Another cyclist who took a CT class with Rich and I commented that my blog seems a little ridiculous. “You’re going to be able to do the CCC,” she said, and then followed that up with a comment which more or less said that I could probably do it right now. And while I have my reservations about that, she got me thinking. And so, this is a blog about another challenge I’m still working to overcome: the fear of being wrong.
Usually this manifests as shyness— I’m so worried about saying the wrong thing, I end up not saying anything at all. Or, I do something and then spend weeks, months and even years obsessing that it wasn’t the right thing to do, and my life is forever ruined. As a writer—a nonfiction writer— you can imagine how debilitating this is, or has been. Publication of my work (even my blogs) are often met with mental and emotional breakdowns and nearly leave me unable to leave the house. Or, when I do leave (I don’t have the luxury of working from home anymore) I’m a complete mental and emotional mess not just for a morning, but for months.
So, yes, a part of this journey is physical: the training, getting to the start line, eating right, resting right, etc., etc. But then there’s the mental part, and that, to me, is just as important. We’re all warriors in one way or another, fighting our own battles, winning some, losing others but hoping that the win-loss ratio comes out positive in the end. I’m a warrior of words, and for years I have struggled with bearing my soul to the world, or more precisely, of feeling worthy of doing that sort of work. I need to become stronger because the writing demands that of me. So, here I am.
I’ve talked about the miles I’ve ridden, row and run, but I’m keeping another tally for the other half of this journey. So far this month I’ve read 3,842 pages and in addition to my blogging (the visible part of my writing life), I spend no more than two hours a day during the week and many more on the weekend, writing, revising, drafting and submitting my work to journals.
I have also started taking online writing classes as a form of professional development for my day job. My goal for 2020, along with documenting my journey to the start of the CCC is to read no less than 25 books, and to write reviews for all of them in addition to drafting a handful of new essays for publication.
And somehow in all of that mess, this blog was born. It was an assignment for an online class that I started writing that morphed into writer’s block, and that I, somehow, turned into this missive on bravery and sanity because we pick our battles for a reason.
And even though I freak out and am often filled with self-doubt almost every time I submit work or click the “publish” button, deep down I believe my words belong in the world. Otherwise, let’s be real here, I wouldn’t write them down.
Why bravery and sanity matter
Here’s a story that illustrates what I mean: it’s Christmas. There’s no snow, but there is inversion, so it’s gray, depressing and cold outside. Rich and I are inside, reaching out to friends and family via the miracle/curse of the text message, and as I go through my contacts, I happen upon a friend I haven’t heard from since she mailed some gifts I’d given her back to me with a strangely positive note signed with a <3.
[My internal narrator: WTF?]
OK, well, it’s Christmas, I reason with myself as I send the totally innocent and totally genuine: Merry Christmas 🎄
The second after it’s sent, I am filled with regret and shame. Rich tells me to give it a minute or hours or even a week. And, of course, he’s right, and I do. And so I focus on taking pictures of my dog with a sparkly Santa hat on, and Rich and I doing funny things because we are spending the holiday together. And then, of course, corresponding with friends and family who actually respond in kind, wishing us both a happy holiday.
But as the night progresses and as Santa traverses the globe delivering gifts, I have nightmares about that damn text and what it could possibly mean that it has gone—and will go— unanswered. And although some of these interpretations are admittedly pretty creative, they all basically boil down to the same thing: this person must really hate me. I imagine a dartboard with my face on it in her kitchen, or a custom-made litterbox for her cats made with the same idea.
Yet, after I go (silently) insane for a while, the logic of the instructor teaching my writing class starts to work its way into me. “You really need to just journal more,” he says, and so I do on a day when I’m the only one in my office (and probably the only one on campus.) What happens sort of shocks me. I actually find a voice that sounds, well, sane and what happens feels something like therapy:
…this must mean this person hates me. But, I don’t know, maybe that’s assuming a lot? I mean, it could have been the wrong number, she could have gotten a new phone and a new number and didn’t tell me (so it’s not hatred so much as it is indifference) or maybe she just turned her phone off for several weeks to get away from work over the holiday season. All of these are reasonable scenarios that have nothing at all to do with me. And how weird that I latch onto the only one that does: she must hate me.
And then I wonder: am I really that egotistical? I mean, of all the damn things I do, I don’t always respond to calls, texts or posts on social media, even ones that are directed at me. And the reason why I don’t respond never has anything to do with the other person. I get busy, distracted by writing, I fall asleep early or late, or I’ve had a few glasses of wine and not in ay sort of space to answer a message from a sober person in any sort of useful way. I mean, it’s really more about what’s going on in my world than any grand-sweeping hatred or plot to ruin someone else’s life that motivates me to do something or not.
It could also be projection— that I imagine that other people are just like me, only not the flawed I-drank-too-much-and-fell-asleep-me, but the me I imagine I am, a.k.a.: the one that always answers your calls and texts, the idealized version of myself who isn’t easily distracted and who is always there for people like Mother Teresa. And why I torture myself this way— because I’m not Mother Teresa and why do I think other people are imitating Mother Teresa?—it’s just a bizarre form of torture, and I wish it would stop.
I honestly don’t think anyone has the energy to hate me. Dislike me— sure. That’s easy. You can dislike a sock, a washing machine, a type of food. But hate requires energy and a certain level of personal investment, and I’m honestly not worth it. This line of logic also works in the opposite direction— it takes energy and time to love a person and I can honestly say that aside from a small handful of crazy people (most of whom I’m related to) no one has the energy or the time to love me, either.
Mostly, I exist in this ever-vanilla state where I’m mediocre enough to pass as unremarkable— someone you might or might not wish a happy holiday to, or the driver you never notice is in the lane next to in the Econo-car with the horn that sounds like: “could you, perhaps, stop doing that annoying thing you’re doing, please? But… only if you can manage it.” Rather than a total “fuck you” horn like they used to make.
And as much as this should be depressing me, writing this out logically makes me feel better. Shouldering the responsibility of the world’s hate or even its love is absolutely exhausting. It’s a huge relief to realize that I’m a nobody and that I might as well embrace invisibility because nothing I say or do is remarkable in any way. Thank God.
Don’t get me wrong: I don’t text her back. I don’t send up a smoke signal or try to communicate anymore. I simply stop feeling so bad about it. And that, for me, is a huge step.
Why All the Crazy Matters
I feel like I’ve read all this before, and when I’m in my office, I dig out my copy of the book The Four Agreements, which was given to me when I was in my early twenties and working in a local ski shop. The gifter, an older woman named Kathy, would go on to marry a millionaire who was the CEO and founder of a company that made eco-friendly, permanent outdoor restrooms. Laugh all you want: that woman has and will continue to want for nothing in this life. Plus, she was genuinely in love.
When I knew her, we were both selling ski parkas. I got along with her more than the other girls in the shop who were my age, but who were more like dude-bro than girl. I’d just finished up my first round of applying to graduate schools in writing, and those applications all came back as rejections. Out of the blue, she gave me this book, and wished me well on the journey to becoming whatever you’d call me now.
Today, I read her note , and turned to the page I most needed to read:
Don’t take anything personally. Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
After all these years, thank you, Kathy, wherever you are. I can’t even say how much I needed those words today. <3
And if you’re still reading: thank you for following me on this journey. I hope to have more exciting updates for you soon. If you’re inspired or inclined, check out my fundraising page. Here’s all the hashtags: #TeamCarter2020 #cyclinglife #CaliforniaCoastClassic2020 #saddlesoresgalore #lifelessons