I was lying in my bed, feeling lazy and lethargic when my
husband began prodding me to rise and greet the day, inquiring about my lack of
ambition.
“What’s wrong, Angela?” he asked as he sat himself down on
the edge of the bed, shoving disheveled sheets out of the way in the process.
When I simply shrugged my shoulders, he maintained
his inquisition by running through a series of possible explanations for my
prolonged state of repose. “Do you have
stomach cramps again? Is your colitis acting up?” he probed. “Does your back hurt? Are you anxious? Are
you feeling depressed? What can I do?”
I wasn’t anxious or depressed until that moment when he
started barraging me with a series of questions. I felt like a criminal under interrogation.
His interrogation tactics succeeded as I succumbed to his inquiry
and admitted to recent feelings of worthlessness and doubt. I confessed to lingering
disappointment and depression about my job loss the prior year. I explained that I felt I wasn’t really
contributing to society in a positive and productive way void of my full time
teaching position. I also acknowledged
that new ambitions were developing in my soul.
“Maybe I am supposed to write now,” I said. He looked at me a bit hesitantly. I lost my job last year, and the truth is I’m
still grieving this loss. Another truth,
however, is that I believe the cliché that things happen for a reason. Right now, I wanted to believe that reason
was my writing.
After all, hadn’t I been seeing signs everywhere? I kept on seeing images and postings declaring
platitudes akin to “When God closes a door, stop banging on it and trust that
whatever is behind it is not for you.” Regrettably,
the prevalence of such declarations was probably not a sign of my destiny, and rather
an indication I had been spending too much fucking time on Pinterest again. Regardless, it was happier and more hopeful
to believe, however deceived I might be.
My current worry was that I was also unwillingly deceived
about my ability to write. Maybe I didn’t
have a talent. Maybe I didn’t have a way
with words. Maybe I would never write
anything more than an obscure little blog that I had dreadfully neglected over
the past few months.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, “I mean, I want to write and
sometimes I truly believe that’s what I am destined to do, but other times I fully
doubt my ability. I just fuck things up.”
“Angela, you do not.
You are a good writer. Your blog
is good,” he offered as means of encouragement.
This failed to appease my current doubt. Good?
Good? I was good? I didn’t want my husband, who ought to be my
biggest supporter, to describe my work as merely “good.” I wanted him to describe my writing as superior or stellar – not good. His word choice was the equivalent of a coach
patting the back of the worst fucking kid on the team with an “atta’ boy – nice
effort.” That wasn’t what I wanted; I
wanted him to prompt me to write, prevail, and publish.
I gulped down more self-doubt with his words, and then
whined, “Good? I’m just good? I wish you
believed in me more than that!”
“I do believe in
you. You are better than good. You’re more than adequate.”
More than adequate? More
than adequate? What the fuck kind of pep
talk is that?
As I fumed over his further word choice, a memory of an old
SNL sketch flashed through my mind. Rather
than announcing though, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it,
people like me,” I then imagined myself seated stoically in front of a mirror proclaiming,
“I’m okay. I’m good. I’m more than adequate.”
This would most assuredly become my new mantra. I knew that the next time I just didn’t want
to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, I need only assure myself that I am “more
than adequate.” I would repeat “I’m
okay. I’m good. I’m more than adequate. I’m okay. I’m good. I’m more than adequate” until I believed those
ultra-affirming words and awoke ready
to embrace the day, and whatever challenge lay in my way.
I’m okay. I’m good. I’m
more than adequate.
