I heard the song “This Is Me” from the movie “The Greatest Showman” today. I rushed home and looked up the lyrical version on Youtube. I sat and absorbed the rising beat. I read the words as Kesha belted them out. My soul surged. Yes, this goes so well with my Friday night with Glennon Doyle learning about speaking my truth, blowing shit up, and walking away like Wonder Woman. It’s my Sunday anthem after I had a night of belittlement, when I rose, shared my vulnerability to my CHOSEN tribe, and received more support than I could have imagined.
I started to rush on FB, as I often do with grand epiphanies or …more often, goofy Becca stories, and ask why no one had told me this song existed. I haven’t seen the movie. Number one, I don’t go to the movies. Moreover, I’ve not thought it would be my kind of flick cause the animal thing in circuses just makes me sad. But this song! This, this is my thing. This is the type of thing I suck in like air after a workout. The thing that I marinade in and use as fuel to get my long-term depression riddled self out of bed for weeks!
But then I thought of some of the things said about me from my people, my chosen family, when I had reached out for some much needed breath of inspiration on Sunday, and some things others have recently called me. Things that don’t match the “Generalized Anxiety Disorder” diagnosis from my latest shrink or the former bulimic that no one knows I am. Because that’s why I am reveling in this song, because I am now someone who can say I’ve battled depression my entire adult life, This is Me. Because I laughed at the doctor when he gave such a “well duh?” diagnosis. Yes, doc, thanks, I’m a worrier, anyone I know could have told me that, could you come up with a sexier name than GAD if I have to pay this much to have it written on paper? This is me.
And I think, who are these people seeing? Am I being fake, because let me tell you one thing. I’m fine with being a lot of things, but the last thing this world needs is another fake woman. Don’t let me be that.
So, I step away from FB, never a bad thing, and I head off to the gym to play out my new warrior anthem on their fancy mats. I’m pumped. Smiling faces. I greet them. I’m so happy to be here. This is my happy place. We begin with the normal sweating and moaning and occasional f-bomb. Perfection, I love it. I get to an exercise requiring balance, which I lack. I’m screwed, whatever, I laugh. The ladies next to me laugh. We keep trying. My arms are flitting around being more comical than helpful and then, get this shit! Then, the lady next to me say, “see? you’ve worked it out!”
Wait, what? And I’m back in my head thinking about the song and my story and my struggles and thinking once again, what the heck are these people seeing? I’m flailing around like a fish out of water and you see “worked it out?”
My fav TV show, like a lot of women, is This Is Us. Last week, there was this daddy daughter story line about how the dad saw the daughter as beautiful and talented and she, an angsty teen, of course, had a harsher mirror for herself. At the end, she told her dad he could continue to tell her how he saw her.
I’m not being fake because people see me smiling and being positive and doing good things for myself. No, it’s okay for them to see and call me positive, smiling, an inspiration, a “fireball”….Oh my God, really? I love it! Because that’s what I’ve worked so hard for! That is my truth. Depression, bulimia, anxiety, other crap (excuse the technical term) those were my wet stones that I sharpened myself on. Those aren’t me. I don’t have to feel bad that people are shocked when I reveal that I have days when I want to stay in bed. Maybe I should reveal that I’ve had days and days and days on end when I did stay in bed. But I fought back, because that wasn’t my truth. That was my storm through which I grew. And now I can be me.
- Wonder Woman Out