Too Dark, Too Deep... Too Real.

I think best in the shower. I swear at some point in my life I will give in and get a waterproof voice recorder to keep in there with me. So you may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. This seems to be a reoccurring theme, and I hate it. (Maude loves it.)

Do you want to know why I stop blogging time and time again? (...Or do you maybe already know from experience???) It's not that I fear what you think, what you'll say; I encourage and embrace that wholeheartedly.

It's what they think. What they'll say. You know, the people who just don't get why someone would ever be so open, so honest with any of this... stuff. Them. And while I hate to create a divide, I can't deny coming across this continuously in my life. And while it's never so black-and-white, I'll digress from explaining myself more. (Humor me here.) I also gently encourage the thems to explore anyway, for fun, and really go there every now and again for a hot minute to see what treasures they may find.

Truth: The apple seems to have fallen from an orange tree in this case. 

'It's too dark, it's too deep, it's too real.' My super-sensor-social-media-aware-watch-your-back critic tells me.

'Okay.' And simple as that, I shy away.

But every time, I return.

I always kept a journal as a kid and teen... and well, I still have one. But as time went on, I'd berate myself over and over again so much that the writing, the opening up, came to me with less and less ease. Why? 'Because you always say the same damn thing' Maude tells me. 'No one wants to hear about your crap, what's going on "insiiide" you and it's just plain depressing.'

She's so harsh. So glad I can smile at her these most days and turn away. She's not talking to me. She's talking to anyone who will listen. Frankly I've had enough of her.

This is where I belong. I want you to hear my voice. I want you to feel my words resonate, to hear my words and say, 'Yes, I've felt that,' and know it's okay to think and feel the way you do. It's part of the human condition. Why can't we collectively embrace that? It is my hope to give you a safe place to relate. It is my hope to nurture that part within you and me, for I have so longed for that place to belong. I sense maybe some of you can relate.

And now that I've found it (for the millionth time), I'm claiming it. It is mine. I don't want to let it get away again.

Today I claimed, 'I am a writer, and an artist.' This is me.

Maude and the Divided Self. Truth: Part 7.

Image via WikipediaFirst, let me make this clear: I do NOT have a Split Personality disorder. 

I do though, have a habit of beating myself up, ferociously.

I hear that Inner Critic, that Censor, as Julia Cameron calls it in The Artist's Way.  I have to make it known, mostly to myself, that THAT voice isn't my Truth.  She is instead my demon, my serpent, my daily dose of self-inflicted torture.  She is crude,  a smart-ass, and a know-it-all.  She is pessimistic beyond comprehension.

She hates change; she balks the instant she senses an opportunity to talk down to me, and barks self-loathing accusations repeatedly until they are heard.   She makes me feel like a burden, exposed, ashamed, a maudlin: undeniably unworthy of anything I desire.  She is my FEAR, embodied.

I felt it appropriate to give her a name.  Her name is Maude. This name seemed fitting enough, simply to remind me how deep (and quick) her lies soak into the cloth of my being.

A little history on the term 'maudlin':
 

1607, "tearful," from M.E. proper name Maudelen  (c.1320), from Magdalene  

(O.Fr. Madelaine ), woman's name, originally surname of Mary,  

the repentant sinner forgiven by Jesus in Luke vii.37 (see Magdalene). 

In paintings, she was often shown weeping as a sign of repentance. Meaning "

characterized by  tearful sentimentality" is recorded from c.1631.

Ahh, it makes so much sense now.  I do not feel I have empowered this presence by naming her.  I feel now I can reason that she IS NOT speak my Truth, and I can now tell her, by name, to SHUT UP. 

_______________
I also have another voice that I hear or rather, sense.  This voice is quiet, like a child, maybe she is a child, my inner child.  I've been seeking a name for her.  She speaks my Truth.  She is serene... Serena... no, that name is close but not quite right.  Something soft, silent, strong, just as she is.  I'm a fool for alliteration and the 'S' was sticking with me.  It's been nearly 2 weeks in seeking.

I hadn't found it, until tonight.  As the stars align, leading me from one Renegade Conversation to another, I find myself reading a new blog (new to me) called Sophia Leadership.  I am quickly drawn in, I soak up post after post.  I find myself seeking the meaning of this name, Sophia Leadership, though the connection has not yet been made.

In the top right corner of the blog I find my answer:  

"What is this about? 

Sophia: Greek word for wisdom. A word that is feminine, 

spiritual, intuitive, creative, visionary, and compassionate. 

Leader: Anyone who steps forward with courage to influence people toward action."

 She is my Sophia.  That voice: that gentle, sophisticated, trusting, honest, strong yet soothing voice, is my Sophia.  It feels so lovely to be able to acknowledge her for everything that she is.  She speaks from all of these things: my femininity, my spirituality, my intuition.  She speaks (and craves) my creative freedom, and my true vision.  I can feel her gentle persistence when I ignore her, but she is patient and kind with me.  And most importantly, her essence of compassion embodies my Truth. 

I can work with this.