Learning to Love Yourself

Just when I'm back on the brink of shaving my head and moving to Nepal, Penelope Trunk writes a post that keeps me in line and makes me feel a lot less crazy.

She suggests that one doesn't have to torture themselves because they don’t do what they love for a living. This hit home because I have an ongoing struggle about the discrepancy between what I love to do, and what I have chosen as a primary career path.

Penelope says,

"Often, the thing we should do for our career is something we would only do if we were getting a reward. If you tell yourself that your job has to be something you’d do even if you didn’t get paid, you’ll be looking for a long time. Maybe forever. So why set that standard? The reward for doing a job is contributing to something larger than you are, participating in society, and being valued in the form of money."

Point well taken. I'm hoping I can finally take advice like this to heart.

I can certainly move towards things I like better, which I've started doing. Plus, I already get paid to sing and teach, and I spend time writing about it. And despite my mounting frustration that "I'm not creative enough," I should end the charade. I make time for being creative. I am doing what I love. (I even married what I love.) So what if I can't wear a badge that says, "I earn 100% of my income from my passions in life. You can too - ask me about it!"

Furthermore, I'm getting a little sick of myself. Well, my thought processes about myself. My husband probably is too, God bless his patience. I seem to relish in self-analysis that leads to self-deprecating conclusions about how I'm not smart, pretty, skinny, and perfect enough. I actually ask Mike every morning to check my outfit before I leave for work asking, "Do I look dumb or stupid?" He is baffled as to how to answer this asinine question, but playing along says, "Stupid!" It's a joke, but partly how I really feel.

It's odd because I do have the intelligence to realize I'm not as big as a house and my clothes are fairly current. But I think intelligence is no match for whacked out hormones and misfiring brain synapses. I swear it's my DNA. It's got to be genetic because I remember being like this when I was a kid, far before societal pressures could have taught me I wasn't good enough. One of my first stories (my mother chronicles it at age 4) was titled, "Nobody likes me today or never." It's a narrative of all the bad things I did (crying, shouting, being sad) along with the reasons why my family should truly hate me. Illustrated.

But...in true Milena style, the last page reveals a bit of enlightened thinking: "If I wasn't all that, I'd be nothing, so love me for who I am."