Just another metaphor

I've been doing some thinking today, rehashing old thoughts in maybe a new way, and it felt for a while there like they were something productive, something to actually make me happier and snap me out of my funk. They go in circles, so it's hard to type them out.

Feminism is just a metaphor, like any other. It doesn't matter whether it's objectively true in any way, just that it feels true to me. And, in my version of feminism, the patriarchy isn't the villain; it's the narrator. Women are the villains, and the victims, and the cast of heroes is made up almost exclusively of men. Doesn't this explain so much about me, if not our world? I don't let myself think of myself as anything but a victim or a villain; if I'm not sitting lost and lonely, brokenhearted over the things I can't change, I must be doing something wrong, so I feel guilty. How horrifying is that? But it's true. I feel guilty all the time, almost no matter what I'm doing. If I'm not miserable, I feel guilty for it.

I blame too much on my mother, I know, and I don't have as much compassion for her as I would like. Maybe blaming her for this, though, is the key to that compassion. She taught me to think this way, not because she was a cruel and evil person (the villain of the piece), but because it was all she knew herself. We teach our children no more and no less than what we truly believe ourselves, right? I remember very clearly the first time I failed a class. It was ninth grade, and I finally got to march with the band in a competition for the first time. I was no good, but I was excited about it all the same, and I felt good and strong and proud in my silly purple uniform. But I failed biology, so I was ineligible and couldn't go to competition, and I was crushed for weeks. I remember one night we were eating dinner at the table (it must have been a holiday or something), and I couldn't stop crying over my food. No one had much sympathy, and when they told me it wasn't as big a deal as I was making it, I tried to explain: my whole life was made up of school, where I was awkward and miserable, and home, where everyone was always so angry. But in band, I got to be proud of myself and have fun. It was the only fun thing in my whole day. I don't remember the words I used, but I don't think I'll ever forget my mother's reaction. She slammed down the big white ceramic bowl, the one we mostly used for mashed potatoes, glared at me, and said "Welcome to adulthood." I ran to my room and cried myself to sleep, totally oblivious to the irony.

Yeah, it's a terrible story. I should have some compassion for that girl on the cusp of adulthood, being told that the entire rest of her life will be all responsibility and sadness. But more than that, right now I have some compassion for that angry, tired woman with the bowl of mashed potatoes she probably didn't want to make. She honestly believed, still does believe, that being an adult means doing what needs to be done, and having not one ounce of joy or pride or confidence.

When I promise myself that I won't become my mother, this is the moment I need to remember. It's one of the most important lessons she ever taught me, and one I desperately need to unlearn.

I spend so much time ashamed that nothing really feels good to me except being around other people, so ashamed that it consumes my thoughts when I'm alone and I'm not just lonely, I'm overwhelmed by shame and self hate. Of course I'm alone, who would want to be around me, I have no confidence or strength, nothing to draw people to me. And the worst part is, there's some tiny kernel of truth in that (I'm not going to meet new people sitting alone in my apartment), so it's very easy to convince myself that it's the defining truth of my existence.

But it's not. So the only thing that brings me happiness right now is other people? Fine. I'm going to delight in other people, and I'm not going to apologize to anybody for it, not even myself. I'll see David on Thursday and Lain on Friday, and this will be the highlight of my winter. I'm going to stop being ashamed of that, and start acting like it's true. I'm going to clean this apartment, top to bottom, because even if it's kinda plain and cramped with old, ugly furniture, it can at least be clean. I can fill it up with smells of cookies and citrus and sandalwood, make it warm and inviting, and be proud to invite people in and make them feel welcomed and calm.

I'm going to keep repeating to myself things people have said to me that I find flattering, but let myself believe them for once. Livvy says I've got a skill for comforting people who are down, taking care of them with my picnics of fruit and cheese and my sweet-smelling sugar scrubs. I'm going to clean out the fridge of all the sad, half-rotten things I haven't thrown out, fill it back up with fresh fruit and the tastiest cheeses I can afford, stock up on the ingredients for the things I cook best. David used to tell me I was beautiful, that he sometimes couldn't resist me even when he was trying. So I'll wear my favorite sweaters, style my hair and put on some makeup, not because I need it but because it makes me feel more confident, and I will blow him away with how good I look, maybe even make him regret that I'm not even a little bit his anymore. And if that makes him uncomfortable and he leaves right away, so be it. I don't want to spend one more second with him apologizing for myself. I've done more than enough of that already.

Will this mood last? Will I be able to hold on to this confidence and self-possession for the next three days and actually get all of these things done? I don't see why not. Because the one thing that always brings me joy is seeing the people I care about, and I'm about to see two of them who live very far away. As long as I keep that in mind, I think I can also find some joy in scrubbing the floor and folding my laundry.

And if not? It's all still true. Metaphors work because they're true.