm working on in 2023; that is my only resolution. To work on becoming the person I'm meant to be, instead of the person I'm expected to be. |
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