In my last post I wrote about mundane I deemed my own life to be. That wasn’t an emotional, depressed assessment. In a way it disturbed me more because it wasn’t. I’d gone beyond emotion, pity, despair, to just acceptance.

But I have this habit of airbrushing the good in my life. The good I do, the good I experience, the joy of life. I’m an Enneagram 4, and it’s part of my make up to do this. I fail to see the good in my own life, whilst emphasising the good in the others.

But my life is so much better than I made out in my previous blog.

Like today

When I returned to blogging, the whole thing was write a bit about our lives. And if I’m honest, that’s always freaked me out.

I’m terrified to write about my actual life. I don’t have kids. I’m not married nor do I have a partner. I haven’t got the life I desired, I’m not settled into a life. My story isn’t the story of most of my peers. And if I am honest with myself, I still feel deficient because of it. I still feel less normal. Like I belong less. That I have less value.

And if that sounds like a self-pitying, depressed statement, I can assure you it’s not.

This is what something in my soul has told me I am. Deficient, less than, not as valuable, not wise, mature or normal enough to find the life I still desire, unable to commit, unable to be a grown up. It’s a story I’ve told myself. A prison story.

I’m sitting here on my lunch break, showing up to write. I’m trying to find the fun in writing again. The simple joy of writing my life.

As I write this on my phone, delving inside myself to try and find the words, it strikes me how scary this can be.

Maybe one reason people stopped sharing stories is because we stopped valuing them. In the world of social media we are all performing, we’re all on show, we all have to be perfect.

So showing off our mundane lives seems to become less valued, even shamed. I get really scared showing my bare naked self. Scared of feeling lesser than, deficient and insignificant.