Apr 22, 2014 |
I’m afraid of my own success. What if achieving my dreams means changing everything I know about my life?
I am my own worst enemy. I love stability of structure and I’m not one to shed the security blanket easily.
But often, blank pages hold just as much accusations as they do promise.
Blank Pages are the World’s Canvas
I play the “What If” game too often because, in the past, the “What If’s” happened. The bad ones. The oh-my-God-this-could-only-happen-to-me and the I’m-one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way ones. The I’m-being-sabotaged-and-no-one-will-stand-up-for-me ones. The life-will-never-be-the-same-again ones.
And I really love stability.
So when anything comes along that can upset the apple cart, I get nervous.
I’ve had to learn to recognize my anxiety triggers. I know to avoid too much coffee on those high-adrenaline days. I have a “smart shopping” checklist on my iPhone for those necessary eat-out-but-not-fast-food days. The older I get, the better I am at listening to my body. My emotions may want chocolate ganache, but my bloodstream craves caffeine-free Gatorade.
Better sleep + better foods = better emotions.
So the anxiety doesn’t get to me like it used to. Of course, there are certain elements that are no longer around. That helps, too. You know what I’m talking about: those button-pusher people who are as good at backstabbing as they are at infiltrating. Those situations that belong on a soap opera and not in my life. I’ve been lucky to distance myself from the hurts and the hurtful. But their shadows remain.
I’ve had to retrain myself to not be afraid, the way others wanted to keep me afraid. Of sharing myself. Of living authentically. Of being the Me I’m supposed to be. Their false condemnations that who I was wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough. That I had deep, dark secrets to be spilled instead of forgiveness to be shared.
But now I know.
I’m better than that.
I’m better than what they said.
I’m better.
But I’m still afraid.
I’m still okay with the bad “What If’s”. The ones I can’t control.
But . . .
What if I am successful? What if I achieve everything I know I’m meant to do?
What if I conquer it all . . .
And I win?
The last few years were so hard. You’ve heard my poverty stories before. I know I’m not unique. I know there are many more people out there fighting just like me to save their homes and feed their families and do a thousand dollars worth of repairs on a nickel budget. People who don’t have the resources that I have, people who don’t have other people to come alongside them and cheer them on or pull them back on to the path.
And I’m not trying to complain. But my life is such a dichotomy between the dregs of the economy and the elation of my soaring words.
I don’t want to be stuck here any more. I don’t want to whine and complain and worry and cry.
But I do.
Yet, I see my way out. I see the path that I’ve laid, and I see where it’s going.
I no longer put the word “aspiring” before “writer” when I tell people what I do. I am a writer. I am a good writer. The rest of the world will soon discover how great a writer I am.
My “new” workspace ~ a real desk!
In the last two months, just eight short weeks, my writing universe has grown by leaps and bounds. I have my desk. I’ve met some wonderful people who are turning out to be great connections. I saw the need for a position with my writers club and asked to create it. [The result was a resounding yes: I’m now the official Social Media Manager for the California Writers Club, High Desert Branch, come join the fun on Facebook.] All four books are progressing fast. I might soon have The Unemployment Cookbook on local bookstore shelves. My critique group is essential to me in a craft capacity, and a fellowship.
All these are the beginnings of what I have always prayed for, always held my breath and crossed my fingers for. All these are essential to me being Me.
To be able to put food on the table and gas in the car and pay the bills on time and stop these damned collection calls and not “borrow” money that everyone knows until I win the lottery I will never be able to pay it back.
And that scares me, too. It scares me because it’s possible financial stability is on the five-year horizon. If I don’t need my family, my mommy and brothers, any more, will they still need me?
If Megan and I obtain all we’re reaching for, do I have to give up being home every night with Dot and our FurFamily?
If I don’t have to worry about tomorrow as much as I currently do, what will I do with that happiness?
I don’t want to be arrogant or a celebrity. I just want to be the best writer I can possibly be. I want to share my stories with the world. And yes, I would like to know that my stories make a difference.
And make money. Let’s be real. This is how I want to pay my bills. This is how I long to provide for my family.
For my family.
MoJo & Dot
And so I write my stories. My poems. My blogs. My thoughts and suspicions and dreams and nightmares. And I share them. And I collect them for future publication. And I keep on writing it out. Because I can’t be the only one who thinks like this, right? I can’t be the only one who feels so incomplete and so uplifted at the same time . . . right?
This is my calling. To be the best writer I know how to be. To tell the world about life in a way that can only be told by me.
But I’m not there yet. I’m still taking the journey. And at times it’s dark and twisty and scary. My heart pounds inside my chest and I can’t catch my breath.
What If I’m wrong? What If my path is a dead-end? What If those shadows are still waiting to sabotage me? What If I lose the house before I earn enough to save it? What If more bad than good happens?
Can I keep going on?
Yes.
So I let my light shine. From inside. Whatever light I have, I broadcast it.
Sometimes it’s a candle. Sometimes it’s the sun.
The end of the path will never be a reality. I’m thankful for that. With each step taken, there’s another step to take.
While I’m still here, still bringing with me the pains of the past, still glimpsing an uncertain future, I do know this: I have something to say.
And I can say it well.
I just need the rest of the world to listen.
As I sit here drafting this post, trying not to complain, trying to look for the light and not worry about tomorrow or the distractions it brings, my friend Janice posted this on her Facebook profile:
“Strength & resilience emerge by your own will to become a better person, no matter what downfalls happen in your life… be your own hero.”
Thanks, Janice. You are, as always, the right person at the right time.
How do you like them apples?!
How Do You Like Them Apples?!
“Then Jesus said to his disciples: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothes.” [Luke 12:22-23, NIV]
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Apples
Poverty: My Story
I am Defined. And I am a Mystery.
This post is linked up with Shell at Things I Can’t Say. Because sometimes, we just can’t.
Jan 4, 2012 |
Every now and then I have some off-the-wall dreams.
Years ago, I dreamt (several times) that my friend Cynthia and I knew the people from The West Wing. Sometimes we were characters and sometimes we were actors and sometimes we were just part of the group.
Last summer I dreamt I was with the television writing crew for Flashpoint when one of the actors came up and instead of me being awestruck by him (although secretly I really was!), he just complimented me on my butter recipe and said, “You make great toast.”
There’s the one where I was a character in a crime drama, that when I wrote it out actually read more like a Heavenly visit. (You can read that sappy story here.)
About a month ago, I had a great dream about Johnny Depp falling in love with my ratatouille and endorsing my cookbook.
But on this New Year’s morning, I woke up right after dreaming of George. Clooney, to be exact. I was a few years older, living in a large apartment back east that was also where I worked as a Writer (note the Capital “W”, very exciting!).
I had people coming in and out constantly: family, friends, business associates. I came out of the Kitchen area and turned a corner into the foyer and literally ran into George Clooney. There. In my apartment. Something about meeting my business manager for whatever reasons. Even in my dream, I couldn’t pay attention because my brains scrambled like the eggs I had just cooked. We sat down and apparently I got a little too close to him because he looked at me a little strangely as I muttered something about the gods hearing my prayers…
But then the dream turned. It flash-forwarded as dreams do, and the next moment we were sitting in the same room across a coffee table laden with open notebooks and coffee cups (He complimented my coffee, by the way. That’s 3 for the celebrity chef status I’m going for!).
The notebooks were all kinds of information and ideas on how to help the children of Darfur. He educated me on the political climate, and I offered some serious fund-raising advice for feeding the people.
Together we sat for what must have been hours ~ too bad the actual dream didn’t last that long. But what did last was that feeling of urgency. That feeling of necessity to help others in need. Not just locally or federally, but globally.
Ever since I woke from that dream, I can’t – don’t want to – shake those feelings. It was so real. So authentic. So desperate. But I don’t have any notebooks filled with how-to-help information and ideas. I don’t have any news clippings and personal experiences in this realm.
And while one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to not make resolutions I know I can’t keep, I think this is one I should strive for. Even if I can’t accomplish anything, I need to at least try on this one. I need to find a way to bring attention to those in need, and I need to find a way to actually help them. No matter how little it seems.
But what can I do? I’m just a blogger, a chef, a mom. George doesn’t know me. I don’t know any political leaders. And I don’t know how to reach across oceans.
What can I do, George? Are you listening? Is anyone?
Because I am.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 7, 2011 |
Some of you saw the post title and are already nodding in agreement. And that’s exactly why I don’t care. Because you already know who I’m talking about. Because the world is so much more important than the Kardashians and their money-making publicity.
I think mainstream media does us a huge disservice by placing such stories in the “News” category. Since when is how high-maintenance a person is, news? Since when is someone’s paycheck (or lack there of), high priority knowledge for me and my family?
I want news to be news: What is the government doing to protect and serve us? What natural disasters are occurring worldwide? How are people helping other people?
I really don’t want, or need, sordid details of someone’s sex life. I could care less what people do in the privacy of their own home as long as it’s not illegal or immoral.
Yes, there are things we need to know about. So later, we’re not blindsided and say, “Where the heck did that come from?” Yes, it’s important to keep an eye on Politicians, the economy, and headliners.
But our current societal climate is making the economy the Celebrity. There are no great performers, no great actors or singers or athletes. It’s no longer about someone’s talent or offerings or goodwill. Now it’s just about their paycheck. And the bigger their money bags, the bigger their attraction.
Kim Kardashian can afford to be beautiful. She can afford to have her name in print every time I pick up a paper or glance through a magazine.
But where’s the news? While reporters and paparazzi are busy making Stars out of those who have money, the real stories are getting ignored and even pushed aside.
It’s almost Thanksgiving. It’s certainly the season to appreciate what you have, even if it’s not much. It’s the season to go beyond yourself and what image you want to project into the world; and instead reach out to those less fortunate, in need, and desperate.
The only thing I see Kim K. being desperate about is making headlines. And that just makes me sad.
I keep a photo on my fridge, but it’s not of her. It’s not of any celebrity. It’s of the first Thanksgiving dinner I had in my first apartment. My table was overwhelmed with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, sparkling apple cider, and pumpkin pie. That entire meal personally cost me 76 cents.
Why? Because I was blessed by people who wanted to contribute to my first “Big Holiday Meal”. Because I knew how to coupon shop. Because I bought a candle that cost 76 cents, with tax!
I keep the photo up year round to remind me that even when I don’t think I have much, I have far more than I need. I guess I’m more like Kim that I thought.
I wonder if I could get a sponsor to pay me just for being me? Maybe my family and I could be the official spokesmodels for Target or Wal*Mart….
This post was featured on
Aug 13, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is my response to a writing prompt from Writer’s Digest Community last year.
BENDING THE RULES: The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service”—but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside.
The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service” – but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside. He laughed at the thought of what he must look like to passers-by. No doubt, a down-on-his-luck replica of that famous you-know-who celebrity. If they only knew. Nothing is ever as it appears.
“Get a job!” someone scowled, causing him to jump back. He lost his footing on the wet sidewalk and landed, bum first, into an oily puddle. I need a stunt double, he mused to himself, then broke out into hard laughter. For it was always his choice to do the stunts himself. It gave more honesty to the scenes, he often said.
And now, with no director or script or camera crew, here he was. On the rain-soaked streets; trying desperately to reach her.
She glanced back playfully; egging him to keep after her, daring him to the chase. He rose to the challenge and started again. His stride automatically increased in large bounds but his focus turned to recall of how they met. There had been auditions and screen tests. Agents and managers. Meetings and negotiations.
She’s stubborn to work with, they warned. She has a will of her own. But he always loved a challenge. And he always got the girl. There was no need to think otherwise. Until now.
Their courtship barely started and he was in love. The tables had turned, and this strong leading man was now being led.
And so he chased. Whenever they weren’t working, and sometimes when they were, he pursued her in a manner almost ridiculous. Like now.
It had started when she greeted him in costume. She often found him half-dressed. Giving him no time to prepare, she grabbed his sandwich and ran away with a smile and “come get me” look. The chase, the game, the race. It was all on.
He gave no care to anyone or anything except pursuing her, and suddenly she was trapped. She managed to escape into the deli, out of the wet falling sky.
The irony struck him. Her beauty had always opened doors for her. Here he was. Soaked. Dirty. Determined.
He paid no attention to the sign, and strode in. With authority. She backed into a corner, almost laughing. The patrons, drying and feeding themselves, stopped to observe, whisper, and gawk. He gave no attention to his peripheral vision.
Finally, with no place to go, he backed her into the corner. She took one bite of the sandwich and dropped the remnant on the floor. She was collared, and she knew it.
He smiled his Oscar-winning smile. “Tell me you love me,” he urged as his embrace became more of a stronghold.
She looked up, licking her mouth more for his benefit than hers. Almost nodding, definitely winking, she answered.
“Woof.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
