Glimpses Underneath the Surface

    I want to write about how I believed myself to be beautiful when younger, and how much I struggle to now. I didn't dwell on my deviated septum when I was a kid. Hell, I don't even think I knew I had one until high school. I loved taking pictures of myself, regardless of if I had makeup on or had styled my hair. I wore pajamas, dance costumes, and matching sweatsuits on any given day because I felt cute and comfortable in them. I was unconcerned with the terms "muffin top" or "love handles," and couldn't tell you the difference between a scissor and a flutter kick. I watched TV shows and movies that starred gorgeous actresses, but I identified with their spirit before ever considering comparing my appearance. I am trying to find my way back to that internal knowing of my worth.

 Wet hair, pajamas that barely cover my burgeoning belly, and a pool stick positioned in the most unfortunate place it could be. Ah yes, that's the Libby I recognize. 

    I want to write about my mom leaving me a voicemail the day Trump was elected that went as follows: "I love you very much. I know that this is like, the hardest day in the world, but we're going to get through it. It'll be OK; I don't know how, but it's going to be OK." I was astounded by her strength, because I knew the result crushed her. But she chose to show up for her children, as she always does. 

    I cried so hard while taking a shower that morning. I remember witnessing at least two other girls from my floor enter the communal bathroom with tear-streaked faces. I barely spoke the whole day, because forming coherent sentences was beyond me. Instead, I was glued to my phone searching for and echoing the statements of people who were as disgusted and devastated as I was. I watched the videos of Clinton supporters upon hearing the news with such a visceral sadness and rage. It felt like a collective slap in the face to women everywhere. There was no "lesser of two evils" in that race; that narrative is bullshit. It was an influential, intelligent, capable woman against a pussy-grabbing bully. Somehow people decided the woman couldn't be trusted. 

    I was heartbroken that the America I was a part of deemed it acceptable to appoint a racist, misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic, hypocritical, self-obsessed, highly unqualified man-child to lead our nation. Everyone who was in their right mind at the time knew we would not be charging forward with any kind of confidence under Trump's administration. We took five thousand steps back, and we will be paying for his incompetence for years to come. If you aren't harboring unbearable distress for November, you haven't been paying attention.

    I want to write in my own voice, always. It could be the eleven years of therapy, or how my major in school had me consistently studying the human condition, but as I age, I am becoming more acquainted with vulnerability and its many benefits. This life is simultaneously too short and too long, and the best way I know how to cope with that is by expressing how messy it makes me feel. I am inspired by so many people, but I never want my writing to poorly mimic someone else's. I turn to writing as a cathartic means of releasing my own observations and musings. I rely on humility and humor, because I never claim to have any "answers." 

    I definitely didn't start this blog with hopes of being an influencer. In fact, I throw up in my mouth whenever anyone mentions the word "brand." I don't know what mine is, and I really don't care to cultivate one. What I care about, is the possibility that I will be brave enough to write something that connects with someone in a meaningful way. When I work with that purpose in mind, I feel less pressure to sell myself, and instead, focus on if I'm willing to take ownership of the words I carefully string together . 

    I want to write about how exhausting it was to fall for someone whose heart works very differently from my own. The fact that the love was unreciprocated is just the cherry on top. He'll never know the clarity with which I remember it all, every damn detail. Even though I am acutely aware it wasn't meant to be, I will hear a song that became a minute bliss in that relationship, and for a second, become fully convinced that there has to be more to our story. Whenever I long to see him, which is still too often, I am reminded that I couldn't eat the last three times we hung out. One unfortunate instance of frustratingly spinning his silence into my own personal shame, had the enduring effect of no appetite and very little self-respect. I am still climbing my way out of that hole and hoping to rediscover a healthier connection with the opposite sex. 

    Funny thing is, I will continue to say he's a good person, because he truly is. And for me, it's simpler to hold onto gratitude than get uselessly lost in resentment. It's just painful to come to terms with the reality that at one point in time, I was the person he chose to send an endearingly long and honest voice memo to, and have since been reduced to a 'doesn't text you back for 48 hours and can't be bothered to send you a birthday message,' kind of memory. Cue "We Do Not Belong Together" from Sunday in the Park with George 💔.

 

One of my favorite pages out of Jenny Slate's Little Weirds.

    I want to write about my undying love of television, and how that would undoubtedly be my dream job. For me, TV is the sweetest escape and the most effortless addiction. Similar to theatre, television has to be a collaborative process to succeed. The shows that I adore most didn't leave a lasting mark simply because of good acting; it's about the writing, the direction, the crew that captures it all, the designers that execute a character's look, and so much more. I can absolutely say that some TV shows have changed my life, or at least made a significant impact in how I understand myself.  

    Glee helped me discover and dive deeper into my passion for performing. The Office taught me how satisfying a sense of humor is, even if I end up laughing at the "wrong" time. Ugly Betty reminded me that authenticity and hard work are an admirable and honorable combination for opening doors and forging meaningful relationships. Grey's Anatomy has communicated that I can get through any of the crap I'm dealing with, because it's not nearly as traumatizing as what that show throws at their characters. I have compiled 58 shows on the list below, and I could carry on a lengthy conversation about any of them. As an introvert and a very anxious person, I find great solace in starting (or re-watching!) a series and investing in worlds that are different than my own.

It is quite likely I forgot some shows😅. I also made an error because Billy on the Street is not a Netflix original.

    I want to write about all that makes me sad, lonesome, and confused. I get stuck in writer's block time and again, because I constantly second-guess whether what I have to say matters. I tend to be quiet and was rarely the first to raise my hand to offer my thoughts in class. I'm the kind of person who feels safer listening and ruminating before I go making any declarations. I'm fascinated by questions and entirely uninterested in giving advice at this point in my life. Some days I'm self-conscious about that, and assume it's perceived as a weakness. I can only speak from my own experience, but I often worry that anxiety has me rooted in an arm's length existence. Therefore, my own experience can't be of much value to writing endeavors, right?

    There's a snippet from Danielle Bennett's poem entitled SHE that reads: "She is strange—doesn't always make perfect sense. But she is perfect in the way she makes her presence a place where you can rest." I latched onto that phrase, because for one, I do strive to be that welcoming person others can come to to hold space for whatever may be weighing on their soul. And two, it's often difficult for me to be compassionate toward my complexities. I habitually create this narrow box for my behavior and emotions; if I'm quiet, that must mean I'm boring. If I'm opinionated, I'm too judgmental. If I'm afraid to share certain details of my life, I'm ashamed of who I am. Practicing meditation has increased my awareness of how powerful our brains are, and we definitely have the ability to follow our thoughts into drawn-out stories that just aren't true. I am susceptible to becoming overwhelmed by those stories and going to dark places of insecurity.

    The optimistic side of me wants to finish this post off with a paragraph about how self-acceptance can be quick and easy, as some of the quotes I have foolishly saved on Pinterest suggest. But alas, I am no life guru, and would not expect what has been useful for my well-being to vibe with everyone. So, I guess I'll end this by offering something I do firmly believe in, and feel free to take it or leave it😏.
    Tend to your head and heart, gently and frequently. We don't get anywhere by perpetually ignoring hurt and clutter, or by being overly wary of joy and pride (@ ME!). Feel it and confront it in a manner that serves your growth. Write about it all, even, perhaps especially, if it's only for you to let go of and ponder.