queen of the imposters

it’s my grandma saying
“you’d be so pretty if only you dressed like a girl”
it’s my parents saying
“writing is a nice hobby, but what will you really do?”
it’s that boyfriend saying
“you might be sexy if you started jogging and lost some weight”
it’s the father of my children saying
“why do i have to work why you do nothing?”
the father of my children
questioning all my decisions while offering no help
the father of my children
insinuating i’m doing it all
wrong….
but they don’t even know
they don’t even know what they have done to me
that they have become a little voice in my head
telling me i’m an imposter
when i wear girl’s clothes & pretend to be pretty
i’m an imposter
when i say i’m a writer
i’m an imposter
when i feel sexy
i’m an imposter
when i try to mother my children….

a friend of mine was talking about how the judging voice in her head was “the white lady.” this made me wonder what the most disruptive voice in my head looked like.
so i meditated & journeyed into myself to confront the one who whispers “imposter” whenever i try to do certain things.
i couldn’t find anyone. no one came forward. i called & called, but no one answered. i assumed they were hiding from me.
but then last night as i lay in bed after being screamed at by my ex-husband who was visiting for our son’s birthday, i realized, my imposter voice was there…they just didn’t realize i was talking to them. they are oblivious to what they are doing to me. they think they have done nothing wrong. they see themselves as completely innocent.
this made me realize i need to start being oblivious to it as well. just drown it out by proclaiming, “i am not an imposter. i am a good mother. a good writer. i am pretty & goddammit, sexy too.”

saint nobody

the tower falls
as faulty towers do
but could it be a blessing
& not a curse
like what if the tower
is built out of
all my terrible
relationships
what if it is constructed
out of my self-doubt
& insecurity
my believing i am
unlovable
has saturated
brick after brick
creating this monstrosity
of an
unstable structure
that needs
needs to be
knocked down
so a new me
can grow.

got the “tower” card in my tarot draw again. the scariest card in the deck. disaster! defeat! disrepair!
crap.
so i tried to look at it a different way. like, what if the unstable structure i have built–the one that needs to fall down–is my believing i am an imposter. a nobody. worthless…. could that tower fall?
could it not be a disaster so much as a chance to rise from those fucking ashes?
let’s find out.

work in progress

i have started writing down deep thoughts about my lifelong flirtation with androgyny…which then became an examination of my masculine & my feminine.
then i was hiking the other day, letting my mind run free, and decided it might make a good comic.
of course i have imposter’s syndrome about my history of gender non-conformation…especially since becoming a mother & growing boobs.
but!
i still think my story might be one worth telling.
so here is the beginnings of (working title) notta not-a-boy

making new comics brings to light my neglecting of my baby moses jones…so i did dig her out and am looking at where that story left off.

meanwhile, i have a list as long as my arm of other comics i want to create. i better get my ass in gear. stop moping in my daily journals & start some storytelling!

xo

an exercise in self-love

this was more difficult that it looks.
but it is my effort to not feel underserving all the fucking time.
so like the other day they started knocking down the house across the road from me, opening up the view of the valley:

the view is now breath-taking, but because i spent so much time wishing that house was gone–& now it is–i feel like i have done something wrong.
right?
jesus fucking christ. why can’t i just enjoy the view?
& today while doing yoga, i was admiring my feet that have healed up after being infested with warts for 18 years, and somehow i felt like i didn’t deserve to have pretty feet?
what the ever-loving fuck.
so i wrote this page. my punishment for feeling unworthy?
ack.

hear me roar

i need my feminine
side
to support me
to nurture me
to accept me for who i am
to hold me
& whisper
“you are not a fraud;
you are not an imposter”
i need my masculine side
to get things done
to move me forward
to forge my path
to strike down my demons
& scream
“you are not a fraud;
you are not an imposter”

or vice-versa…i mean the feminine can be just as bad ass as the masculine & the masculine is capable of nurturing. i was just generalizing for the sake of balance within myself. just trying to get things moving.

cable knit angel

if i just bring one person
joy
it is worth it
if i just bring one person
peace
i am worth it
if i comfort one lonely soul
soothe one rabid mind
if i inspire
or ignite an epiphany
surely i have purpose.

here is my response to that voice that likes to ask me, “what the fuck do you think you are doing? drawing? writing? jesus, get a real job.”

just keep dancing

i have decided to join
the church
of ann-margret
if i look
half as fabulous
when i am almost 80
if i can
shake my ass
half as gloriously
when i am her age…
i have accepted
the teachings
of ann-margret
into my heart
never
stop
dancing & being
fabulous.

i was binge watching “happy” & ann-margret appeared to me in a vision of loveliness and changed my life
or at least gave it a push in a good direction
so now
much like in west side story
i am determined to dance my troubles out.

(adopting this philosophy is still a work in progress & might take awhile to fully adopt, but my first step is a dance step)

fort building

here is a box of me
a box of my comics
my art
my thoughts & stories
here is a box
that kind of
terrifies me
no one is going to want this,
i tell myself
oh fuck…what if someone reviews me?
how will i answer them
when they ask me,
who the fuck do i think i am….
remember
when you were 17
& you just knew
you were
destined
for greatness
ready to take on the world
a famous novelist
in the making?
what ever happened
to
that
girl?

so, yeah…. if you want an autographed copy of my book, let me know. meanwhile, i will be using them as weight while building my blanket fortress of solitude….

wrong puzzle box

i am a puzzle piece
in the wrong
box
i am the squarest
of square pegs
searching
for where i fit
a puzzle
box
where i belong
i am not willing
to change
my shape
change who i am
force myself
into a space
that does not
honor me…
so…
where does that
leave me?
forever lost?
forever
alone….

ack! i like the idea of this post…but the inking kinda got away from me. wet page & black ink & my lady looks a bit like a munster
but
then again
i feel a bit like a munster
so maybe it works.
i was at the creator’s group i am creating last night. four people who were exploring writing as a retirement activity, re-discovering their inner writers showed up for my group…. & i totally felt like a fraud. at one point i even confessed that i did not feel like i belonged in the very group i started.
ack
to be me…or not to be me?
(that is the question)

reset

to defeat my imposter’s syndrome
i have to
become
what i fear
they think
i think
i am….
if they think i think
i am
an awesome writer
i have to believe
i am an awesome
writer
if they think i think
i am
an unstoppable artist
i have to believe
i am an unstoppable
artist
if they think i think
i am a good
& valuable
person
i have to believe
i am
it is the only way
to stop
feeling like
an imposter.

so i was at a dance party in viroqua. yes, i was. and i was half-assedly dancing…then i remembered i don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of my questionable dancing skills.
so then, as i was reeling from imposter’s syndrome due to my book, my show, my writer’s group, & my freestore…i began questioning whether or not i gave a fuck…& this is what i figured out.

(i was a little disturbed by the size of the head in my inking, but based on the words, maybe it is important to let her have a big head)

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