Becoming myself again

Tall hobbit, Poet's Soul, and Bringer of Fun

Moving has been hard on me. Way harder than I expected. I’ve been blindsided by how much it’s shaken me to be away from the people and places I love. I felt so stable and confident before I left, but once I was in a totally new context, I seemed to lose so much of myself. I’ve been caught in an Enneagram four spiral of comparison, envy, shame, and insecurity. Everything has been “people who are better than me at XYZ” and “I don’t belong anywhere because I’m too weird”. Then the very fact that I’ve been reeling and lonely and unsure has brought out my inner critic, who scolds me for being 38 and still so insecure. “I’ll just slink away and die in a hole somewhere,” I respond to the critic, which is a good ol’ time.

On Saturday afternoon I sat in the Save-On-Foods parking lot as the rain gushed over my car, crying to a friend on the phone. I told her how disappointed I feel that it’s so hard to make connections, that it seems I don’t fit anywhere when I’m old and single. I cried a bunch, trying to compete with the Vancouver rain. Then I went home and got ready for the cohort Halloween party I’d instigated. I made stuffed mushrooms then put on my hobbit costume. (I glue-sticked yarn bits to the top of my feet.)

I felt pretty miserable most of the way to the party. But then we warmed up and started playing games and eating snacks and everyone (even the mega introverts who barely talk in class) was laughing and being silly. I remembered how much I need silliness, after all our heavy conversations and “how does that make you feel” and suicide risk assessments etc. etc.

Last week we learned about Reality Therapy, which says fun is one of our four human needs. I loved that so much; it was the first time my need for fun had been validated in a theory. At lunch we discussed fun; some of my classmates (the Type A ones) said they don’t have fun. One said that even as a child she didn’t play. “That makes me so sad,” I said, as I reflected on all my childhood silliness and imagination.

On Saturday I read a few of my poems aloud during our open mic section of the party. Did I feel a bit embarrassed about sharing my writing for the first time with my cohort? I sure did. Did I feel like my life was complete when they all knew to snap their fingers at a poetry reading? You bet. The “poet’s soul” is probably the core part of me, the part I feel is both most vulnerable and most beautiful. To reveal it is an act of trust.

But I am also, as I termed myself today in my triad session, Bringer of Fun. The only thing I remember from the 2nd-year students’ panel the first week of class was the guy who organized the cohort fun events. “I’m gonna be that guy,” I told myself. When I can not only have fun but make other people have fun too, I feel so joyful and alive. This week I’m recognizing that’s such a gift, not one everyone has easy access to. I work hard at school but I get to the weekend and I want to be ridiculous with other people.

This is the first week I’ve begun to feel like my true self again, confident in what I have to offer and not in constant cringe mode. I can tell I’m feeling more like myself because, ironically, I’m thinking less about myself. I’m thinking less about how weird I am and more about how much I like everyone else’s quirkiness. The girl who hugs everyone, the guy who’s radiating nerd energy after presenting at a conference, the mom who’s become surprisingly goofy, the three guys in the basement of our building all playing the piano together… I like them. I celebrate their adorable weirdness, because I’m not worrying so much about mine.

Will I be all cringe again in a couple weeks? Will I still feel lonely and like I don’t know where to find other old, weird spinsters? Maybe. And that’s okay too. I’ll take it as it comes. But I’ll also remind myself I’m that hobbit who can make people party like it’s Bilbo’s 111th birthday all over again.