Recently, I had an epiphany. Or at least I had what felt like an epiphany, it probably was the result of some locked up brain wave that got loosened while I bashed my head against the wall. But nonetheless, I feel it’s worthy of categorizing and grouping along with the existential moments I’ve had while tripping on acid or blowing marijuana smoke rings into the air. Just kidding mom, they only did that in the 60’s, right?
I love connecting and catching up with close friends. You know, the ones that really love you. The ones that you really love and that you feel you can bare your bones to without them telling you your clavicles are getting fat. Or maybe, if you need to hear it, that they really are fat clavicles. Which I feel like is just borderline BAD. In one of these recent friend-catchings-up, my very good, dear friend writes me a single line, “Emma, the cage door opens from the inside. Open it and step out. And then sing like the birds sing.”
I realized that for years now, I have been a pretty little liar. By this I mean. I am not the person I want to believe that I am. Or that I am. I speed, I run red lights from time to time, I sometimes roll my eyes when someone asks me to do something, I don’t like babies as much as I should, and puppies are cute, but I would rather read a book or dance in front of my mirror than pet a puppy. Any day.
Despite the deep, dark, dusty facts that comprise me as a person. I would never tell a pregnant woman that I think she should be eating healthier, for the sake of her baby, I don’t tell the truth when someone asks me my favorites or dislikes, I don’t even tell my best friend what I truly theorize about life.
I remember being a kid and lying about various things in order to get my way, composing my excuses and defenses cleverly and coyly. Working as a 5-year old defensive lawyer without a law degree. Making sure the criminal never went to jail. And then sleeping guiltily in my comfortable queen size bed when I should be in the too-small bunk I earned for my wrongdoings.
However, by doing so, I sent myself to prison. I locked myself into a jail of being someone I was not happy with. I went to bed hungry with thoughts of the rotten cabbage soups I was eating, all the while pretending to be free and full.
The phrase “Fruits of My Labor” popped into my head the other day. And then a question of repercussion. Do I deserve such fruits? I must make sure I do. And that the fruits are fresh and not rotten.
Be an honest worker. Be honest and true and authentic to who you are.