writing for self-discovery

I watched Fixer Upper, enthralled as Chip and Jo Gaines renovated old houses. Then Magnolia, Joanna’s magazine, arrived on the scene with inspiring interior design ideas, delicious recipes, and pertinent articles. It’s one of the only periodicals besides Astronomy magazine I read cover to cover. (A nice right brain, left brain balance, wouldn’t you say?)

Magnolia’s summer 2024 edition has a story at the end: Chip Gets the Last Word. He talks about loving the demolition process in old houses, but not necessarily for the thrill of destruction. For him, he says, it’s more about discovery, the potential to uncover a treasure beneath the scarred and often ugly surface. At the end he writes, Maybe we’re all built to break things open, then to build ourselves back up again. That way we never fully lose the pieces that make us whole.

You know me, I embrace going deep, and, boy! Oh, boy! His essay sent me hurtling to the depths of my psychological past in search of those pieces. The hard work of my construction project enabled me to avoid opening that can of squirmies. But something lurked in the shadows, and now that the work was done there were no more excuses. Time to address the skeleton in the closet…the elephant in the room. The article was timely.

Breaking things open in the subconscious isn’t easy. Stuff gets buried, especially painful or shameful episodes in our personal history. It isn’t like taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But when something triggers an undesirable response, it’s a cue to investigate the why, to sift through layers of avoidance, denial, deflection, delusion, and figure it out so we can heal. So we can recover the pieces that make us whole.

I’m dealing with one of those avoidance/denial things right now, a very old pattern that I don’t want to repeat. Full disclosure. Here goes!

I’m restless. I have uprooted my life over and over again to seek new thrills, new horizons, new challenges. I know this about myself yet I’ve been unable to put that demon to death. Where did it come from, the inability to stay satisfied? The insatiable need for something more?

I’ll admit at the moment I’m afraid. I’ve created an idyllic place to retire. It’s taken perseverance, time, energy, creativity, inspiration, and dogged persistence to get here. And now…

it’s finished.

Will that itchiness that makes me squirm in my own skin return? Will what I’ve created be enough? Can I settle for peace, ease, the warmth of family, stability, a predictable life?

Here’s what I learned as I backpedaled through childhood. Work was praised. Accomplishments were rewarded. Travel was idealized. Expectations were high. I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday holding mother’s hand as we walked out of the classroom on the last day of kindergarten. At the door, my teacher stopped us. “Sherry, I expect great things from you,” she said. I was six years old.

I expect great things from you. What does that even mean?

She was my first teacher. The voice of authority. I respected her, performed at my best for her, lived and breathed for her approval. And I’ve never stopped.

That’s it, isn’t it?

Part of me got stuck at six years old. My entire life, I was still trying to please her, never quite satisfied with my accomplishments, always chasing the elusive expectation of greatness.

If I’d been a different sort of child, her statement might have passed right over me. But I was a serious little girl, hungry for affirmation. I had to win every race, ace the tests, be the best.

She couldn’t have known the heavy burden she lay on my shoulders that day. How her words burned into my soul and shaped my life.

At seventy-four-almost-five, I shouldn’t be worrying that this isn’t enough. Holding my breath hoping it is. Feeling a bubble of panic prickling my chest as I envision the future. I know what I want and I have it. All the boxes are checked. That’s a first for me. And, Oh! My! God! It’s scary!