For the majority of my life, I feared the ramifications of every choice I made. I feared making wrong choices, people depending on me, not knowing the right way, and risking others’ judgment of me. I feared moving away and abandonment, failure and success, and being a writer—especially one who uses gerunds. But mostly, I feared hope. My life had repeatedly proven that hope always leads to disappointment. Self-trust and esteem were magic beans my critical parent had long since thrown out. So I had pretended to choose enlightenment and feigned my enjoyment of life. But truthfully, instead I had just chosen survival.
If someone had suggested I had the power to choose otherwise, I may have nodded and smiled, but I would know they were a liar. At moments, I had heard beautiful and hopeful whispers of self-fulfillment and happiness from my forgotten inner child. Then that bitch of a critical parent proceeded with the smackdown. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” and “You’ll find out you really are stupid, then what?” she’d offer, helpfully. She tended to my deepest fears so these comply or die commands were her investment in her job security. My fairy tales were banned, hope forbidden, and my inner child had given up.
Ten years ago, I happened upon a television show called Starting Over. Six women, one house, two life coaches, and personalized plans for sorting through their mental baggage before these women could graduate from the house, resume their lives, and achieve their life’s goals. I was transfixed. I never thought of growth as an achievable and measurable goal. Or to gather self-esteem through challenging yourself like this. These timid, messed-up women were sent to stand on a boulevard and ask passing tourists questions like, “Do I look like a nice person?” Not only did they fearlessly accomplish their homework, they then overcame their fears taking an opportunity to relinquish their stubborn and comfortable dysfunctional ways, and fight their resistance to change for the prospect of hope. And they got to graduate. I wanted in on that action.
So over the next couple years I began to take inventory, take a darn good look at my beliefs, and start to take risks. What were my choices and why? My addiction to chaos and mistrust of my self-care were up on blocks to be overhauled. A happier path with new views of myself came only when I had forged a new relationship with myself from blind faith. And when I told the wicked witch to have a seat, shut up, and then actually let her do so, I re-established a faith and trust in my competence and gained a sense of peace.
