This isn’t the story I planned to write.
What I planned to write was the story of my inspiration, of faith, of interesting and wonderful things that have happened to me in the last 10 days. What I wanted to write was the story of my blessings, my gratitude, the sense of excitement I have had every day, for the last week. My fierce love for my family, my husband, my friends – even my job.
Instead I write this story.
The story of a woman who doesn’t feel worthy.
Yes, that’s right.
The story of a woman who can’t let herself enjoy her blessings.
The story of a woman who, deep down, is terrified that without warning, it will all go away – and she will be left at the station, in the rain, as the train pulls away.
My story.
There is this small voice – deep inside of me – that cannot say, “Open. Feel. Let yourself be Loved.” When I get like this, locked inside my head, it’s like I’m crouching in the depths of the forest – watching the people with their wagons tread the wide road. I hear them sing. I see the dancing.
Or this:
I am on the stage, my heart pumping, the spotlight shines. I am triumphant in my performance. The crowd applauds. A standing ovation. I walk to the wings. In the dark, away from the bright lights – I review in my head where I missed my lines, faltered in delivery, lagged on a cue. On the side of the stage, I deconstruct.
On the stage, I swell with pride. I take the flowers.
In the dressing room, I stare in the mirror, never good enough.
This is my state at the moment. In between.
