How do you solve a problem like Mardougrrl?

The hills are alive...with the sounds of low self-esteem...

For many years, I’ve avidly consumed self-help and self-improvement literature. Go ahead…name a book. Chances are, I’ve already read it, or it’s on my list of books to read.

Something about the books speaks to an essential optimism, to a belief that if I just get everything right, if I get everything just so, then I’ll be able to sally forth and join the human race, finally free of those nasty aspects of my personality. Truth be told, I’ve always been a little overly-proud of myself for being so concerned with all of my problems. It was proof that I was determined to live up to my full potential, and not live in unconscious mediocrity. Sure, I could read novels, go to movies, etc, but that wouldn’t really HELP me, would it? And so lately, it’s almost felt like a job, this slog through one self-help book after another. I tell myself that I am trying to make sure I “fix myself” before Madam is old enough to see me as a bad role model.

And yet…I am still a procrastinator. Still fearful. Still full of flaws and problems that never seem to go away.

Thus, I keep postponing my dreams, rationalizing that once I get rid of the fear, or the confusion, or the low self-esteem, I’ll be better equipped to DESERVE my dreams.

Well, I’m 33. How much longer am I going to wait? It occurs to me that these flaws are a part of me, but that focusing on them so intently has made me over-identify with them. I mean, am I a full person, or just an endless series of problems to be solved?

I know what it’s about, of course. It’s fascinating to see how many different ways fear can rule my life. In this case, it’s a fear that, without the books, I’ll relax into my flawed state, sink into a sort of catatonia, and stop pushing myself to go after my dreams. That I’ll sit in front of the television, concerned with nothing except the latest round of “American Idol” (and I don’t even LIKE American Idol!).

It’s a fear of giving up who I am.

But…while the books make me feel as though I am earnestly working towards my dreams, making lists and flowcharts, in reality, I can’t seem to translate any of the lessons into just LIVING—into attempting to find my creative tribe, into writing my books, into finding a way to incorporate beauty into my life. No, the books just seem to lead me to more books.

The thing is…I have learned a lot from these authors. They’ve inspired me, and, if nothing else, made me more aware of the many ways my treacherous monkey-mind can operate. But now it’s time to acknowledge what I have already learned and actually use the information, no matter how ineffective and wrong I still feel.

I am afraid to sully my dreams by attempting to reach them in my current imperfect, deeply flawed state. And I am afraid to make mistakes, to do it wrong, somehow, and put them out of my reach forever.

I am afraid.

But this relentless focus on my faults, on my lack, has drained me. The world is too fascinating, full of new books on Transcendentalists and India, and poetry, and art, and music, and Project Runway…it beckons me right out of my head. And that’s a welcome place to me, all of a sudden. I’m tired of trying to improve myself. My navel is just NOT that fascinating (except to Madam, but that's a whole different thing).

I am probably going to stay afraid. And a procrastinator. And probably continue to have low self-esteem.

But I’ve decided to accept all of that, and jump into the world with both feet anyway. After all, imperfect people are writing books, making movies, painting pictures, moving to Spain, learning ice dancing, dyeing their hair pink, and marrying their muse every day.

I think I’d like to join their number.