On Roots

“Putting down roots” is a concept often applied to where we live.

“I’m gonna put down roots in this here old town.”

This city.

This neighborhood.

This place.

But the feeling of being rooted isn’t about place.

It’s about knowing, in your deep down gut, who you are.

**

Most times, we define ourselves relatively speaking.

We pawn off self-identification like outfits we wear for the occasion:

I’m Chris’s wife

I’m Gus and Gold’s mom

I’m Faith’s sister

I’m Cass’s coworker

All of these - gestalt style I guess - add up to a complete person. Maybe with a little sliver of whimsy thrown in the form of a hobby: “AND I JET SKI!”

(I don’t.)

The pie chart of self.

Is this practice lazy? Dismissive? Damaging?

A few years ago I went ass over teakettle.

Blew apart. Upended my life.

Something akin to rock bottom in the aforementioned addiction/recovery culture that is part of my life.

I’ll never forget the absolute agony (my exact words, in a text to my parents) of sitting on the brown cushy la-z-boy in the living room and going, I can’t feel my feet on the ground. I can’t run.

I can’t escape this exposure.

I can’t pretend this isn’t real.

I can’t redirect this pain.

I have to face it.

I have to face myself.

The moment I decided to do that, it was like one little toe touched the ground. And didn’t leave.

**

In the weeks and months that followed, I did face myself.

I saw a gollum-like soul, desperate for pseudo-power and shiny things.

I also saw a scared little girl who wanted to escape the terror of religion-themed horror scenarios.

A wife with a madcap, passionate love story.

A teenager who didn’t understand what ‘anxiety disorder’ meant.

A mom who would lay down my life in a second for my kids.

An addict who couldn’t handle what a normal person handles every single day of their lives. 

An order-craver.

A rule breaker.

I may be a pie chart of sorts. But none of the sorted bits rely on relativity. 

They are in fact all me.

As I found my footing, it solidified something in me.

Some parts of me are truly terrible. Despicable. 

I look at them.

Some parts are fairly lovely. Good, even.

I look at them.

I look at myself, totally bare, and don’t curl my toes with discomfort. 

I just stand and say: Okay.

**

It’s okay that some days I’m almost too anxious to speak.

It’s okay that some days I’m brimming with life and thrilled to be human.

It’s okay that sometimes I am not good enough.

It’s okay that sometimes I am.

The externalities shed, it kind of comes down to this: 

…if I can face myself…

…if I can not look away…

I can stand on my own two feet without a crutch. 

**

I turned 40 last week.

I texted my friend Stacy R.: “I have everything I want.”

And it’s true.

My precious husband

My darling children

My perfect sister

The other stuff (all of which matters less)

I have a great deal and I’m grateful for all of it.

AND all of it is not definitive, but additive. 

Additive to the gross and good realities of who I am.

And somehow that’s the one. That’s the truth that makes me look down and realize I’m not shaking. I’m barely swaying in the wind. Not so fragile. I have roots.