warts of worry

I re-read what I wrote the other day and cringed. I cringed so hard.

I was embarrassed that 9 people read it on Facebook. I'm worried they think it's stupid.

What I do know is that I worry. I worry so much. I'm worried that I talk about myself too much. I worry that I'm being selfish. I'm worried that I am being mean. I'm worried that I've offended someone or people. 

... and in an act mimicking Ouroboros, I worry about worrying too much. Ouroboros or the "eternal return" is depicted as a snake eating it's own tail. I recently discovered that snakes actually do this when they are severely stressed out.

When I was a little kid, my mom bought me these things called Worry Dolls. They were from Guatemala, teeny-tiny, and super colorful. I loved them, and I'm sure you can still find them at your local educational toy store between the rock tumbler and the wooden puzzles. I would put them under my pillow so they could absorb all the worry of the day. I think this might have started my tradition of squirreling away things under my pillow. Just yesterday I found two pairs of earrings and a headband. Anyway, I was pretty convinced that these things were able to relieve me from the stresses of the day. Things like, why no one would trade snacks for my peanut butter crackers, why was I so terrible at tether ball, and if I completed my homework assignment correct. You guys, do me a favor...try not to cry for my difficult childhood. 

Sooner or later, I discovered that Santa wasn't real, neither was the Easter Bunny, and Worry Dolls were just fun teeny-tiny trinkets floating around in my bed. It was less about talismans and just personal characteristics. 

Some people do not get stressed out... or at least they somehow manage to appear like they don't give two shits when someone so much as frowns at a possible misstep. I guess it can be learned... or like old time-y Hollywood people like to say "Fake it, till you make it, doll." I've tried and I suppose I'm still trying, but there is a thin line between being self confident and being an asshat, which of course I'm worried that I'm toeing that line constantly. 

So I'll just expect the eternal return of worry to keep creeping in, but at least it's keeping me a semi decent person.

Two Years Later

Lately, I've been feeling the urge to write.

Unlike many of my wonderful friends who write, I battle writer's block. Awful, painful, writer's block. It prevents me from finishing stories from fear of being cliche. It stops me from starting an essay because of the possibility of it being bad. It looms over me, whispering deadly phrases like "don't you wish you could... but you can't," and "why can't you?"

I used to say, "I will be a 'writer' when I get paid for my writing." I now have been twice, yet I refrain from calling myself a writer or an artist. I hold back, fearing something that is both inside me and floats around me.

I read my work and I feel ashamed. A word spelled wrong, reminds me of my third grade teacher, who said I couldn't spell... but more so I remember the story my mother repeated for years.
I want to be heard, yet simultaneously am afraid of the repercussions of people hearing what I have to say.

So today I am starting from scratch, I will just write, I will express myself without hiding the parts that might cause ripple.

Being behaved will get you an A but it will not get you noticed.