My Hidden and Undeclared Committments

She is there alright. She is always there, waiting with baited breath for the next person to approach her. Looking around the room of life, for someone she deems worthy of her request. Oh heavens, her approach someone else?! No. She is far too insecure for that. Though ultimately she would have you believe that she is outgoing and entertaining. The life of the party most people surmise. Have you believe that she is approachable, kind, thoughtful and self-aware. Though upon careful observation you might just see she is only funny within reason, only talkative at surface levels, engaging just enough to reassure herself. When topics get too deep she disappears into the wallpaper; lifeless, dead and two dimensional. As if her contribution is better kept within the image of floral display rather than expressed full of life, beaming with beauty and miraculous blossoms. As though the fragrance of her blossom is not worth the wind it is carried upon. As a flower on the wall, she can feel the warmth of the suns rays through the window, but must, by design remain stagnant and lifeless.

She stands in this space and becomes angry and resentful, selfishly seeking a way out; any way out of her self imposed prison. Her mediocre efforts, she would have you believe, are strong and persistent. She speaks of her constant effort to open that inner door that binds her in such a confining space. Upon closer observation you might see that in her frantic display of yearning and despair, she avoids entirely the already open door… as if it does not even exist. Ignored for so long, she mistakenly acknowledges to herself that it doesn’t. So she waits in misery and despair, expecting people in her life to come through and save the day for her, to point out the way. As if her self imposed limitations were their responsibility and out of her grasp entirely. As if her imaginary hero really exists outside of herself. In doing so, she reasons it is ‘me’ against ‘them’ and lives in hostility, selfishness and greed, only wanting to ‘get mine’ and to discover ‘what is in it for me?’

The story of her life is one she cannot shake. It has been woven into her so tightly that she carries it with her everywhere. She even reads it to herself, every day, time and time again – so much so that she now has it memorized and the recording of it plays automatic. She does not even have to put effort into it – the little voice is constantly reiterating the story of her life, reading it time and time again, loop after loop after loop, and many times without her consent. But to fight back with it would be too tall an order, so she succumbs to it. Besides she has learned to take refuge and comfort in the story, it is after all, the story of her life: ‘You are not good enough. Nothing you do is good enough for anyone. You do not and cannot measure up. You are not even capable of it so you should not try. Nobody cares what you have to say, or what you are up to. What you are doing has no impact on anyone. No matter what you do it will never be fully loved and accepted.’

She remains resigned to imprisonment and cynical to the hope that there is anything else even possible. As always she lives her life in order to be loved and fully accepted by herself and by others. And yet, the story she tells has her seeking for ways in which others do not approve of her or love her, and based on that, she cannot approve of, or love herself. Perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps in this prison, there is a way out. The sun shines through the window and the flower on the wall stretches forth its stem to take in the warm glory. Perhaps there is transformation right here, within her.