I feel sure of myself, after a long period of feeling scattered and tossed about.
I feel in control of the way I see myself, even if I'll never feel really in control.
I am in love with my husband.
I'm so proud of my kindergarten girl.
My two year old read me a book, today. She pointed to all of the pictures and made funny, squeaky little voices saying things like, "It's nap time, baby." And, "No, I will not go to nap time!"
It was nap time, and that's always a hard thing to reconcile.
I'm a good mom. I am good at helping people. Can I say that? Is it really okay to just stop what you're doing and admit that you're good at something? I'm good at hugging babies. I'm good at being outside of the school early, and waving enthusiastically as you come out of the front door.
I'm good at imagining things. I'm good at having crushes on singers.
Lying awake in bed, making up romances for imaginary young people. Sitting on a blanket in the sun. Telling funny stories about grown ups. Lifting weights. Growing kale. Singing soulful songs in my underwear. Swimming in the ocean. Spotting wildlife. Crying when somebody looks really beautiful. I'm good at all of those things.
I get a good tan. I close my eyes and point my face right into the sun. The world goes all yellow and orange and then red.
Wearing funny glasses. Cutting hair. Writing sad stories. Taking your side in an argument. Picking apples. Wearing black dresses with cleavage. Meeting new people.
I'm not bad at life. I've been convinced of that, from time to time. I'm good at life. I am.
I might get bored and frustrated. I might get confused about my worth. I get down, but I am a person who enjoys things. I am a fancy food person, an ice cream after school person, a coffee drink with foam person.
I am interested in things. I like watching surgeries on tv. I feel like I should have been a doctor, except that I got terrible grades and rebelled and wore black lipstick in the 10th grade. I like growing things. I like learning about things; soil and mental illness and the properties of blood. I want to see your scars. I want to bear mine. Insects, fevers, nosebleeds, caverns and ravines, empty fishing villages at the end of the world. I am not a terrible person because I have problems with being me, all the time.
There are pieces of me in the gutter. There are pieces of me in the belly of a whale. I am traveling through your veins; I am the core of an apple. I died in childbirth; a particle of fluid along an undulating umbilical cord. I am so far over the water. I hear a gull calling in the distance. The slippery back of a great, gray fish emerges below me. I am a shadow hissing across the surface of the sea.
There is nothing wrong with this, with being me.