Dermot Kennedy’s songs came up twice in last weekend’s Writespace workshop, which was about connecting your writing to sounds. And, I signed up for the workshop with Dermot Kennedy on my mind because I am so, very moved by his music and I am always super inspired to write when listening to him. I want to just skip to the damn good part — the poem/poems/something that is forming from all that I wrote today. It began forming as we, the writers, were given time to write following prompts by the workshop’s instructor, Andreana Binder.
One of the participants was a female. Honestly, upon first look at her, I thought, “I don’t think she likes me.”
First, wtf cares forty-year-old woman? And second, what evidence do I have that this fellow writer, in fact, does not like me?
I then moved to the other writer, the only guy, and wondered what he thought of me. Again, evidence, sista?
THEN, I started assessing and prescribing all of the ways the instructor must feel about me. And it all boiled down to me being too much or not enough. Someone in my life – my mother – engrained into me that who I was, the little Kristin who existed, was not good enough as she was. How did she engrain this into me? That’s a damn good question. Let’s explore.
When I think back to as early in my life as my mind can possibly travel, I remember my mother telling me that I was a bad big sister. My first sister, Melanie, was born when I was six years old. So at six, I was receiving direct verbal messages from my mother that I was bad. Who I was – was bad. I grew older, and I began acting out the chaos of being my mother’s daughter. First, it was conflicts with peers at school. Then it was an endless carousel of boys I would latch onto — searching for someone to tell me I’m worth something. Then it was alcohol. If I told a lie, I was a liar. It was never, “You did a bad thing.” It was, “You are bad.”
So, of course these fellow writers probably do not like me with this message as my compass. But, like my therapist pointed out to me recently, I have resources now that I didn’t have when I was younger. I can live a different story because I have the tools to make it happen.
As it turns out, the female I first assumed didn’t like me, saw that I had the book Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel. During our break, she told me she, too, has that book but she hasn’t been able to open it. And I said, “I’ve had it six months and I’ve gotten to page 12. And that, to me, is amazing.” So…not only does this chick not not like me, but she shares similar pain as I. We had a short conversation, and it was nourishing and made me feel. It grounded me.
I made a conscious effort to think positively about my workshop-mates and believe that they liked me. Just as I was. Fast forward to after class, and I invited the instructor to have lunch or coffee sometime.
I’m flying above my anxiety and feelings of unworthiness and shame to create meaningful relationships so that I may share in the beauty and affirmation of community.
With joy,
K
P.S. Poem in progress….will share once complete!
Photo by RetroSupply on Unsplash
