Self Sabotage and Dumpster Diving

Finally, here I am!
While I'm aware that this proclamation means nothing to any human, plant or animal besides me and my  78 year-old mother (who spends her days bored silly so that's not that great), its personal significance is pretty darn astounding.
Why? I am a self-saboteur of divine proportions. 

Specifically, success and failure terrify me equally, and I've only recently admitted the reason for the fear. I probably knew the "why" all along, but speaking it aloud would have pushed me do something about it, and that's also scary. 
Case in point: say my teenage novel or even a non-fiction number based on this blog's concepts ( though no one, including me, know what they are) make it so big that I'm up for a major award.
Laden with fear, I hastily buy an OK gown for the red carpet, then proceed to puke all over it from anxiety on the day of the event.  
OK, so scratch that. There are always options. 
In one, I see my tree-trunk legs stretching skyward as I rummage through the leaky dumpster behind Dress Barn. Sometimes clothing is tossed out by crappy stores if garments are torn or crusty from sweat or other bodily fluids. I find myself in the dumpster because Kmart had sold out of the generously Kut Kardashian number I had been eyeing for three seasons -- a full length, red and topless (strapless is so old, pukey and lahamme) gown strewn with masterfully placed images of Saint dancing in a fur onesie. 
Aside from the typical trash, the dumpster offers up nothing helpful but a coffee (I hope so - shudder) covered slipper and a few unraveled shower poofs. The clock is ticking and I'm due at the ceremony in an hour. I find a slice of bologna that was nibbled by rats into the shape of Jesus, so that's a serious bonus.  I return to my apartment with spaghetti in my hair. I sob until my eyes are swollen, blow my nose into a cereal box or whatever snot vessel is closest, and decide to skip it all.  I swathe myself in flannel jammies for the next week or until I smell too much like vinegar. (Anyone else think that sweat smells like vinegar, especially in the underboob area?).
I could have worn something else from the Kardashian Kollection, so all of this - the dumpster diving, the coffee grounds that I still can't get out from between my teeth - was just me being the terrified version of me. I chose to keep myself stuck instead of throwing caution to the wind and wearing the mauve kowelneck number in klearance.
I opened this blog partly to keep me writing. I think I'm ready...ish... to pursue the dreams that I've carried since early childhood: publishing all genres of books, ones that are funny, wanted and needed, and of great consequence. My love for books started with Bread and Jam for Francis by Russell Hoban, and then the writing bug set in around 6 years old.
 I know it's what I am "called" to do and I must never stop dreaming big. 

With the proceeds of my work I would like to purchase a 100 square foot, marshside lean-to that I will share with my cat, Mikey Likes It, the amazing novel Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson, and my sand-clogged nebulizer that I use for my Status Asthmaticus, a condition of severe asthma attacks that often lead to asphyxiation, such as the one I had on December 8, 2014 and somehow survived. (Ha! I should set up a Go Fund Me for a new nebulizer - everyone else appeals for assistance and you know some of it goes to 75 inch plasmas.)


Wellll....
my butt hurts, so it's time to wrap this up.
Success and failure bring some form of change, and to me change is a massive green monster with acid-soaked fangs that I avoid as much as possible. How weird is it that many people protect the stagnant nature of their lives? Even after getting an education worth a couple hundred thousand dollars back in the 80s and 90s, I protect being poor. I protect mediocrity. and disappointment I protect the status quo even though THE STATUS QUO SUCKS BALLS. 
I can rely on the routine of my less than satisfactory days. I can rely on selling myself short because I have been doing it for so long. I can rely on not filling my dreams because I haven't allowed myself to do so for a very long time. I like to help others succeed, and toss my talents by the wayside.
You know, I hadn't planned to blog today.  I thought I'd take some time to get my head together before New Years, so I hadn't bothered to throw myself into blogging. 
Guess what that was? A stall tactic. Fear. Once I realized it, I pushed myself to write a post, and I don't think it's all that bad. 
::Golf clap::