“Who are you?”
That was the first question in
Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.
Ironic, isn’t it,
that a book that’s supposed to
help you find yourself expects you to tell it
who you are?
I could write my name in the blank line,
but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-
since there are seven more blank lines.
I look up at the ceiling,
Who am I?
I wonder aloud.
I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.
I’ve lived here for three years and never realized
I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.
I come back to the task at hand.
I put pen to paper-
the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a
beautiful fuschia gel shade.
I am a person who talks to herself,
gets distracted by sparkly things,
and is, at times, completely un-observant.
I nod, satisfied.
I think Mcleod would approve.
I am terrible at making decisions.
But once I make one, I do not change my mind.
Not entirely true,
since I was once married,
and am no longer.
What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
That reminds me.
I am someone who cheats.
I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.
Now on to the nitty gritty.
The thoughts come faster than I can write
and I forget a few.
I am a mother, but have no children.
I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.
I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.
I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.
I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.
I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.
I am the saddest girl there ever was,
yet everyone that knows me say,
“How happy she is!”
That’s the one that always gets me.
Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,
These are all words others have used to describe me;
I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.
When I look in the mirror,
I am just me.
I read everything I’ve just written.
Contradictions, every single one.
I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.
How are you supposed to know who you are when
everything about you is a paradox?
I look back up at my imitation stars.
I think a moment,
about all that I have done,
the people I have known,
the lives I have lived;
then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.
I scribble a little on the corner of a page
to make sure my fuschia pen still works
before I write one more thing.
I am Love.