resembling myself

I read the phrase, A woman who has only recently come to resemble herself (“The Folded Clock: A Diary” by Heidi Julavits). I underlined it. I read it again: “A woman who has only recently come to resemble herself.” There was a break on the page then, which I used to mull over this sentence, why it stuck out to me.

Steve often tells me I’m a different person since I started my MFA. I don’t deny it, he’s right: I am. I’m writing all the time. Instead of watching tv, I’m reading. I started running again. I also have friends again, who I am in constant contact with: we text, send each other writing, see each other for coffee when possible. I didn’t have friends for years while I was staying at home, not like this.

When Steve says I’m different, he might mean I’m pulling away from what he knew me as. Our kids are older now and they don’t require the constant attention I gave them for years. Admittedly, I don’t keep that clean of a house: I often skip chores to write now. Steve and I have always spent much of our time separately, but not to this extent. We used to meet up in front of the tv, which I never do anymore. I’m no longer the me he once knew.

I have been many variations of me over the years, none of which were honest. There was a long stage where I played fantasy football. There was the try-to-be-the-best-mom-ever stage where I was always taking my kids places. There was the wake-up-early stage. There was the listening-to-other-people’s-music-instead-of-my-own stage. There a wino stage, there was even a yard work stage. None of these stages stuck. None of them were me. They were personas I wore to benefit someone else.

Now that I’m being honest with myself, I know I hate football. I also don’t like yard work or waking up early. I like to make my own playlists. Wine gives me headaches. And as much as I’d love to give my sons a perfect childhood, a perfect mother, I know that I am an imperfect human that can not be more than I’m capable of. It has been in learning what I’m not that who I am has pixelated.

I am a writer. I am a mother. The order doesn’t matter: I am both without one taking precedence. I like to listen to my headphones. I can only tolerate so much time around other people. I like to read and piece together puzzles and run and practice yoga. I like to edit other people’s work, discuss literature and the craft of writing. I like to drink too much coffee, sometimes too much vodka. I like to keep friends with people who make me laugh and think and sometimes even cry, because they keep me honest. Sometimes I’m funny, sometimes I’m sad. I like jokes that go too far, past what is politically correct. I like to give people gifts when they don’t expect them. I like to feel the breeze in my hair. I like to sing aloud, horribly, to the song I’m feeling, the one on repeat. And, best of all, I’m courageous.

It takes courage to be yourself. Because yourself isn’t who people expect you to be. They tell you to be yourself, but they don’t mean it. They mean, “be what I need you to be for me.” But all of those personas I wore for other people, the ones that didn’t suit me, are gone now. I’m dropping the act, the charade, the mask.

I think all of this is why I underlined the line: A woman who has only recently come to resemble herself. And I thought: finally.