Authenticity

What does it mean to be authentic? According to Merriam-Webster, it is “not false or imitation; true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character.” I have always prided myself on living authentically, and I did … for the first 34 years of my life, that is. Some would say that, during those years, I put too much of myself out there for the world to see, but authenticity was vitally important to me. It backfired royally for me, though, and I was hurt in a way I had never fathomed was possible. As a result, I pulled myself into my shell and began living a very protected, very sheltered life. I gradually stopped blogging, stopped sharing my heart on social media, and eventually even stopped being real with friends. I was safe. No one could hurt me in the massive tortoise shell I had crept into.

What I didn’t count on, however, was the shrinking of my spirit. I met with my psychiatrist last week and told her that I couldn’t seem to get a handle on my anxiety, that it was getting stronger and stronger. As I described to her the types of situations that were making me more and more anxious, she said, “Oh, like social anxiety? You’re having social anxiety?” I was floored. She was right. Every situation, with a couple small exceptions, had to do with a fear of how people would perceive me and what they would do to me. Even now, typing this, I feel my chest tightening and tears welling up in my eyes.

I was struck again yesterday by how unauthentic I have become when I was describing to Jason a time in my life when I was ultimately happy, the happiest I have ever been. I recounted to him a weekend when my parents came down to California to visit, and my Dad told me that I seemed so happy and carefree that he didn’t even recognize me, and I was. I was blissfully happy because I knew that the people I was surrounded with loved me fully, completely, and unconditionally. And then they didn’t, and my world was crushed.

It’s been six years. Six years since I realized that unconditional love is not a thing. Six years since I realized that people who seem trustworthy can, and will, hurt me, and that the world is not a safe place. I haven’t been able to come back from that, partly because I didn’t realize how deeply I was retreating to protect myself. There have been several instances in the last month that have shown me how much hurt and heartache I still carry from that time in MoTown, and I need to address those. They hurt me to the depths of my soul, but I cannot let them continue to rob me of who I am, my authenticity, and my peace of mind.

I live in fear that if people see me for me, they won’t want to buy my baked goods. I am afraid that if my house is messy, if I mess up a recipe, if I’m too fat or too thin, if I talk to much, if I don’t talk enough, et cetera, et cetera, people will boycott me, and my business will fail. If my business fails, then I, too, will have failed, which, for some reason, seems to me to be a fate worse than death.

Here’s the thing, though. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of living in fear. I’m done being someone I’m not, no matter how it affects my bottom line.

So, yes. I am a Democrat (*gasp*). I am an agnostic (going straight to hell). I own pets and operate a bakery (which is legal, by the way). I am a horrible, terrible, god-awful housekeeper (I don’t even own an iron!). I’m obese, and I’m not even really doing anything about it. (Touch my chocolate and see what happens. Just try it. I dare you.)

Oh, authenticity, how deeply have I missed you!