Unpacking The Burden of Perfection

I recently taught a workshop at the Hammer for their exhibit: Radical Women. One of the neighboring workshops was a photo project. In it, I was asked to respond to the question, "What makes you a Radical Girl?" I was speechless. What makes me a radical girl? 

Am I a radical girl? 

I responded: I Am a Radical Girl because I allow myself to be seen. 

I'm not sure why I took this photo, because at the time, it wasn't true. I guess my future self knew I'd need it.

I didn't realize at the time that this was an unfulfilled truth. 

During the workshop, I met a college student who wanted to study philosophy but strayed away from it because it is a male dominated field. I asked her to describe a Narnia-like world, one in which she was allowed to be who she is. She constructed a fantastical land with her language. There were pillars and puzzles. Her ideas gave birth to a towering landscape, but when it came time to share, she didn't. 

If only she knew how good she was, I thought. 

I rushed from the workshop to the release party of a magazine I created with my friend. The night was filled with faces of people I love. I watched all night as my friends and family so willingly gave of their time and energy to support our dream. 

The following day, a friend I hadn't seen in years went on and on about how proud of me she was- listing my accomplishments as we made our way downtown. In that moment, all I wanted to do was cry. What did any of it even mean? As I write this, I realize now that it was the banished self who wanted to cry. The self who wasn't allowed to show up to celebrations. The self who wasn't allowed to be seen. 

In the days following, I learned from two people whom I hold dear that I seem to coast through life. To onlookers, it would appear as though everything was always good. I was shocked to hear this. It made me go inward and question how there was such a stark disconnect between my inner experiences and what my loved ones perceived. 

For the sake of full authenticity, I must quote Get Rich or Die Tryin here: Men hide their emotions. You bury yours.

That was it. I buried my emotions, and in doing so, killed a piece of myself every time. The problem is, I wasn't conscious of this self-inflicted crucifixion. It is a defense-mechanism I adopted in childhood in order to "stay out of the way". My mother passed away when I was four, and my father went to prison a few years later. I was raised by a single parent grandmother who never spoke in feelings. Therefore, I believed emotions to be bad, weak.

And yet, the darkness I experienced seemed so large it would swallow me. My pain often felt too heavy to bear, so I wanted to be as small as possible so as to not disrupt anyone's comfort. Or rather, I wanted my emotions to be as small as possible so as to not disrupt anyone's comfort. 

I believed myself to be a burden. I once said to my grandmother, "If I am such a heavy load, why wouldn't you just give me to someone else?" I believed myself to be a thing that could be given away. 

One of the only memories I have of my mother is riding in a car, her laughing at something I'd just said. "What am I going to do with you?", she giggled. "You could sell me.", I replied. I thought it was a funny thing to say, but I remember her stopping the car and becoming very serious. "Why would you say that?" I don't remember much else from that time, only the recognition that I had done something wrong. And yet, 20 years later, I have found myself giving me away. Sacrificing the whole of myself for a more composed, put together, lighter woman. A woman who is easily digestible. A woman who is not a burden. I am reminded of the young philosopher from my workshop, if only I knew how good I am.

This week, I decided to share with a few close friends that I wasn't doing well. I can finally accept that my silence has not protected me. Instead, it prevents me from true connection. As horrifying as the idea of sharing this weight with others was, I shared it, and in return, was met with an overflow of love, support, and humanity. I was told that I am not perfect. And while to my former Virgoan self that may have sounded like the quintessential insult, it was instead received as the pardon of a sentence I could no longer serve. I am not perfect. But I am complete. 

I've only realized in the last two weeks that I've been running from myself. And I am already exhausted. I no longer wish to bury myself. I am in an excavation period. The more of myself I retrieve, the more deeply I fall in love. 

Darkness must always surrender to light. The emotions I've dealt with in the shadows are the source of my sun. (I now realize why I was always drawn to Michelangelo's autobiographical novel, "The Agony and the Ecstasy", they were the two things I knew intimately.) For decades, I have silently gone through the alchemical process of transforming my pain into pure joy. I shared the finished product with the world, but not the steps it took to get there. Not the roots. 

I want to give you the whole of myself. My infinite self. 

I am not a burden. I am not a thing that can be given away. I Am a Radical Girl because I allow myself to be seen.