Mirror, Mirror

So who do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you really see you or do you see what you think others see? Do you like what you see? Do you want to change it?

I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking for the past two years about who I am. I’ve been trying to find the Susan that is at the base of everything – not the Susan everyone sees but the Susan I see (or want to see) when I look in the mirror.

I was thinking about how I would describe myself should I decide to submit myself to the ridiculousness of online dating (sorry, not sure I can do that). Some people have great success. But I saw my personal profile as something like this:

SWF, 45, slightly emotionally damaged, twice divorced (hence the damage), carrying about 45 lbs too many and only occasionally bipolar, mostly around the full moon. “Weirdly driven,” obsessed with her creative life but moderately obsessive when it comes to her heart as well. Oh, and she lives with her parents.

I can see the line forming to the left of perspective dates.

I guess none of us can define ourselves that simply, which is the main reason internet dating doesn’t appeal to me. I’m much more complicated than that. Yes, I’ve been divorced twice. Yes, I’m prone to depression. But I can also experience and share joy of the like you have never seen. Yes, my heart is battered but I hope that I am not terribly bitter because of it. I’m still a romantic yet I’m still cautious. Yes, I am independent and a towering pillar of strength but I can also crumble with a word or a look and sometimes I want someone to tell me what to do, or at least help me figure out what to do.

Interestingly, I’m listening to Trace Adkins sing “I Wanna Feel Something.”

It may be as simple as that. I want to feel something. Something that feels uniquely me. Something that is not dismissed, that is not pandered to. I want to feel something and know that that feeling is valid because it’s mine, because I know who I am and I no longer require someone to validate that feeling and validate that person.

I have spent the last 45 years of my life trying to figure out who I am. I was never defined as a young child. My brother and my sister had very clear definitions – athletes, award winners, accolades galore. The expectations were there and they were defined. Now, I’m sure that comes with its own set of issues and problems that they can deal with by working with their own therapists. But for me, the damage was in not being defined. I didn’t know who to be. I couldn’t compete with them as athletes because the bar was set into the stratosphere. So I tried many things, trying to find Susan. The resounding lack of response made me think that nothing I could do would ever equal what my siblings had accomplished and that what I was doing was not valid.

Luckily, I fell in love with theater. Discovering my creativity began to help me see the blurry image in front of me, that maybe there was a Susan there that might be worth something.

But after two challenging relationships with two men who did not help the cause of defining Susan, I am now back to one, beginning again, trying put together the pieces I have gathered over 45 years. The toughest part is not allowing myself to be defined by those around me. I have to find my own definition, my own version of Susan.

Bit by bit, that person is coming into focus. I can see maybe 10% of the Susan that I want to be, that Susan in my vision five years from now, curled up in an armchair, clean, fresh breeze blowing in through my open window, sitting in peace and serenity, knowing I am exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing, the sound of the one I love singing from the next room, singing something silly and lovely and tender that means nothing to anyone but us. That Susan, that peaceful, content person is the one I strive for. I’m sure she has problems and issues and temper tantrums and deep, dark depressions. But I am hoping those are the rarities and the peace and comfort are the norm for this Susan.

Maybe in five years, the ad that Susan would write would read something like this:

CWF (committed white female), 50, emotionally healed, in a caring, committed relationship with (he who can’t be named), still probably carrying around a few pounds too many but doesn’t give a shit about that, still likes to howl at the moon but with pleasure, not with pain. Still “weirdly driven” with her creative life but learning to love without losing herself. Lives with her parents – who live in the guest house of her beautiful wooded estate.

That sounds pretty good to me.