I’m sitting down to write a blog post for Rare Broad and I feel stumped about what I want to talk about. I have a million and one ideas. The “what” isn’t the real problem.
There is just too much going on in my head.
“I should probably write a blog post related to my coaching program being released. Or more in-depth about the habit hierarchy, maybe even make a worksheet. But what would that even look like?”
I feel useless, frazzled and all over the place. And deep down I honestly feel like I need to talk about my feelings on the business side of things to clear it all up and get it out of the way.
I want to write for meaghangallant.com. I want to write the way I wrote for that initial Rare Broad launch blog post.
It’s beautiful and true and my heart out in the world in words. And I don’t know why but that just feels right, it feels good. Even if no one has even seen it.
So where am I at right now?
Right now, I’m torn and confused; mixed.
I’m mixed up because I’m frustrated with what my finances prevents me from doing. With my time, with what my lack of commitment up until now has provided me. With the lacklusterness of a launch of my program launch – the big deal that this is and yet the complete tiny-ness of it.
I’ve been tapping weekly, if not daily, around all of these feelings I’m trying to clear up.
The smallness, the near constant inferiority I feel, my seemingly total lack of confidence.
On how insignificant I feel for feeling so small. For living so small and for having such big hurdles to overcome.
It feels like every time I read a post or watch a video of a coach talking about these obstacles that “we” need to clear – ones that would be a massive starry-eyed dream to attain for me – they are made to be minuscule, silly and it compounds a deep, deep sense of shame.
A feeling that maybe none of this is for me. That it’s just not meant to be true for me. I’m too small, too scared, too shy, too concealed, too terrified to be anything.
I can’t remember if I’ve always been this way or not. I remember feeling bigger. I remember being told, being admired, for taking big, bold action. For feeling fear but fucking going for it full throttle.
I don’t know what has changed. I don’t know what’s different. Perhaps just the crushing weight of responsibility and who I should be now as an Adult.
I tapped on being an adult. That being an adult means being bad and mean. That it means being untrue to yourself and not chasing your dreams. Because you’re tethered down by rent and car insurance and phone bills.
It feels silly to admit. Shameful, even. But I feel like it’ something I should be talking about. That it’ not something I’m the only one struggling with.
I recently retook the Myers-Briggs test and while I have always tested as an INFJ this time I got back INFP.
And it felt good to know it changed. That I changed. That surely that change has been for the better.
That I’m evolving and growing. The only true thing I seem to value these days.
But the INFP, the mediator, can be too idealistic, too altruistic. Too head in the clouds.
And that’s a fear I have. Well, that’s a criticism I carry with me. From relationships I’ve cut ties with years ago.
But still, all those words that cut and stung I continue to carry with me to this day. I would love to just drop them but I can’t will my fingers to let them go.
They follow me. Heavy and taunting. Subconsciously most days. But they are there and I know exactly when their deep gnarly roots were first planted.
I’m too childlike.
Too over-imaginative.
I don’t live in the “real world”.
I’m not here in reality.
I’m naive.
Foolish.
And I’ve let those words lash at me till I’ve shrunk down so small.
I thought I had rid myself of them. But I just got rid of the source and kept the poison close to my heart.
And what do I have to do to get rid of them? What do I have to do to finally, finally let go?
I want to believe in myself. I want to be optimistic again. I want to have faith in myself, in my ideas.
That there is a greater good in this world.
Depression has taken all the cutting remarks and used them to box me in, imprison me in darkness.
A perpetual dark gloomy cloud laced around my eyes.
It feels like this is the way through.
That writing through the process, about the process, is the only true way of letting go.
I’m tired and weary. I’m sad, so, so heavily sad. And it feels like I can’t possibly fit another thing on my plate.
What am I thinking adding another responsibility? Another expectation on myself to not measure up to.
But what if it wasn’t like that at all. What if it was fuel. What if it was a catharsis.
What if it was the way through?
Because the only one making the rules all this time has been me.
I can pretend I haven’t been. That I’ve been doing what others have told me to do or bullied me into.
But the truth is I allowed it all to continue. Long after ties were cut I took on that cruelty and used it against myself.
I’ve kept myself small. I’ve held myself back. I’ve told myself what I can and cannot do.
But the truth is none of that is true. At least, not if I don’t want it to be.
The one thing that has always kept me going through the dark despair of depression has been the reminder that I can write this story that is my life however I want to. Yet I’ve been living as if someone else has had control of the pen.
But I am the writer. This is my story. And if I want to write, I will write.
