Stepping out of the shadows into the light
Friends! You are the BEST. A few of you replied to my last newsletter in the kindest, most supportive way possible, and it MEANT.THE.WORLD. Seriously. Especially since I've been struggling with this whole writing-thing, contemplating more than once to just call it a day, do my real job, read the books of real writers, and be content with my lot.
My lot is amazing! I know how lucky I am. I love my husband, my chosen country, (some of) my family and (most of) my friends. Just kidding! (Or am I?)
Still working on the complicated world of relationships, to be honest, but who isn't?
I'm also fortunate that I genuinely like my job as a small town x-ray technologist, which is perfect for me and all my quirks. Rich and I are both reasonably healthy, and we have no money problems (not bragging here, just immensely grateful to be able to say that after we had our phone turned off more than once and juggled multiple, crippling credit card bills for most of our relationship).
Everything is good. Great, in fact.
All my basic needs have been more than taken care off: I have food, shelter, security, companionship, love, Netflix, and a surplus of the minimum amount of dogs I need to be happy (>3).
But, as you may have gathered from my last letter, something has been missing.
It's a something that's a luxury. You only get to be slightly dissatisfied with a life so rich with blessings and comforts when all your basic needs are being taken care of. And as my husband likes to remind me, we are luckier than 99% of the world population. I know he's making that number up, but I also know that he's right.
Anyway. Even if you suspect that seven(?!) billion people have it worse than you, you'll still suffer if you're unhappy or something is missing from your life. Other peoples' suffering does not diminish your own.
I had lost an important part of my life: I stopped dreaming.
The way it happened is really stupid and quite embarrassing. And it happened twofold, which is twice as embarrassing, but is also the clue I needed to finally make the connection.
You may know that I like yoga. A few years ago I was massively into it very openly. I participated in yoga challenges on Instagram all the time, posted pictures daily and was progressing fast. So fast, in fact, that a yoga studio reached out to me a few years ago and asked if I would be interested in teaching yoga classes. My first reaction? I was shocked. A tiny part of me was flattered, but mostly I was appalled. Me, teaching? In front of a class? With everybody looking at me?? Hell no.
I turned them down, and felt bad. Bad all around, without being able to point out what was going on. My emotions were all over the place: I was disappointed in myself, felt bad for making these people think that I actually knew anything about yoga (I excel at imposter syndrome), and a small part of me was mad at myself for not even attempting it. Why didn't I take this amazing opportunity? I didn't know if it was my introvert self turning it down, my imposter syndrome, or maybe - laziness? Was I too lazy to teach? All I knew was that I was disgusted with myself.
You know what I did? I stopped practicing yoga. Not completely, but I stopped working on my advanced poses. I stopped posting pictures. I just - disappeared. It's not the yoga studio's fault (obviously!), it was my own dysfunctional upbringing. It was as if I couldn't handle even the slightest attention to myself - I had to disappear.
Right around that time (could have been a year earlier or later, time is an illusion), I published my first book Let's Pretend This is Normal. I had a million expectations/fears around it: that it would become a best-seller. That it would flop. That it would launch me into becoming a full-time writer. That people would hate it. That I would get a contract forcing me to write another book, and I wouldn't be able to do it. That I would start to hate writing. That I would have to go on book tours. That everybody would hate me. That people would start recognizing me? Would I have to do interviews on the radio, or (gasp) - on TV?? Would I get hate mail?
This is what happened:
My old job hosted a book signing event, and so many people came. They did a potluck lunch, and way more people than I'd ever expected showed up: retired techs, people off work, and friends of them who'd met me before. I signed and sold 25 copies that day, and it was one of the most surreal, in a good way, days of my life.
In my current job it got even more bizarre: in a moment of sheer madness bravery, I had approached a local business and asked them if they would be willing to sell my book. Guess what: they said yes!
I hesitantly mentioned that fact at work - and all hell broke lose. The nurses and x-ray techs rallied, every last one of them buying my book, most reading it, and many complimenting me on it - and then recommending it.
For a few weeks I had the most surreal experiences: walking into work and seeing a waiting patient reading a copy of my book.
Patients looking at me closely, and then asking: "Are you the one who wrote the book?"
I had people come up to me and hug me, thanking me for being so honest. It was wild.
Looking back on it now it was all so incredibly beautiful! The definition of a dream come true.
I should have been over the moon.
Instead I was terrified. I couldn't handle it. Everything I had been told growing up came crashing to the surface:
Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't be the centre of attention! Don't be so self-involved, Miriam.
Those lessons are buried deep into the very essence of myself. I've only had one birthday party for myself in the last 20 years, but I've thrown one for my husband almost every year. Our wedding was what I like to call the worst wedding I've ever been to - which is an amusing story to tell (it's a hit at parties), but I never allowed myself to have the wedding of my dreams. I don't need one, I would tell myself. I shouldn't be the centre of attention.
(Can I tell you a secret? I'm still dreaming of myself in a white dress, walking down the aisle trailed by my dogs, having a party with my friends where I can celebrate the love between me and my husband.)
That picture is from my 35th birthday party, almost 7 years ago. The only time I was ever lifted into the air like this. I've never forgotten it.
I digress. Long story short: I fled. I literally ran away, taking a job in a town that took me away from home for half of the month. Nuts, I know now.
When I came back, after having published my my second book, I sort of gave up. I decided to count my blessings, focus on my job and my home life, and forget about those unsettling dreams of mine. After all, they had given me lots of grief, hadn't they?
I took on more hospitals, working as much as possible, trying to convince myself that it was to "advance my career". It worked for a while; being busy will do that.
But it won't work forever. The pandemic distracted me for a good long time, as did the wildfires we had this summer.
But I knew it wouldn't last. I felt numb, lethargic, and bored.
I've been missing my old, excitable, everything-is-possible-life more than I can put into words.
The spark I've experienced so many times upon waking up had been gone.
And I missed it like crazy.
It's a buzzing in your veins that makes you feel wildly alive. Everything you look at takes on a golden gleam. The whole world looks like a treasure chest ready to burst, just waiting for you to open your arms and accept her gifts. It's the most wonderful, exciting feeling in the world.
Well, I reclaimed that feeling last weekend.
I wrote my heart out - and I submitted that story to a very prestigious contest: The CBC Short Story Contest.
I know the chances of winning are minuscule. But that's not the point.
(In fact, winning may send me into another tailspin, so let's not think about it.)
The point is that I entered. I've been wanting to enter that particular contest for the last 3 years, but always chickened out.
Except: This year I DIDN'T.
And it feels momentous. I'm stepping out of the shadows, maybe for the first time in my life.
I'm stepping into the light. I'm getting used to being seen.
I'm taking a seat at the table. Getting used to being heard.
Maybe I will even walk down an isle in a white dress, 20 years later?
Anything is possible.
Vol. 75