There are times when a girl is running around so fast that her heels barely cluck at the floor as she whizzes by, conquering the universe. Is this girl I speak of, me? Well, yes. Yes it is.
I’m talking crazy busy. Crazy, I-don’t-even-remember-what-my-friends-look-like-anymore busy. Crazy yes-I-am-writing-a-proposal-on-the-excercise-bike-don’t-look-at-me-like-that busy. Crazy I-think-my-hymen-might-have-grown-back busy. CRAZY! She says, ferociously typing a text in one hand, sipping merlot with the other and somehow typing up a storm to a readership that’s been horribly neglected of late, in between.
Multi-tasking – you are my bitch. And it sort of makes me feel like a rock star. Which is usually when life sweeps in and pulls the power cable on the opening night of your’ sold out concert. Sigh. And just before my big guitar solo.
The true story to this tale is long, involved and depressing. It feels like it dates back to when I still had an umbilical cord and I’m tired of reciting it in long monologues to myself when I’m in traffic. Thus, you shan’t be getting the long version. Unless you find yourself in the horrors of William Nicol, in which case – wind down your window and weep with me.
I am not perfect. Not on the outside, not on the inside. Know why? Because NO ONE is. It sucks, because you really WANT to be perfect until you grow up and realise that “perfect” is kind of uninteresting, that flaws are like those undiscovered gems in a vintage shop that everyone overlooks, but that are actually sort of spectacular. They make things real. They give life grit. They force you to break stereotypes, create poetry, abandon the same-old and above all they allow you to give the greatest gift you hold in your possession. Your vulnerability.
My inner dialogue has shifted in the last 10 years, quite dramatically. It has gone from a dark and empty grey landscape inhabited with crows that continuously cry out You’re not good enough’s, You’re underwhelming’s and You’ll never find someone who thinks any different‘s so something quite the opposite. Hard to imagine crows could cry out so eloquently but let me tell you, that place was unimaginably awful. And then something wonderful happened, quite out of the blue.
It started with the smallest quivering ray of light - sometimes I couldn’t be sure it was even there, breaching the thick black clouds of maddening put downs and bone chilling criticism. It started to feel warmer, softer and lighter and the echoing voices of a warped reality started dulling down. So much so, that one day I began to see a rainbow, beaming down onto my world and filling it with the most fuzziest and fantastical feelings.
I would stare at it, shy to even let it touch my skin or permeate my heart. I’d sit for hours, like a school kid staring out of a window at the perfect summer’s day, restless of being confined inside. I’d spend hours just imagining what it might be doing in my universe, what stories it could tell me, what it would feel like to slide down its multi-coloured glittery rays, frivolously, like foefie slide. Like it was nothing. Like it was supposed to be there all along.
I’d close my eyes and picture what it would be like on the other side of that rainbow. I’d picture a world where I was enough. Where I mattered. Where I was special, important and celebrated. I pictured hearing no one else’s voice but my own, telling me what I had always secretly wanted to believe – that I was worth a million bucks. That I was beautiful. That anyone who wanted to take a few steps next to me would leap at the chance. Just as I was, (remember the imperfect person I mentioned earlier), not a little skinnier, a little smarter, a little less reckless, a little more than. Just. As. I was.
I secretly hoped the rainbow had super powers and that anyone around me would see me as striking as my heart was. That my passion, valour, confidence, and loyalty would determine the beauty of the outward shell that it was all cased in. I spent enough hours believing it to be almost true, that it sort of was. I emigrated from this grotty hole, into an abundance of loveliness. And it was good. But that’s the thing about good things, they can be tough to hold on to… especially when the rest of the world wants you back in the dark, for a million reasons that I’ll never understand.
The other day I was braiding daisy headbands, singing folk songs, running barefoot through candyfloss forests (yes, I even multitask in my weird happy fantasies), when it happened. There it was. A shadow of doubt.
Now if you’ve come into contact with a shadow of doubt – you know what menacing little vermin they can be. Subtle. Sneaky. Stupendously Sly Bastards. They slip out of the mouths of people we love and trust. People we want so desperately to see the greatness that we hold cautiously close to us. And out it slipped, as if in slow motion… like a haunting black smoke that suddenly filled the room and suffocated all the confidence I’d worked so hard to collect. It engulfed me, and when I looked around for a hero, I was alone. That’s the tricky thing about doubt, you’re the only one who can save yourself from it.
They say a rainbow is an arch of colours formed in the sky, caused by a refraction and dispersion of the suns light by rain. Well, that’s what Google says. I think there may be something to this theory. Maybe our greatest and strongest colours, shine the brightest when there’s stormy weather and raindrops to challenge the sun and the light in our hearts. Maybe there really is a pot of gold – but it doesn’t present itself the way I thought it would – held in the hands of someone or something else. Yes, yes, you can all take a moment to picture a deliciously handsome scantily clothed leprechaun showering you in gold coins and endless cunnilingus. We all have our things. Actually every woman has THAT thing. *wink* *I know right?*.
My pot of gold is simple and I sure hope it’s in my reach. When I get to the end of my rainbow, I will be surrounded by people who only believe the best in me – who look at me and can’t picture me any different. Who love that I’m filled with flaws, but innately see through them to my true colours. But that won’t matter, because I’ll see that too and I’ll really believe it… in every shade of magenta, indigo and emerald.
Somewhere, somehow. Once in a Lullaby.