Epiphany

I have mentioned before I am a member of a women's volunteer organization that is commonly perceived to involve tea parties and black-tie affairs, but which in reality consists of women who want to improve the community and socialize a bit while they do it. And some of us are pretty damn rich and some of us live in genteel poverty. (I would be in the latter category, in case you wondered).

Anyhoo, after ten years of anonymity in the organization, I've been invited to sit on a committee that is related to what I do for a living. We had an orientation meeting this morning, and that's where I had my EPIPHANY.

I've always been self-conscious about my membership in this organization--I have always felt out of place at meetings and have not really made any significant friendships over the years. (I have one member I can call a friend, but we actually met outside the League). I have been content to do my volunteer work each year -- at Christopher House, at the Ronald McDonald House, in El Salvador, at Children's Hospital, at the Children's Advocacy Center, etc. -- and to remain in the background.

With that in mind, this morning all the new committee members met and, because we are all going to get to know each other very well this year, there was the obligatory pre-meeting game involving crayons and butcher paper and a chance to put down who you are on paper in two minutes or less.

Because my life may not be an open book, but it is an open webpage, I went for broke. Besides identifying myself as a wife and mother, I called myself a "tattooed debutante," a "rebel," a lover of books, music, and progressive causes, a proud Southerner and Austinite, and someone with amazing friends. (You are. Really.)

And their response? Silence. Crickets.

And suddenly I felt very exposed, shamed, and unworthy.

For about five minutes. Because then I had my EPIPHANY.

The little voice inside my head that has told me for nearly 40 years that I'm worthless and my opinions aren't worth much and that I'm a huge fuckup said instead, "This is who I am. And who I am is great. And I'm willing to shout it from the rooftops. It doesn't matter if they like me or hate me. I'm here because I want to be, and I am going to take something out of the experience, and I am going to contribute something to the experience. And they are damn lucky to have me."

And I have been on cloud nine all day. Because not only did I stop feeling bad that the "story of me" didn't go over, but I realized that deep down I really know who I am--finally--and that I like the person I have become.

Y'all, this is HUGE for me.

Now why couldn't I have figured this out 20 years ago? Age and therapy paid off, I guess.