Chapter 1: (Who am I?)

Most of my life I have felt misunderstood. Unseen. Overlooked.

Lonely.

On the outside looking in, I can understand how this would be hard to believe. I was never the last picked for a team in gym class, nor was I the first to be made fun of.

I’ve always been known of… just never really known.

There is a part of me that is okay with this. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, nor are they mine.

There is a comfort that I now find in the solitude of knowing that at the end of the day, I don’t need every person in my life to know me down to my core like I used to think I needed.

Yet, there are always those few.

Those few people that you just wish knew you and the subsequent loneliness that ensues as a result of the realization that they either likely never will or maybe never will again.

Despite that, I’m not writing this for them. I’m writing this for me… and others like me.

I’m writing this because I find it hard to believe I am the only person feeling unseen.

Perhaps, my words will attract some like-minded people.

OR

Perhaps, my words will be met with the skeptics in the world claiming their disbelief of the authenticity poured into these pages.

I can hear the whispers now. (Cue the massive wave of caution that echoes through my bones).

Nevertheless, here I am… taking the leap.

In order for me to be known, I have to be exposed for who I am. My guess is, if you’ve made it this far without returning this book to the shelf, you feel similarly. OR at least you're curious enough to read on.

I am certain several different versions of me exist in this world based on the narrative others have written within their own heads. At this point in my life, I am mostly unbothered by this. Everyone is biased. That is the human condition. I cannot fault that. I simply have to just remind myself of that fact from time to time.

The older I become, the less space there is between the person I see myself as and the person I am. I am learning how to bridge that gap and unmask the parts of myself that have remained obscure or influenced for far too long.

As I evolve as a person, my descriptions of myself are continuously changing. Connections are being made within, veils are being lifted and small modifications are being made here and there.

Life has taught me we often find out a lot about ourselves by looking into the past, into our childhood. Perhaps it is revealing, in that of itself, that there is a lot about my past that I simply don’t remember. That was a time for me when I existed mostly with my head in the clouds. A pre-consciousness if you will.

Yet, I do picture that little girl from time to time.

Lying on the floor wearing her fake string of pearls while challenging all the boys to an arm wrestling competition at the fourth-grade dance OR playing in the dirt while wearing grandma's 10 lb shimmering costume earrings.

I used to think of this little girl and the words spirited, vibrant, and free would come to mind.

Spirit has turned, similarly, into passion. There is no doubt about it, this one has stuck.

Vibrant…I can’t tell if that has changed, or perhaps was never really me at all. My light still shines, but a spectrum of light now exists at the risk of once again becoming dimmed by life’s interference.

But…FREE?

I am inescapably consumed by the thought of being free. I think because that is not what I am but rather what I have wanted to be all my life.

Free is the thought of being unbound by trivial pursuits of daily life. I’m just gonna do me and HEY fuck off if you think you have a say about what that is.

The confidence of it enchants me. I am infatuated with the simplicity and, to me, the beauty of it.

Yet, the act of defining myself as free contradicts the true nature of what that means. To be truly free is to not define oneself by anything. It exists in a category entirely on its own. To be free is to live simply for the purpose of defying other descriptions. It is the apex of opposition and acceptance of all that ensues as a result.

If this was a magic potion, I would drown myself in it.

I am not free.

I think that maybe instead, I am wild.

You see, even free has its place… to not exist. But to be wild means I belong everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

My heart is as primitive as it is uninhabited. I feel it has no one true place in this world. I am a misfit among misfits. I am made of fire and ice. Unprecedented by the unraveling of the battle between reason and passion that exists within me.

I am a walking contradiction. The embers of my soul are as hot as they are cold. The polarity of my existence exhausts me.

If you look deep into my tired eyes, you can easily see the discrepancies within.

I am an open book but not an easy read. I have yet to find the balance that helps one flow easily from one page to another.

My chapters are either too short or long-winded at best. I have a tendency to repeat myself often, lose my place, perseverate on thoughts, and forget many key details along the way.

I either present my intentions well, confuse myself along the way or can’t muster the energy to present them at all.

I am at constant war within, assuming the role of both the victim and the villain. Most days I am one or the other. Though if you dare believe it, some days I am both.

I am confident. In the same breath, I am indecisive, hesitant, skeptical, and untrusting of myself.

I am neither arrogant nor conceited, as I have worked hard to humble myself in life. Yet, I know my worth.

My soul is as genuine as it is exposed, which would become obvious to those who truly listen.

I love love and regardless of my attempts to partially conceal it for the consequence of its vulnerability, I can’t quite ever seem to escape its inevitable spell. So maybe, now that I think about it, I hate it a little bit too.

Some are known to love widely while others are meant to love deeply. My body submits its defenses to both. Burning a candle at both ends now has a new meaning.

I am as resilient as I am fragile. Delicate like a flower, strong like a weed. Both the chameleon and the contrarian, an imposter no matter which way you flip the coin. Once again, never really fitting the full mold.

I can find comfort in the chaos but also find boredom in comfort.

I feel both lost and found simultaneously. Pulled in opposite directions by the overwhelming power of contrasting elements persistently fighting as if to ultimately suppress the other. I remain idle as if my mere existence is a paradox meant solely to shine a light to the contradictions that lay claim to my name.

Am I more bitter than sweet? Or should I instead be asking, how am I both? I know that I am both.

You can always find me in the gray. Destined to be an explorer. Thirsting for experience and simultaneously sinking under the weight it yields.

This book leaves me vulnerable. Unprotected. Exposed.

The power and influence of the words printed on these pages serve as an indefinite window into my soul.

Regardless, I love who I am here. The me that’s poured into these pages. Words plucked out of existence for the sole purpose of deliberately supplying my soul, rather than occupying it.

I feel liberated by these words.

At the same time, I feel anchored to the permanence they now possess. Fear has convinced me that if my actions ever contradict my words, my words will become meaningless. So here I am illuminating my contradictions, rather than letting fear drive me and pretending they don’t exist.

I’m tired of pretending they don’t exist.

Sometimes I feel that I have a love/hate relationship with myself. Other times, I would describe it as a near miss. It’s the relentless feeling of narrowly escaping any definition for the concern that the consequence of trying to consistently match such a description far exceeds the risk of being who I actually am.

The moment you label something is the moment you begin to confirm it to its rules. But in the wild, rules don’t exist.

There isn’t always a ying to my yang or a lightness to my dark. No consistent binary equation in which balance is achieved. Everything is unpredictably muddled together.

I wish I could say I’m a consistent standard deviation from the mean average but I’m not even sure any of us know what “average” means anymore.

Many are unaware they remain shackled by their own description. I would say I know better now but here I am… describing myself.

An oxymoron with nothing but spell check and a thesaurus to keep me sane.

I am what I am.

Some days I can make life’s lemonade and some days I am the lemon. I’ve accepted this.

You can’t truly know a person as unpredictable as these pages portray. It’s easy to now understand why I’ve always felt the way that I do, unseen and unknown.

To attempt to understand a person like this is nothing short of taking a leap into the wild side yourself.

Maybe we were all born to be a little wild, though. I think at least Steppenwolf would agree.

And just maybe, you're still reading because it takes one to know one and you’re not as tame as you pretend to be.

Your choice awaits… do you put in the work to truly get to know yourself OR do you pretend?

The world itself is one giant perpetual contradiction, my friend. It’s time to risk joining it.

A world where we are all similarly different.

A hopeful cynic.

A jaded lover.

A beautiful mess.

A wilder just the same.

Title: Sessions. Lessons. Impressions.

Education: Masters

Word Count: Not finished yet.

Genre: Personal Development/Memoir

My own reflection

Is not one I like to observe

I paint on my makeup

My daily preserve

I look with intent

To see imperfections

One by one, I cover these

Section by section

The time that it takes

To paint on the color

Has little impact

On the face that’s covered

I spend more time

On my daily appeal

Then that of the expression

My authentic self reveals

I try to avoid

Taking a closer look

Why does it brings me comfort...

Focusing on only the cover of my book?

Peeling back the layers

Many will soon find

Much depth, woven

Into the pages they bind

The chapters are short

It’s an easy read

Or at least, at first

It does seem to be

The plot involves many twists

A scheme, written as if by design

A story is birthed

One with fragmented timelines

The main character

Has many dimensions

She works to sculpt her life

Built by genuine intentions

She lives to find purpose

Of life’s sweet design

She fights her inner critique

One word at a time

Though she has a darkness

That can be so consuming

So to keep from this place

She keeps on moving

Running and running

As if to win the race

Her weary heart submits

To instead, simply paint my face

Round and round we go

Ships passing

Fast and slow

There’s you

There’s me

There’s us

What once was

Has lost its fairy dust

The love

May still remain

But it’s dimmed

And sadly stained

If only I can see me

Through your eyes

Perhaps I'd see a worn-out person

Full of compromise

Or perhaps you’re looking

Not to see

Just looking to

What you expect of me

Day in

Day out

Another one gone

We are slipping apart

But to you nothing is wrong

Resentment builds

So does the distance

One night of cuddling

Doesn’t just fix this

I used to be excited

To come home to you

Now I walk through the door

And feel alone here too

I express this to you

And I see that you "try"

It feels like a half-ass attempt

One you can’t understand why

One night

Doesn’t make up for most

Oh how angry I get

Giving in to be temporarily close

I want you to feel

The ongoing effect

I want to punish you

Offer you the same neglect

But my soul is too sensitive

My heart to sore

To inflict upon you

The same pain I endure

You may call me dramatic

Act like it’s all ok

Put up your walls of defense

Keeping your ego at bay

I am this

I am that

Blame me for what you will

I’ve decided to stop engaging

Stepping off the hamster wheel

The fatigue that accompanies

Every tone of distain

Is now what is left

Aside from the pain

You say you love me

To that I am not sure

I am not blind

Your heart is not so obscure

I’ve done my fighting

Now my cup is dry

Its your turn to do something

Or our love will surely die

They talk about hell

As if it’s a fictitious place

For me its a frame of mind

When my mind has too much space

Perhaps it is

Just a place in my head

For that I can’t escape

It’s exponential dread

I am the victim and the villain

This is my hell

The back and forth war

I have with myself

It is not a game

In which I can win

You cannot fight your way out

Of a debilitating tailspin

I can come here and visit

Any time that I want

Sometimes the comfort of the familiar

Is all I got

Often, my mind

Forces me to go

But you can't hide from yourself

You can’t put on your own show

I find myself here

And I take a look around

Waiting for the other part of me

To wake up and be found

Mostly I get stuck here

Fully aware

I am fighting with myself

What a glorious pair

Me, Myself and I

Maybe it’s three

The victim and the villain

And the part that’s actually me

Thoughts encircling

Perseverating at best

Negativity worsening

Leaving whatever’s left

Fire and ice

Don’t play with fire

I exhaust myself

Trying to constantly rewire

Hell is not a place for the dead

It is for the living

It's where your spirit dies

It is the ultimate unforgiving

Most paint a picture

So let me paint you mine

The fires burning here

Are the thoughts in my mind

The demons most speak of

The torturers that come

I am that to myself

My inner critic’s voice an all too familiar hum

When you speak of your hell

How often do you go?

Is it a war within you?

Always fighting to run the show?

This is my hell

Because there is no escaping

There is me, and my devil

And she is always waiting

Barefoot in the kitchen

Another day has gone by

We work and we parent

Life’s demand we supply

As I scrub the food

Off and away from this plate

I can’t help but wonder

When was our last date

My mind slips away

Daydreaming at its best

Knowing I picked you right

But still waiting for the rest

Waiting for the romance

Waiting for the desire

Waiting for you to profess

Even a days worth of longing desire

I dream of your attention

Without competing with your phone

I dream of a deep conversation

One that tells me I’m not alone

Weighted down by your list

One thing to the next

I can’t help but dream

Of toping the rest

I dream of spontaneity

Let’s paint this town red

I dream of a night

Where we laugh for hours in bed

I don’t need flowers

There is no need for things

I dream of intimacy

Dammit… let’s stop acting like machines!

Don’t get me wrong

You’re a wonderful man

I guess I’m simply sick

Of scrubbing the same pan

As the night grows longer

And my vision grows obscure

Please remember that with a little work

Showing your love is the cure

Once again, tonight

I will give it my best try

As expected, you’re too tired

My dream of connection on standby

I will stay up late

I will turn out the light

Perhaps in my actual dream

Our souls will then reunite

I know my worth. Yet, she doesn’t seem to have a clue.

I hand over a printed copy of my resume and she skims it over in effort to shape her first question. I can tell she hasn’t read it.

She hasn’t a clue what I have done, where I have come from or who I am. She only pretends to care because that is polite in an interview.

Yet, I know everything about her. I can tell confidence is manufactured purely by her professional accomplishments. I act impressed by these because that is what she needs. I am not an asshole, afterall.

She is not entirely comfortable with herself. Subtle changes in her voice give way to her insecurities. It is all too clear that she defines herself through her job and that, without it, she would not know who she is.

She is actually good at her job. Yet, has lost the passion for it. A remnant of a younger more free version of herself is revealed in her authentic smile. Yet, she suppresses this part of herself too.

She references the first sentence within my resume twice during the 40 minute interview. She cuts me off multiple times, answers a couple texts and attempts to use a bunch of professional jargon to try to through me off my game.

She does this because she thinks she has the power here. A small part of me felt sorry for her that she really has no clue how much she has conformed to the narrow-minded idea that a half-wrinkled suit jacket and mere 3 years of management experience puts her on top of the world.

So I sit patiently. I let her have her moment because I’m not oblivious to the fact that she has something she is trying to prove to herself here. That’s her internal battle today.

Like other bosses I have had in the past, I can tell she is no different. Similar to the others, her interest lies with the fact that I am a young accomplished female that she assumes is too naive to know her own worth. She tests her theory by trying to intimidate me with her words. She waits for the moment where I assume others habitually fall in line and begin accommodating her banter. Her face becomes painted with confusion as I offer no such accommodations.

She mistakes my kindness for a lack of confidence. Most do until they get to know me.

She begins to realize this as the interview endures.

All she sees is a young female she thinks she can bully because that is what the corporate world has taught her is okay. All her actions tell me is that she considers this a win because at least this time she is not the one being supressed, she is the supressor.

It's sad really.

She calls my bluff only to come to the delayed conclusion that I do actually know what I am doing. As a result her interest grows. Yet, to me, she has already lost.

You see, this is how the game goes. They have either shown me that they value me if I fall prey to their manipulation or they value me if I outsmart them within their own game. What they fail to realize is that I don’t play games.

Despite her gut, she tries to play hardball with me once more. She attempts to evidence why her opinion of my monetary worth is objective and accurate. Yet, even in her attempts to defend her offer she can’t help but reveal her own flaws in the language of her own argument.

I use her own data to help her better understand what the numbers mean before I decline the job offer and leave without truly showing her what I actually am worth. All she did was prove to me she doesn’t deserve to know.

I then decided to start my own company.

I allow myself time to first feel for a while. Emotional release. I might cry it out or write it out. Any way to try to make sense with what emotions I am feeling and why they are there.

Then I go back to my list tittled "Things That Make Me Happy."

I review it, maybe make some addendums and pick a few things off of my list to implement within my day. No matter how big or small.

It may be something as simple as going to my favorite coffee shop and ording that expensive latte I like. Reading a good book. Cuddling with my dog. Anything that is on my list that brings me even a small tinge of happiness works wonders.

Lastly, I try to connect with someone that I know is positive and encouraging. This is usually the hardest part to convince myself I need to do but I have never regretted it afterwards. Connection is important because when I am feeling low, I feel alone in that. I think a lot of people do. Sometimes my intention is to laugh and have fun with that person. Sometimes it is like a therapy session where I feel the need to talk things out. Sometimes it is as simple as doing something nice for someone else to see a smile on their face. All of these things bring me joy. I try to pick each person accordingly.

Also, I do like to read self help books and have been trying to enstill some of their teachings and concepts. I have read many but my favorite so far is Addicted to the Monkey Mind by JF Benoist. It's about taking control of your thoughts and no longer letting your inner critique run the show. Might be worth a try. It has helped me tremendously.

My own reflection

Is not one I often observe

I paint on my makeup

My daily preserve

I look with intent

To see imperfections

One by one I cover these

Section by section

The time that it takes

To paint on the color

Has little impact

On the face that’s covered

I spend more time

On my daily appeal

Then that of the expression

My authentic self reveals

I try to avoid

Taking a closer look

It brings me comfort

Focusing on only the cover of my book

Peeling back the layers

Many will soon find

Much depth, woven

Into the pages they bind

The chapters are short,

It’s an easy read

Or at least, at first

It does seem to be

The theme is dark

The plot involves many twists

Events are unpredictible

The characters are mysterious

The main character

She has many dimensions

She works to sculpt her life

Built by genuine intentions

She lives to find purpose

Of life’s design

She fights her inner critique

Defends one word at a time

Yet, she has a darkness

That can be so consuming

So to keep from this place

She keeps on moving

Still running as if to win the race

The lack of energy compels her

To submit... and simply paint my face

She has an old soul for such a young face…At least that’s what they tell her.

She exudes a sense of complexity as if life’s stories are incidentally sown into the layers of the long dark hair that grazes over the middle of her back. The word raw is what comes to mind.

At a first glance she is almost ordinary. Yet, a longer look would reveal much depth beyond those weary deep brown eyes she bears. With a careful turn of the head, her eyes glisten as a few golden flecks meticulously catch the sun. At least that’s what they tell her.

She stands tall with a slender frame bound by the curves she inherited from her mother. The memory of a thinner bonier self reminds her she is thankful for the edges that now outline her girlish figure.

She walks with a confidence that is neither arrogant nor conceded. It’s a sense of acceptance and awareness that seems to linger in the air around her.

Those same deep brown eyes often remain hidden behind the bold square frames that offer her the gift of sight. Still, she prefers to wear contacts as she compares the glass in front of her face to a barrier meant to impede her from interacting with the outer world.

She remains unseen by more than half of the people within a room. Yet, a few are observed to gaze in her direction with a slight glow of curiosity in their eyes. At least that’s what they tell her.

She sits in the smallest corner of the room. As if she is hoping to conceal a part of herself. Yet, her small insecurity seems misplaced as it is evident she feeds off of connection with others.

She speaks her words almost as if they were deliberately plucked off a page of a well written book. She works hard to present her intentions well. Yet, it seems as if it would be difficult to miscalculate such a kind natured heart.

She occasionally abandons this well-spoken persona, altogether, in effort to disburse her energy only when needed. She keeps her listeners engaged as these moments of abandonment offer a true glimpse of the passions that guide her. Her soul as genuine as it is exposed, which becomes obvious to those whom truly listen.

Yet, there is something child-like about her.

Perhaps it is that she is self-conscious about her laugh as if it almost seems to come at a surprise to her how freely it travels from one medium to the next?

Perhaps it is the way that her questions appear to almost erupt from her body in effort to satisfy the urge of her own curiosity?

Perhaps it’s the way she seems to believe in others despite the occasional momentary flicker of past disappointment that paints her face.

Ahhh! I see it now… it’s her love.

It’s almost as if the pores of her skin radiate the very essence of love into the air. Regardless of her attempts to conceal it for the consequence of its vulnerability, she can’t escape its inevitable spell. Some are known to love widely while others are meant to love deeply. Her body submits its defenses to both.

I now understand her depth and her pain in a new light. For love often sets the foundation for one’s greatest sense of joy along with the deepest burn of sorrow. Burning a candle at both ends now has a new meaning.

Similar to a canvas

Full of white space

The artists gives up

Tired of the chase

The inspiration is lacking

The picture lay empty

She reminds herself of what once was

Or what still can be