I'm an Impostor

I've literally tried to start this blog three times. You know that too-tired-to-think-straight feeling? I'm there. Here's hoping for the best! #day5 #write31days

I read an interesting article today about a clinical disorder I believe I have: Impostor Syndrome. Yes, it's a real thing. It affects many writers, and women are more at-risk than men. At the most basic level, people with this disorder have a fear they will be "unmasked" as the fraud they truly are, that their accomplishments in life are not as important as others believe them to be. This is especially detrimental to writers and could even explain why many are traditionally procrastinators.

Writers have a constant fear of not being good enough or that a piece could have been better. Eventually, the fear of not meeting deadlines wins over the fear of bad writing, and, therefore, the writing eventually gets done.

In my case, there are no deadlines. I'm simply doing this for me. If I get through these 31 days, it'll be a damn miracle. Forgive the Eeyore tone. I'm spent.

See the Good...Be the Good,

Kelly


http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/02/why-writers-are-the-worst-procrastinators/283773/

Making Memories

Windows down, music blaring, the cool air prickling my skin, and I'm suddenly thrust back in time to the drag in Fairfield, Texas, on an October Saturday night. As we take a left and hit the back roads, the Fall smells engulf my senses. Burning leaves waft through the open sunroof, and I'm instantly a giddy teenager all over again. I know every word to every song screaming through the speakers, and as my sidekick and I belt out the catchy tune, I'm reminiscent of that cute guy waving in the white Dodge. We see a cop, and I quickly turn down the radio in order to avoid detection. We laugh. We sing. We are.

The funny thing is I'm experiencing this moment now with my 9-year-old, and as much as I treasure the wonderful memories of growing up in Fairfield, my appreciation of being in this moment almost becomes too much. Our eyes meet, and Addison says to me, "You're a lot of fun, Mom!" Just making memories, baby girl. Making wonderful memories.

See the Good, Be the Good,

Kelly   

Words are Forever. Literally.

It's been an interesting day, to say the least. I refuse to get into that, but a lesson remains: in the digital world we live in, nothing can EVER be taken back.

We recently forced this idea down our 7th grader's throat when he was being irresponsible with his texting and social media. The issue was brought to our attention, and we immediately obtained his phone. It had been cleared of any damaging evidence. Shocker. AR missed one key element - the evidence was alive and well on the other kid's phone. Come on, son!

Thankfully, his situation was more "boys being boys."  (Let's not even get into the verbal exchanges that included language, and animals, I still can't believe came out of my sweet, baby boy's mouth.) But the old adage "think before you speak" has never meant more than it does now in our technology-driven world. Think before you speak, post, text, Tweet, and the list goes on and on. Words matter.

I know what you're all thinking. "Maybe she should take her own advice." Hello and hallelujer! I agree. And I vow to do just that.

Side note: writing for only 10 minutes is really, really hard. So much more I want to say. So much more editing to do. Must stick to the rules.

See the Good, Be the Good,

Kelly

Stop Using This Hashtag Now

When the hashtag phenomenon exploded on the scene, I immediately fell in love. Witty, funny, intelligent statements in 30 characters, give or take. You would assume the lack of punctuation would bother my "English Teacher" style. Never! I believe in artistic liberties, and hashtags are one form of that.

However, there is one hashtag I refuse to use, and my skin crawls anytime I see it. You'll accuse me of being over-sensitive or dramatic, (I prefer the term "passionate"), but the truth is it's just plain rude.

#my_______isbetterthanyours

#mymomisbetterthanyours

#myjobisbetterthanyours

#mykidsarebetterthanyours

What's up with our society's need to constantly compare ourselves to others in the first place? I just don't get it.

Secondly, you might be right. Maybe someone in your life is better than my someone, but is that my fault?

My ten minutes are up (#write31days), but let me leave you with this...

The #my______isbetterthanyours is an insensitive hashtag. It's absolutely amazing that you have wonderful people in your life, but not everyone is so lucky. And I'm not saying we shouldn't brag on those we love. But a sweet #weloveourgrandmother is just as effective, if not more so, than #ourgrandmotherisbetterthanyours. 

Let's ditch the comparisons! #mytwocents

#write31days

As usual, I'm late. I found this fun writing challenge, and of course it began yesterday, but who cares.

Here's the basics:  write 10 minutes a day, uninhibited, unedited (yea, right), and completely off the cuff. Those of you who truly know me, know I love to write. And I was recently caught off guard when someone who hardly knows me at all asked if I'm still writing. Someone noticed.

Why am I not writing much these days? Good question, and the answer is pretty basic. I'm scared. Straight-up fear keeps me from writing. My need for everything to be perfect means if I write, then I have to do it to the very best of my ability no matter how long it may take. When I typically write a blog, the consumption of time is anywhere between 1 to 2 DAYS. It has to be as perfect as possible. And we all know I have so much free time during volleyball/football season.

And then there's the fear of acceptance, and of being vulnerable. Admitting that I'm scared to write makes me feel incredibly exposed. What if people don't like what I have to say? What if they make fun of me behind my back? What if being a writer isn't cool? (Because, you know, my goal in life is to be as cool as possible.) While that's definitely a joke, it's still true that I have a need for acceptance. I think all people do, but some are better at acknowledging the varying degrees of acceptance than others of us.

The biggest fear of all? What if you see the real me. Not this perception of only the good parts of my life, but the real me. For example, I like to cuss. I don't do it on my job or in front of my own kids (usually), but so many times in my writing I cuss, and then I edit it out. My friends will tell you I cuss. Thankfully, it's something I can turn off and on as needed; however, the saying "I love Jesus but I cuss a little" was specifically created for me.

And as my time draws to an end, let me leave you with this: my writing over the next 31 days may or may not interest you. Do not feel obligated to read. But I desperately need your encouragement. I have a lot at stake here:  my son. My main motivation for doing this is Austin. He believes in me and my writing more than anyone in this world, and I want to show him I can do this. I want him to see what it takes to fulfill your dreams in this world.  You see, he will be a successful director one day, and it breaks my heart when he asks why I'm not pursuing my writing dreams, because I know what he's truly asking is "Can it even be done?" I must prove to him that anything is possible with determination and perseverance.

I may never have a writing career, but I have to show him I gave it a shot. This is step one.

(As I read back over this, it sounds like pure crap, but I'm posting it anyway.)

Random Thoughts From a Newly 40-Year-Old Woman

Turning 40 wreaked havoc on my life, and I didn't even see it coming. I was completely blindsided by the chaos that ensued.

On my birthday, September 24th, I walked into a gym and office outlandishly decorated to the nines. Although there were a lot of old lady jokes, I never felt old. I still don't, and thanks to amazing genes, I really don't think I look 40, either. I enjoyed the laughs on me and felt loved by my sweet friends and co-workers.

Two days later, I was surprised, again, by a room full of our closest friends and family at my favorite fancy restaurant. I can't begin to tell you how much it meant to have so many of the people I love in the same room, especially knowing how much they loved me, too. The fact that I was the big 4-0 never really entered my mind. Every other birthday had been easy, so I was just happy to be alive and surrounded by great people.

Over the next few weeks I noticed some changes. I was looking at my life with a microscope, as well as the world around me. Insecurities began to creep in. What have I accomplished in the last 40 years? How much time have I wasted on the inconsequential aspects of life? Have I already lived half of my life? (Will I ever be a writer?) These questions consumed me.

When causally talking with a friend about my intellectual hurdles, she mentioned an article that said when women get older, they begin to go through a second adolescence. The age of this second adolescence varies from as early as 35 to as late as 60. Not all women go through it, but it does seem to be the first stage of the dreaded menopause for some.

Yes, that evil word "menopause." It's perplexing to me that when we mention the hormonal chaos of our teenagers, it's simply a stage of life; however, a woman goes through menopause with terms such as "crazy" and "mentally unstable" attached. Is menopause not just another stage of life?

In her book Inventing the Rest of Our Lives:  Women in Second Adulthood, Suzanne Levine writes about the eerily similar side-effects of a teenager going through their changes and a woman going through her changes, describing both as werewolves. "The difference is that the teenage werewolf is accepted as a stage of life, while the menopausal werewolf is considered an affliction in need of treatment."

This just pisses me off, because it's true! I've never really thought about it until recently, but we could really take this further by mentioning the taboo that IS mental illness. Our society, generally speaking, believes that mental illness is the owner's fault; that they should be able to control it on their own. It's acceptable to treat any ailments within your body, but if it's mental illness, keep it to yourself lest you be harshly judged.

I am no doctor; these are merely my own observations of the world around me. I also do not believe I'm going through menopause, but I do know those big life questions I thought I answered back in my twenties are coming back, bigger and stronger than ever. My grandmother has told me for as long as I can remember that I'm inquisitive by nature, and it's times like these I wish she were wrong. But I accept who I am, and, thankfully, so does my family.

I'm so immersed in these philosophical questions that I recently began reading Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living by Krista Tippet. I'm laughing even as I type this, as I'm sure you are, too. It's ridiculous. Surely, I'm making this "life" thing more difficult than it has to be, right? But even one chapter in, I'm amazed. My inquisitive nature wins over everything, so this is my attempt to feed it. Combined with my current challenge to read the Bible in its entirety, I feel I'm on the right path.

So, why did I write this? Because surely I'm not the only person struggling with these life questions. Sometimes I feel alone in this quest, but I'm certain others are on the same lonely journey. Wouldn't this be easier together?

I am by no means perfect; my flaws are many. Nevertheless, the continual search for the meaning of life, or more precisely my purpose in life, only reiterates the truth that we are never done growing. When I enter those pearly gates, I will not have been a perfect human. But I can only hope God will say to me, "Thank you for trying."

Control Freak

I just yelled at the Walmart lady. And it wasn't her fault, but someone needed to be yelled at, and she won.

I'm frustrated. I do everything for everyone in this family. Everything. No, I'm not exaggerating because my emotions are high. I literally do everything. The only exception might be mowing the lawn, which we all know is a seasonal thing. I also can say with 100% truth that I have offered to mow on numerous occasions when my other half was extra busy, but he declined the offer each and every time. (I think he enjoys the solitude of the lawn mower. I'm jealous.) There is no other "chore" in this house that belongs to anyone but me. 

And I blame myself. I like things done a certain way, so the "if you want something done right, you do it yourself" philosophy has become my motto. By choice I have chosen this motto, so why am I so mad that no one helps with anything? The byproduct of my disorder? Spoiled kids.

The spoiledness of my children became apparent tonight in Walmart when a fight ensued over a foam sword that cost $1.97. Just writing these words makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. $1.97 PEOPLE! And I yelled at poor Walmart lady because my kids were being so disrespectful and rude to me, and obviously I couldn't spank them right there in the store (they're 12 and 8), lest I be charged with child abuse, so what's the next best thing? Yell at a total stranger. 

It's 11:00 PM and all I want to do is drive back to Wally World and apologize to the lady. Maybe I'll call her. Going back into town requires putting on clothes. But she definitely deserves an apology. 

As for my kids, changes are coming. 

So, dear friends, tell me what works for you. Please, I beg of you, help me fight this disorder called "Control Freak". It's a real thing, and I have it. How do I relinquish control, and more importantly, hand over responsibility to others? It's not too late. I still can save the world from the wrath of my spoiled kids. 2016 seems like the perfect time to start.

No, seriously, I'm asking. Help!