You know those times you wake up in the morning and think ‘What the fuck am I going to do?‘
I rose this morning to that familiar refrain and the first thing I saw was this amazing piece of work.
Ash Beckham talks about our ‘closets’ where we hide in the dark and clutch our unacceptable truths to us, like the ticking bombs that they are.
I live in such a closet; only trouble is that mine has white walls, a sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, a full fridge, central heating, all mod cons and I don’t want to leave it.
I tell myself I’m going to do this, that and the other and carve myself a life outside of these walls, but I’m starting to realise that I’m creating story lines to hurl at people from my past so that they don’t sneer and laugh at me. Little do they know that I’ve barely done shit about taking anything forward really.
I look like a yoga teacher so as long as I’m not challenged to do a head stand in the pub, they’ll buy that.
I’m a great cook so why wouldn’t I monetize it? Surely any fool without a job would?
I’m a writer, so surely must be working on a book? That my friends, is something I can’t hide behind, unlike this blessed, anonymous, life saving blog.
The only thing I’m truly, truly embracing is my ‘extra’ work.
Because I can show up to a set, be made up as and be someone else for an hour/day/week and hell, when you’re as terrified as I am of going back out into the big wide world as yourself, what’s not to love here? Shame it isn’t paying anything yet….
This isn’t the story I wanted to write, and I KNOW it’s not the one that you want to read.
I wanted to start 2013 at ‘only way is up’ level and graduate in December 2013/January 2014 with flying colours, a great job, a loving partner, a career/careers and clouds of ticker tape, having totally sorted out my shit and prised that massive fucker of an orangoutang off my back. And whilst there has definitely been advancements, realisations and mini successes, I’m not entirely there yet.
And that ape may not be digging it’s claws in quite as hard, but it’s doing something infinitely worse.
It’s cuddling me. Stroking my hair, gently holding me to it saying ‘Stay here with me where it’s safe. Live for the moment, that’s what all the good ‘self help’ books say don’t they? You’re not ready yet, let’s hunker down with a mug of tea and watch TV. You’re worried about money? Let’s not think about that right now, it will all come right in the end.’
I know I should be writing about my successes and making this blog a more inspirational read, but I swore to be honest and authentic on here, no matter how many readers it might cost me, and this is where I am today.
Wondering if I actually like doing anything that I say I do, and if so why don’t I get a move on and use it to make something of myself?
As a matter of fact, who the hell am I anyway?
I’m not sure, it’s too fucking dark in here, and the monkey notwithstanding, I know I’m on my own.
So this is my ‘hard’ conversation with you. I’ve inched forward slowly in something of the things I claim I want to do, but when it comes to doing them for real, I really scared that I might be making it all up and have no intentions of doing any of it.
Clutching my own fear filled grenade.
Waiting for the courage to open that fucking door already.