I sometimes, maybe all the time, feel like I am not authentic. Oddly most people would tell you I am deep, that I over share, that I truthful and trustworthy and that I am a genuine person. So why do I feel inauthentic?
Whenever I would go to the Zen Center, and it was Dokusan, I hated how the bell would ring and everyone would jump up and run as fast as they could. I hated the bowing and walking backwards out of the room with Roko Osho. Who the hell does she think she is that I have to bow to her and not turn my back to her. I hated being told I couldn’t stretch in front of a statue of the Buddha, and that my knee length shorts had to be covered by an ill fitting robe.
When my ex husband and I would go out to a fancy restaurant, I would hear my parents saying “you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear”. Surely I didn’t belong. And this absence of belonging is pervasive in every area of my life.
At work/school, I feel like I have to be a test loving super teacher, when really I hate testing and I am a good teacher, but I hate the confines of the teacher evaluation system. I want to wear leggings and baggy shirts so I can crawl around on the floor and get paint on my clothes without being worried.
Why do I wear make up anyway? Who am I trying to impress at this point. No one even notices. Least of all my fiance. And frankly I hated my ex husband for wanting me to dress differently than I did, and my ex boyfriend for calling me stupid fat and ugly, and a lazy slob. Of which only fat and maybe lazy is true.
I remember my grandparents calling me lazy as a small child. Presumably because they had a disaster in the basement and I said I was on vacation and went to read my Hardy Boys book or maybe it was Nancy Drew. And I seriously would rather have my nose in a book, or be painting, or maybe writing than doing just about anything else. And every time I do housework, it isn’t five minutes before the thing I cleaned is either cluttered or filthy anyway. (Teen-aged men, dogs, cats, babies, and working man, then me often throwing my belongings when I come in and running to the bathroom, and then recovering from my work persona for the remainder of the day.
When I had my own house, and lived alone, the house was pretty much always clean and tidy though.
But the lawn wasn’t always mowed. And the garden wasn’t always weeded, and I had this incorrigible habit of sweeping the hair and dirt up and leaving it in a pile because I didn’t want to search for a dustpan.
I would rather have my nose in a book, you see, even when a disaster, like dust bunnies, is waiting to be handled