I Am Enough (And You Can, Too!)

I donʻt trust myself, so Iʻm lucky that I have really great friends.

Because Iʻve trusted my friends. Theyʻre reliable, honest, supportive, and will call me on my bullshit. Trusting them has been pretty easy. Loving them, easy, too.

Trusting myself? Not so much.

Itʻs an underdeveloped skill, letʻs say. I didnʻt know how to do it because Iʻd never been taught. Of all the lessons our high school counselors could have planned, I think this should have been right near the top of the list but wasnʻt.

But thanks to therapy and a super generic "how to trust yourself" Google search, Iʻm learning.

Two weeks ago, I started an "I am enough" practice in which TWICE every single damn day, I write "I am enough" and provide three supporting points. As an exercise, this terrified me, but the format was familiar-- itʻs a stupid thesis statement, isnʻt it? So even though I knew I could handle, I was terrified. Challenging myself to think about myself was bad enough, now Iʻd have to think actual good things about myself? Holy shit!

I was surprised when, after the second day, I began to look forward to the exercise. Cuz it is like exercise where you donʻt really wanna do it, but when you do, you feel good you did. If nothing else, you know you invested in your health and future. Doing the list was difficult, that much was true. I didnʻt just sit down and have three things off the top of my head. I had to think about it! It required effort!

And that, dear friends, was the fucking blessing. 

From the beginning, Iʻd been wondering what shit made me "enough." Is it what I like? Is it my personality? What Iʻve accomplished? When you get as cerebral as I can be, and when youʻre as inexperienced at this as I am, this stuff can make you nuts.

So, I had to prepare. I started putting things into my memory bank for later. Whether I was teaching a class, helping Shelley write a paper, watching Jordan Klepper on YouTube, or eating an orange (minus the rind, of course) like it was an apple, Iʻd think, "Oh! This would be good for the list!"

Until I realized only a couple of days ago that Iʻm not just coming up with shit for the list, Iʻm fucking changing the way that I think about myself. Holy fucking shit, Mahanaʻs good!

Like Merf reminded me, changes can occur at one degree increments. Just one thing, one time. Then two times. Then five. Then two weeks! Just posting these damn "I am enough" pictures is super effortful for me. Makes me feel like a fraud or a narcissist. But feeling good about myself DOESNʻT make me a narcissist. Itʻs like the only person who ever doubts that Iʻm a fucking kick-ass person is me, right? I know it-- I just gotta BELIEVE it. Because I really am proud of wearing my laundry basket as a hat when I go downstairs, you know, out in public where people can see me. That I make robot noises loud enough to embarrass the kids. I love that when I came home from the park last night and washed my hands, I got to see the brown of chalk and dirt swirl down the drain.

These things make me happy. They make me feel alive. They make me feel like me, and thereʻs no shame in that. I got this.

On Being Weird

"I used to call myself a tomboy, but now I just call myself a girl," I told Shayne.

She was showing me her new long pants and checkerboard high-top Vans. I showed her my checkerboard Vans socks poking out of my Doc Martens.

 
"I just call myself a girl because girls can dress like butchies, too," I finished. Then added, "But I also wear dresses. Just with these shoes."

Because girls can be whatever and can dress however. Someone said to me the other day, "You like the 90s?" in such a way that suggested she was throwing shade on my fashion choices. My answer was diplomatic, but what I really wanted to say was, "No be jealous cuz I look good, yo."

I dress how I like. I wear what I like. Iʻve described my style as old lady meets skater boy because I like masculine and feminine, comfort and punk, mixing and mismatching basics. Itʻs been fitted tops and baggy jeans, fishnets and shorts and band t-shirts, knee-high socks and penny loafers and mini skirts, pretty pink sun dresses with black 8-eye Docs. My style is as complex and contradictory as my personality. The best is when I can combine both the so-called feminine and masculine in one quirky look because fashion has always been more about self-expression than looking attractive.

Shayne lamented, though, that there werenʻt more "tomboys" in school who look like her. And I can understand. I didnʻt know a lot of girls who looked like me, either. But for years, now, my fourth-grade niece has worn what she wanted, and I couldnʻt be prouder. Because her style is her personality made visible and tangible, sheʻs bravely expressing her inner weird! And she is weird, yo.

I not only like that, I see it as my job to encourage it. To nurture that curiosity, self-expression, and self-acceptance. It is an act of resistance, for sure, but itʻs also fun and liberating to be who you want to be. To be who you are.

Being a weirdo has never really been a problem for me-- Iʻve always kind of embraced it and had fun with it-- even if it was sometimes lonely (and maybe made me feel a little bit crazy) when I thought I was the only one. Itʻs important to me that the kids in my life see that a person-- particularly a woman-- can be a whole range of different and still be "normal." Sheʻs still kind, funny, relatable, honest. My young students are still shocked when I teach a lesson sitting cross-legged in the middle of my desk. Gasp!

Because none of us is one-dimensional, yet often, thatʻs all we see. Itʻs all we show. 

I like to imagine that my weirdness informs all I do. That it helps me to co-create safe spaces where people see the genuine interest I have in them as individuals and can enjoy the warmth of our interactions.

On Being a Work of Art

I no can tell you how jealous I am of people who donʻt have depression or anxiety. People who donʻt feel like theyʻre teetering on the precipice of mental well-being. When I go for a walk or Iʻm driving to work or something, I look at random folks and wonder, "Is she happy? Is he doing what he wants? Are they content? Are they with the people they want to be with? Where is this person on their journey?" I wonder if theyʻre as fucked up as I can be.

I havenʻt always been this person. Obviously. Sorry for insulting your intelligence there, I simply needed to state that for my own sanity. For better or worse, I havenʻt always been this person. This unsure, weepy, no-light having person.

When I think about that perfect Spring Break Friday back in, like, 2017, where everything just sort of fell into place, where I started the day on my own, letting the universe unfold its path before me, and having the universe-- in the form of my friends, Heather and Keahi, and my sister, Shelley-- meet me exactly where I was, I marvel at the faith I had that the universe would provide. And it did provide. A completely unplanned day where events unfolded as they were supposed to in accordance with the void. A day after which I was super relaxed and elated not just because I did fun things, but because the universe answered my call.

That was trust.

And today, Iʻm envious of all of you who feel that trust in the world. Who trust yourselves and in the space you occupy.

Because hereʻs what I trust at the moment:

• I have the physical strength to easily haul my bicycle up and down the steps of my apartment and then reliably tether it to the car rack with a piece of rope.
• My therapist, the awesome mofo that she is, will help me leapfrog through the week until I donʻt have to leapfrog anymore.
• Reading and writing are my pillars. Even writing this blog right now grounds me. Writing is thinking. Reading is imagining. Both activities can be transformative and transcendent.
• I will make it to the end of the day. In one piece. Smiling.

Iʻm not saying Iʻll do it with grace and style. Brah, sometimes itʻs fucking ugly. Thereʻs a quote from Dean Koontzʻs, Odd Thomas, that I loved since I first read it years ago: "Life is not about how fast you run or even with what degree of grace. Itʻs about perseverance, about staying on your feet and slogging forward no matter what."

 

But.

Every day is not a struggle. I going say that again. Every day is NOT a struggle. Most of my days are good ones. Laughing is easy. I like to laugh. Iʻll whack your butt, fart in your face, belch in the middle of a conversation, say something entirely inappropriate (are we not doing phrasing anymore?), talk to you like a baby, have a dance party in the middle of the parking lot with the rope I use to tie up my bike (or pretend to use as a belt).

 

It was Shani who reminded me that depression doesnʻt have to be the lowest of the lows. Depression can sit just below normal.

Thatʻs where Iʻm at.

But.

Neither have I always been this comfortable with who I am, inside and out. Maybe ever. Despite being mentally and emotionally all over the place, I am physically fit. My body is strong and healthy. Iʻm weird and playful and curious. Iʻm getting better at making space for myself, Iʻm more confident, Iʻm more open to the world.

And perhaps thatʻs also why I struggle. This is new to me, this openness and acceptance. Iʻm often vulnerable and uncomfortable. I want to hide my flaws, I want to not give a flying fuck, I want to pretend Iʻm okay when Iʻm not. I want to stay small, stay silent, and smile smile smile. But lying-- and those would be lies-- doesnʻt suit anymore. Pretending is ill-fitting.

Look, I know Iʻm kind of a mess. After Iʻd been beating myself up for being complicated, Mahana looked it up. She first asked me to define "complicated," and my answer, of course, was all negative. Her Google search (and I looked for myself later) yielded this: "consisting of many interconnecting parts or elements; intricate." I laughed. "That sounds desirable. Artistic, even," I said.

So, Iʻm complicated. I consist of many interconnected parts. I am intricate. I am a work of art. Unique and ordinary at the same time. Because yes, I have anxiety and depression-- I sit just below whatever the fuck normal is-- and that can be enough to convince me that Iʻm not worth the effort of knowing. And though I am flawed, my mental health is not a flaw, and neither is my weirdness, intelligence, or sense of humor. Iʻm learning that embracing all of those parts makes me stronger, that trusting myself begins with being kinder to myself, and both lessons make it easier to weather the shitty moments when Iʻm inexorably drawn to that abyss of tears.