All my life I have been presented with examples of proper behavior and it was always stressed that calm, rational, unemotional was the ultimate goal. In our family histrionics were a sign of madness. Both crazy and angry and to be avoided at all costs. I am a good learner. I quickly embody whatever is necessary for my survival and perceived comfort.
But I am an emotional person and my attempts to keep that under strict control backfires every so often like a tea kettle expelling steam. My writing and my painting both help that. They give me places where my emotions burst out in flaming sunsets, overgrown gardens and sometimes cryptic words.
After living with myself for seventy some years I would say I am emotions held together by a body. My body deals with me the best it can. I am in a constant state of fighting off hives. My weight goes up and down and I've learned to smile. That smile is my protection against a world that sees me as one stereotype after another. It is genuine by the way, because I've learned to appreciate each moment as not just bearable, but beautiful. It's the long haul that is hard.
People see me as the mother, the grandma, the preschool teacher, the sister who reminds them of Lily Tomlin playing Frankie, and the kindly old lady next door. They see me through their eyes and really don't see me at all. I am those paintings that surround me. I am the woman who has written over a hundred stories read by thousands of people that most of you will never read and don't want to read. I am so far from what most people believe I am it amazes me to think about it.
But then, aren't we all?
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