Motion Masquerade

I’ve spent the past couple of weeks writing posts and then taking them down, f*cking around with site design and layout, and trying desperately to commit to an overarching theme for this blog — all to no avail. Why?

The short answer is that when I start something I tend to be obsessive about it; so, I ended up diving down a rabbit hole of research on “how to become a successful blogger” and taking advice from folks who weren’t exactly thrilled about the fact that I was writing posts that landed a bit all over the place.

But guess what? In doing that I stopped doing the most important thing: writing. Writing is the whole reason I wanted to start blogging again in the first place. I had no delusions of grandeur or monetization. I just wanted a platform for practicing my craft and (hopefully) getting it out there to a few like-minded individuals (i.e. writers with minds that spin so fast they can’t be tamed).

Last year my husband saw a bookmark with the above quotation on it and brought it home for me because he knew it was my anthem; but, my OCD sometimes gets in the way of my creativity, and that’s what was happening here. I was trying so hard to fit the mold of a “successful blogger” that I forgot to just say “F*ck this shit,” and be me.

So who am I?

I am a woman who wears many masks.

I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend, an addict in recovery, a trauma survivor, a woman who has mental health issues, a tutor for students with emotional and learning disabilities, an undergraduate student majoring in English (with a focus in immigrant and underrepresented literature) and Creative Writing, a horror and mystery TV series enthusiast, and a writer — just to name a few.

I don’t play any of my roles perfectly, and I rarely feel comfortable in any of my masks.

My definition of success also varies widely from most folks. I don’t measure it by financial or material wealth. I measure it by degrees of comfort and happiness.

I’m not a writer because I’m published or well-known. I’m a writer because I need to write. I find incredible solace in books and words. I’m happiest when I’m experiencing the craft of writing — whether it be my own or someone else’s.

I also don’t limit myself to one genre. I’m an Honors Fellow in the Creative Nonfiction Writing Program at my university, but I also study fiction. I’ve studied screenwriting and poetry. I love the former and am baffled by the latter.

I love any book that keeps me turning the page, regardless of the genre. (Though I will admit I have a subtle disdain for Nabokov.)

My versatility and willingness to be open to diversity has allowed me to cultivate close relationships with many professors in my department while other students limit themselves to one or two.

While younger undergraduates just want to “get through” their courses, I enjoy spending time with my instructors during office hours. They have a wealth of information to share and they are very generous with their time and experience. I have learned just as much (if not more) from them outside of the classroom as I have within it.

It took me half a lifetime to get to where I am, and many people have supported me along the way. I wouldn’t be here without the unexpected financial support from my baby brother (who pays my tuition), nor the phenomenal emotional support from my husband and my son.

I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for the therapists, psychiatrists and 12-step mentors I’ve had along the way.

I couldn’t make it through the lonely hours of doubt without the laughter I’ve shared with my parents, especially my mom.

I wouldn’t be able to get to where I’m going without all of the unconditional love and understanding that I’ve received from my mother-in-law.

I couldn’t write without all of the stories that these folks have shaped and shared with me throughout my lifetime… and none of them fit a singular theme or one-size-fits-all mold.

Sometimes I spin in place so that the people closest to me cannot see the pain I’m in, and I talk (or write) about the things I’m watching or reading in order to avoid sharing the thoughts that make me feel vulnerable, shattered, and raw.

This blog is a reflection of who I am. A broken but beautiful mosaic of all the things that have made — or continue to make — me who I am.

If that isn’t a recipe for someone else’s success, so be it. It is the recipe for mine.