You are Enough: A Tiny Manual for Being Your True Self

When I was in third grade, I used to hang upside down on the monkey lines in the playground of my girls' school in Philadelphia.

I would wrap my pale knees around the gray metal rods and let my hands carefully turn downwards, like a pendulum skirt.

This means that I had to be confident that my normal weakened strength would be enough to stop me.

It was always a feeling of victory when my knees started to burn. This means that it was time to carefully return to the world for myself.

Alix - 1, Gravity - 0!

One day, a dead stump of grass clung to the sole of my Stride Rite. As I examined the bars, it slipped into my mouth. I slammed my mouth shut and spat, and came out completely exhausted.

Double-clicking and mowing the lawn was no small noise. I made the scene; however, it failed to attract the attention of my teachers.

They did not rush to my side to see why I was coming in so often.

"Throwing up" was a gold ticket home from school and I wanted to make some money.

This is because I have spent the first third of my life believing that in order to be sure, something is wrong with me.

The only part I didn't enjoy was the weeding and cultivating. I thought that being sick made me attractive.

I was a kid looking for a pressed ankle to get sticks. Did you know that the value of getting street attention to crutches is in the children's world? It's like friggin 'crack!

And a broken leg? Think of signatures!

I wanted poison to get bandages, “so that I wouldn't get scratched.”

The questions involved were like gold: “Oh no! Are you okay? "

I wouldn’t let the fact that I don’t fight toxins stop me from getting into this potential cache of boo-boo love.

One summer night with the help of red and orange magical symbols, I pulled a funny rash out of my arm.

Then I tested it with my family, who never bought it. Thankfully, this ridiculous little thing has never come out of R&D.

To be clear, I have received a lot of reinforcement at home. I was supported from morning till night by my loving family, for which I am most grateful. But I have never felt that it really counts. In my child's mind, I thought they had signed a declaration that they would love me, and they were biased.

Also, I was one of those souls who needed reassurance in a foreign land.

I had a feeling that when I left the boundaries of my nest, that unless I was limping or repeating, I was invisible. I needed to be a victim of something in order to matter.

That day at the playground when my teachers ignored my clear - and official thing! - The dead grass was so angry, I felt so invisible I didn't think it was possible.

Shouldn’t these professional paid professionals acknowledge me when I’m in trouble?

Since I undoubtedly had a knack for Chicken Little-esque drama, they were probably safe from my antics at this time.

I can cling to any painful ideas to get the care I want.

Looking back at this time in my childhood I have to laugh at myself. Not only was I very theater, but my self-esteem was also depressing.

Obviously, I didn’t think I was good enough. In fact, it has taken me for the better part of thirty years to make peace with the idea that not only am I, but that I am what I am supposed to be.

Growing up in the seventies and eighties I had all these ideas, I was heavily fed by TV, pop culture, and my peers, about who I was supposed to be:

Breck Girl, Charlie's Angel, Wonder Woman (but I would love to be Lynda Carter), and Barbie imprisoned for work (not for staying at home).

As I was growing up into my youth, I began to dismiss the idea of ​​a bulletin board about life.

My head was turned slightly by action heroes with perfect hair and more, if I am completely honest, beautiful boys who listen to “proper” music and wear Polo Cologne.

Now longing for their acceptance, I shaped myself into what I thought they wanted me to be: The Girl in The Smiths' "How How Is Is Now?" video.

This has brought me to this point.

When I graduated from high school, I moved to New York to work for a large company. This was a dream come true.

Before long, I was trying to figure out who the model industry was: Edgy? Fun? Is it good? Commercial? Editing? There were too many options and they could never be a clear answer.

Watching my life outside for so many years was a difficult habit to break.

I was like a junkie for other people's approval, permission, information, and maps.

I thought that everyone except me was given a health book.

They seem to be "getting it" while I'm constantly searching to find my place in their world.

After all, I was working under the very impression that I was the only one who felt this way.

Again, I have to look back and laugh.

One day when I was in my twenties, the atmosphere allowed me to look under the hood and was allowed a secret of the universe: tons of other people felt like they were living without a manual. Most of us have a wing, and a slight loss is the way we find ourselves.

This epiphany was such a relief that I stopped trying to be what I thought others were looking for and began to look really good to me.

I would like to say that this radical change took place overnight, but no.

"Just being myself" remained a process of building self-confidence that was incompatible with the next few years (ten?) Until I was able to fully embrace what I am in the world today.

The wonder of it all - and another cosmic gut-buster - is that the closer I get to my personality, the more the world rushes to meet me where I am.

I'm trying to figure out if there is a handwritten note at birth, it might go like this: