who's that?

"almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess."
~~samuel johnson

"at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face."
~~ albert camus

pesky hard-wiring has been rearing its ancient dna head again and i'm at the mercy of pattern recognition, my antennae now tuned to what social pysychologists refer to as "imposter syndrome". they've been studying it since the late 70s when *somebody* noticed the anxiety embedded in successful women. (quelle surprise that 2 ph. d. dudes, during the era of "love, american style" would find insecurity in female execs something to pick at, huh?)

a few years ago i was at one of those rarified dinners to which i'm often invited. the kind of evening precious few get to attend and fewer still have in their job descriptions. (we'll mercilessly exclude those for whom a night with a french champagne maker, a billionaire duke, and plates of caviar and truffles happen only on hbo. "people don't live like THAT.")

a mentor was praising me. we were drinking out of hand-blown crystal and discreetly dressed to the nines. i've known him many years and he was one of the first to set me on my career path. he was, gulp, "proud of me". a buzzing began in my ears and my vision started to swim. i watched the candlelight dance in his glass and what looked like sincere affection glisten in his eyes. i thought i might faint. he must have seen me go white and within seconds an iced mineral water was in my hands. i laughed it off as not having eaten all day and we took to table. the night was a smash, and my dirty little secret stayed secret.

"who the hell do i think i am?"

since then, i've worked to formalize my knowledge, (yo, my name is in that english ledger, y'all) and expand my horizons. i've climbed some career rungs, so at least on paper it looks like mobility. when i answer the question, "what do you do?" invariably i'm greeted with, "wow, that sounds great!" no point poking with the pricking pin.

however, i now host two demons. while others saw me sail through most classes, excel at exams, ride in the *popular clique* (whatever that meant), never at a loss for dates and always ready with the repartee, the one who has long dwelt within manifested through anorexia, promiscuity, emotional avoidance and substance adventures. now we add the one whispering in my ear while carving up my soul. he is determined to make me see i'm nothing. that i've accomplished nothing. that whatever smarts i might pride myself on having do not exist. that anything in my life i think i've done right is a fiction. through his recent prodding, i was in a fit of confusion and he asked me what was i good at? i couldn't think of anything. everything felt like a lie. everything.

on a selfish hedonistic lark, i became involved with a married man. in a heartbeat, he became the oxygen to my life. we lived years of lies and now are trying to build up something on the ashes of heartbreak, yet remain behind a firm lock of secrecy.

my glamorous loft stretches me beyond healthy bounds, and my finances and credit are thoroughly botched.

people think i swill krug all day at work, but i clock in each day with 90% loathing and negative percent hope.

among my co-workers is not a single partner in crime.

my hair is increasingly grey and my body rapidly succumbing to its age.

these are all things of which i'm keenly aware. like my name and eye color, i know this, and it's ALL ugly.

through the ages, certain folks have made handy livings convincing others (and perhaps themselves) they were not whom they appeared. the lost princess anastasia and the undead jesse james managed quite nicely. the delusion brought them solace and likely comfort to others who wished they still went to romanov cotillions or rode the range.

a little bit of "i'm ok, you're ok," sometimes gets us out of bed. a brash flash of "hey, look at me!" might get us over a hump of uncertainty. hubris fucks us over. there is plenty of wiggle room, i'm thinking, between all those brackets.

there is a smart bomb with me in his sights. he wants to seize and destroy. his emotional tnt is dissonance. i know i've made some bad choices and procrastinated recovering from them, but not every decision has been foolish. yet i'm beginning to see i shall be allowed no credit. only demerits.

i know i don't know where this will go. i know i cannot stop it. i know i've already acted out against it. contrary to popular belief, my sense of self-preservation is fierce. (hell, i've leapt from speeding cars and rappelled within electrical storms.) my fuck-ups exist, but, hey! they are mine. is the point to make me let them go? to make me wallow in the seething filth of my shame and guilt? who the hell measures what's normal here? everybody has a corner of the closet cobwebbed and quiet, right? 'cept... i guess... not me. anymore. ever.

throwing stones, glass houses, mary magdalene, orwell, kant, hegel. bah. i'm terrified.


memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.
man remember, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.

happy ash wednesday.