To be enough
It’s my 28th birthday. I don’t consider it any different to any other day. It’s not that special to me but this time I tried to make it different. This morning I drove to ournearest archdiocese and gave away all the cheap clothes and shoes I accumulated during my early twenties. Before leaving I put everything in neat, separate piles and then continued to categorize them because I’m an adult. Or OCD. One of the two. When I got back from my clothing adventures I feasted with my 80+ year old grandparents on tortelloni made by yours truly with the help of my wonderful Nonna. They weren’t bad but I agree that a little extra salt wouldn’t have hurt. To be fair they were my first batch and not too bad for a first go. Right now I’m drinking Kombucha in the garden, enjoying the slightest breeze and just being in my body for a while. As I burp up my probiotic goodness I write and wait to meet up with some groovy people for birthday beers at a park. You heard that right, birthday beers, park. Ain’t nothin’ but a G thang.
If I saw myself from birds eye view I would see someone who is completely content. That’s what I should be feeling. So why does my mind disagree?
We fight a lot me and her. She wants to worry all the time. All I want to is peace.
So as I sit and sip on my fizzy rasberry overly priced drink, watch how the wind dances with the tall cedar trees and hear the birds chirping their birthday wishes at me, my mind decides that, no. No. You can’t just sit here and be happy. That’s bullshit. Here’s some things to think about:
- Why did you start making your own kombucha? What made you think that you could possibly pull that off?
- You feel like an asshole for acting like an asshole with your father
- Are you making the right choices in life? Will it all come crumbling down before you?
- Why does nobody love you?
I give every thought the same emotional weight. Yes, Kombucha and the idea of perennial loneliness are both things I have strong feelings for. In all of my shitty thoughts one thing is constant: I’m not good enough.
I’m not a good enough kombucha maker, daughter, lover, friend, person. I can be all those things but then I never believe in myself enough to allow myself to be good at any of them. I already think I’m going to fail. Why? It’s so silly.
Last year at 27 I made a very important choice. Deciding to see a therapist was the most impacting decision in my life. Easily one of the best things I ever did. Not so much because of the help received, which was invaluable, but because I finally, for the first time ever, put myself first.
I don’t know how you perceive yourself, or what your relationship with your self is, or how you identify self but for me it was never something I thought about. Me, I, Sara was never important. What was important was the vessel. What could be perceived by others, my external body, it’s appearance and my physical actions. Nurturing or cultivating an idea of self was never really a priority. Values? What are those? It never even occurred to me that they could matter. I was blinded by bright lights. All I saw was the surface of everything. I never questioned. I just did. What did I do? Well…
I worked out because I hated my body. I had to look slender and thin to be considered feminine, desirable, to be wanted.
In any job my mission was to try and make everybody happy. Do everything, extra hours, don’t get paid, sacrifice yourself because they’re worthy of time off and you’re not. They’re worthy of a life of purpose and I was not.
I chose friends out of fear of loneliness and never once thought whether I could add value to their lives or them to mine. I didn’t value them as people and more as a ways to save myself from myself.
It was a long and turbulent year of hard work and excruciating sessions in front of the mirror to finally reach a level where I don’t despise the woman that looks back at me. I still don’t love myself all round. For example since re-entering my italian family circle I haven’t been eating as cleanly as I would have liked and it’s making me feel rather bloated. This would normally translate to: I’m fat and consequently no one will ever love me.
It’s hard to take yourself out of that mentality, you know? To be fair I am surrounded by messages that tell me I’m not good enough. Not beautiful enough, skinny enough, funny enough, feminine enough, green enough and so on. It’s in the media we all consume, in social narratives around beauty, friends, family, everywhere. I can’t escape “not being enough”.
But what if I told you, I told myself, that there’s nothing more that I can be than this person right now writing this…this…blog entry? How underwhelming! In this moment I cannot be more, nor less, than this. Everything that I’ve experienced, the good, bad and the ugly, have culminated to this rather out of the ordinary 28 year old woman burping up rasberry Kombucha in the garden her father grew up in.
What is this creature I speak of you may ask?
Well, it’s:
- a very impulsive woman who has traveled alone across many countries and done things people don’t do out of fear and “common-sense”
- a loyal AF friend and sister who would cross mountains, seas and storms for the people she loves
- a good listener — you want to talk about your trip to the grocery store or that time you let your girlfriend keg you? I’m all ears for both.
- general lover. I love all things. Even shitty small dogs. Fuck ’em, really, they suck. But I love ‘em.
Don’t get me wrong I strive to be better. To improve. There have been some positive developments already.
I no longer work out because I hate my body but because I love it. I want it to be it’s best. Not look it’s best. I found out that being and looking are strongly correlated. Who’d have thought?
I no longer work with no objective other than to please others. I look for purpose in what I do. Even if it’s making Kombucha.
I have people in my life that I cherish beyond comprehension and all I want is the best for them and they for me. These people add value to my life and all I can wish for is that I add something to theirs as well.
The food thing is definitely something that’s still in progress. I have managed to speak on my dietary preferences and that’s a huge thing for someone who lives with a very traditional Italian family.
Small steps. Progress is never linear. Wherever you are on the progress graph that’s exactly where you need to be. Today, whatever the mind fuckery going on in your head, you’re enough. You’ll see how much better things get tomorrow if you trust yourself and the process. You can’t jump any steps so you might as well enjoy the ride!
Until next week,
Sarita
