Myself and my selves

I started reading a new book this morning: Already Enough, by Lisa Olivera, which my amazing friend Ida sent to me all the way from Germany.

Fourteen pages in, I’ve already highlighted half the text. When I have to keep stopping to re-read sentences out loud, underline whole paragraphs, dog-ear pages, and make stars in the margins, I know I’m in for something good.

It also feels a little kismet-y to be reading this exact book, at this exact moment. I believe that God/the universe knows things, and gifts us exactly what we need at certain times for a reason. Ida sent me this book 3 or 4 weeks ago, but I just opened its cover for the first time today. That can’t be coincidence. Although I guess it could be a really compelling book jacket. Either way, I’ll take it.

After finding some space to breathe, and to rest, up at the mountain this past weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about all the different versions of my selves that show up at different points in time. Not “Myself,” the singular entity with a capital M, but my “selves,” in multiples, and all lowercase. I’ve been trying to reconcile how they can all be real (ARE they all real??) when they seem so contradictory to each other. I don’t know which ones to believe. Which ones are stories and which ones are truths. I guess even stories are truths if we believe them, though.

I keep trying to strip away all the layers and figure out who I am at my core. But it’s not working. There are so many layers to this onion. And it’s almost like each time I peel one back, three even more confusing ones pop up.

Here’s an example of how these lines of questioning goes down in my head:

Maybe I’m most genuinely myself when I’m alone and thinking (or writing), with no one else around to judge how I’m feeling. That has to be where I’m the most honest. But is it, really?? Or is that actually not me at all, because when I’m spiraling into anxiety and doubt with no one to pull me out, everything that’s really real is getting obscured by the all bad stuff?

Or:

Am I being honest and vulnerable by sharing my struggles and stories on this blog? I know other people feel and experience these things, too, so writing is how I’m learning to accept myself while also helping others do the same. But is it really?? Or is this entire thing somehow a pretense and none of it is real—I’m making it all bigger and more dramatic than it needs to be just to get attention and reassurance?

Or even:

Why do I try so hard to be recognized for what I accomplish—seeking awards, and promotions, and publications—but am so uncomfortable being recognized for who I am? I shy away or deflect from appreciation or gratitude for my compassion, or thoughtfulness, or leadership. Even writing those words feels entirely icky and narcissistic.

I know that some of this sounds crazy, but it’s what I keep wrestling with.

I doubt my feelings.
I doubt my motivations.
I doubt my wants, and my needs, and my instincts.
I doubt Myself, and my selves.

I do think that some of it stems from all the stories I’ve told Myself over the years. How I need to be perfect to be valued. How I need to work harder, be smarter, be thinner, be the best. Those “need tos” have become so ingrained in me that it’s tough to separate what they’re preaching from what I know to be true somewhere on a deeper, more spiritual level. It’s the cognitive knowing versus the embodied knowing.

I want to figure out which of my selves are real. And if they’re all real, in all their messy contradictoriness, how do I hold space for them all at the same time? How do I integrate them all into one self—Myself?

If you’re totally confused by all of this, I promise it’s OK.
So am I.