I could spend a lot of time setting this up, but I won’t.
Humans are storytelling animals. I certainly like to tell myself stories, and more often than not, they’re all just fancied tragedies. One of the prevailing ones is a narrative of failure. Certain situations summon this mean, inner narrator, and almost without me having to do anything, the story begins. It’s a tale I’ve told myself for a very long time, and it always ends with me feeling like I’ve been through an existential meat grinder. Such was the case on the day I lugged myself into the domesticated hell of Katy, Texas. Continue reading
“You don’t believe in yourself. We get it.”
That’s what I’m waiting for everyone to say to me. Who’s everyone? People, man. Just people.
I cut myself down first, then wait for others to follow suit. It’s a skill I honed in high school. The idea is if I disassemble myself in front of everyone, no one else has to do it. And if they try, I’ve already affirmed them in their mission – so it’s all good. Like water off a duck’s back. You see that? You can’t hurt me. I hurt myself first. We’re all friends here.
But if you stuck a gun to my head and asked me, “Susan, do you think you’re going to make it? Do you believe in yourself or not?” I’d scream “yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Then I’d ask why you’re carrying a gun. Then I’d remember I’m in Texas. Continue reading