I am a writer

I'm exhausted trying to hide it

Who am I?

Lying on my back, on the shores of Lake Huron in the spring, the beach still strewn with the remnants of her winter’s escapades, looking up to the sky I asked myself, “Who am I?”

Who am I?

Having just finished a professional contract with an organization I worked full time previously and left, I felt rudderless, again. I left that job once and 4 years later, the dynamics were the same. What has changed is me. I am different. I have healed just enough to realize I deserve better.

But what?

As the waves crash against the break wall further up the beach, I feel like I don’t belong. I’m just on the periphery of every group and every community I’ve ever longed to belong to. But did I really want to belong? What would have been the cost?

My third husband has been patient, saying he fully supports whatever I want to do, but that’s with the knowledge from his words, actions and my own intuition, that he really just wants me to do something that makes money, anything so he’s not embarrassed by my lack of ‘productivity’.

Capitalism.

To be honest, I really have no idea who I am, and it pains me to read that sentence in print.

Who, in the fuck, am I, really? Like underneath the pleasing and performing?

I’ve spent 58 years molding, bending, shapeshifting, kowtowing, cowering, door kicking, acting, manipulating, and settling into the comfort of victimhood.

When all is said and done, who is the authentic me?

Sure, I’ve gone through periods of stepping into the sun, exploring parts of myself that I kept covered and camouflaged, and I’m living now as authentically as I know how, but I never learned how to be myself.

In fact, it was never encouraged, it was almost forbidden.

Patriarchy.

I identify as a woman, but I’ve had a rough time embodying what society considers the highest binary attributes of what being a woman means.

I have been married three times and divorced twice and been single longer than I was ever married, to all partners combined, although teaming towards 15 years together and a handful married, my current arrangement is threatening (in a good way) to overtake that reality.

I have never carried a baby to term. I have been a step-mom but only for a handful of years. I’m a proud dog mom and at various times in my adult life, have lived as a stay-at-home dog mom.

I’m an average cook but don’t feel like I have to cook for everyone, everyday and I take no pride in bringing a special dish to the summer potluck (but have no disdain for folks who do).

I’ve tried gardening but am not meticulous enough and diligent enough to really care what the garden looks like to others, so the result is usually unkempt and disorganized in various forms of living, dying and almost dead foliage.

*Trigger warning: Talking about food, disordered eating and body disphoria*

I have always been what my mom considered ‘chubby’ and wore ‘husky’ jeans as a teenager. I passed out in front of my 7^th grade class, giving a speech about horror movies (which I hate by the way). It was partly because I couldn’t remember the words and was nervous, but also because I wasn’t eating, and hadn’t eaten more than maybe one meal a day for many days. My mom gave me a book called ‘The Woman Doctor’s Diet for Teenage Girls’ when I was 13. When I lost weight, my mom said I was then ‘too skinny’. I’ve worked out to the point of obsession, I’ve allowed food and its connection to my appearance to overwhelm my thoughts, and I’ve used food to comfort me, to help me push down feelings, almost my entire life.

I wear pants and overalls but also frilly, lacy and flowy dresses because they feel amazing against my skin. I’m a size 14/16 and wear a bikini at the beach. I like to thrift but would spend my last $200 on a beautiful dress, with nowhere to wear it but around the house. I don’t wear much makeup anymore, but I used to wear lash extensions and before that, liquid eyeliner and the whole nine yards. I used to get pedicures often, facials too but I’ve recently rediscovered Ponds moisturizer (not the same concoction we used to remove Halloween makeup with but the same company).

Sometimes I like to sleep naked and sometimes I like to wear a nightie. My hubby prefers au natural to lingerie and I’m okay with that. In the winter, I’ll cuddle up to him with my cold hands and feet (but warm heart) but when he’s away, I’ll wear flannel PJs and socks to bed. I have cute lacy nighties for summer but it’s usually too hot.

Only once in my life have I faked an orgasm and it was at the end of a relationship, a marriage actually, not that that is any excuse. I don’t have to have one but I prefer, if time allows that we’re not finished until I do. However, I chose to do all manner of things with faceless strangers because I thought I had to. More on that later.

I may not appear subservient externally but my mind is always wondering if I get it ‘right’.

If I get anything, ‘right’.

And by ‘right’ I mean, do I ever make them happy, do I make people happy?

Intellectually I know the answer is no and that it’s not my job. It’s not really in my best interest to even give a shit what other people think and feel about me, but the programming is ingrained.

I witnessed it all unfold, starting at a young age. My developing brain had so many questions, all the time. What eventually made me a great journalist and storyteller, made me an annoying little kid.

My insatiable curiosity never subsided.

Why am I here? If it’s not to fit in and make other people happy, what exactly am I supposed to be doing that’s ‘productive’ and makes me money?

My husband and I recently met with a financial advisor, his financial advisor about retirement. She was shocked to see me accompanying him to the meeting. She didn’t know we married and the look in her eye, as she leaned over towards me and asked, ‘So are you working then, Shauna?’ felt like a kick in the stomach. Aren’t we women supposed to be supportive of one another? My husband is her client, not me. She clearly stated that if I was going to work with her, I’d need to open up an account at their bank.

Yeah, fuck that.

And why did my husband not notice how she treated me or how I shrunk in my chair? Why didn’t he… care?

White supremacy.

I’ve healed a great deal with the help of meditation, journaling and an incredibly supportive community on the meditation app, Insight Timer where I’ve been ‘teaching’ live journaling sessions (I call it facilitating conversation in the circle). I’ve grown by leaps and bounds, attempting to feel, and heal the ancestral wounds I’ve been carrying.

I started hobbling together a memoir and some of it, if you’ve gotten this far, will be what you’ve just be reading.

I can’t promise to write every day but I took 3 nights away on my own, bawling, lying on the floor, walking the beach, journaling and sleeping, and realized I’ve been distracting myself with all manner of other projects, avoiding leaning into my creative gift. It took Lady Huron, dancing with the sun, to whisper in my ear, “Let go”.

So I am committed.

Committed to keep writing and to keep healing.

Word by word.