Lies We Tell Ourselves Issue 7
Build your fortress, and use it to protect your inner peace from external noise
Build Your Fortress
My husband and I live in our own little fortress most of the time. In this fortress, our children come first, we support each other’s professional and personal endeavors, and we love hard. We make decisions; we change our minds, we talk, and then we talk some more. Sometimes, though, some outside forces try to sneak into our midst and know chunks out of our walls. That’s when we need to pull the doors shut, turn inward, and decide how to serve our family best and live our truth.
That’s how you find your truth. Shut the world out and get quiet, and look inward.
The problem with this analogy is that to seal up your fortress; you have to know enough to build it with ways to block out the external noise. I haven’t always been good at that. I’d build a fortress, live my life, but find myself emotionally hijacked by external forces.
As I finish writing the draft of my novel, I find my protagonist, Selena, wrestling with many of the same forces - other people trying to poke holes in the life she’s trying to carve for herself. As she considers how to protect her inner peace, she wrestles with feeling confined by familial expectations and her own list of things she thinks she ought to do.
The good news is, you can always remodel your fortress. Reinforce the walls with steel, add a few extra locks to the door, and even dig a moat around it. Then, stand in the center and live your truth without apology.
Will Selena learn how to stand steady in her own fortress? Will she learn when to close the gates and turn inward? Will you?
Writing Update and Celebration
I’ve not been publishing many short pieces because I’m working with a writing coach on a final push to finish my novel before the end of May.
After submitting a short piece of narrative non-fiction, I'm thrilled to announce that I was awarded a Martha’s Vineyard Creative Writing Institute Fellowship for this June, so I’m motivated to bring a completed manuscript with me to that conference.
Preview: Learning to Love Her
A look passes between them, and I know they aren’t planning to tell me whatever had them so intense a few moments ago. I consider demanding to know what they whispered about so intently until they heard me in the doorway but decide to keep the peace instead.
“No, no, just catching up.” Mom waves her hand. “Come, sit with me and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
I make my way to the chair across from Mom, feeling thankful that my slow gate gives me a few extra moments to think. What parts of my life can I share with her that won’t be met with disdain?
I rotate awkwardly so I can lower down into the cushioned deck chair angled toward my mother’s. This is my chair, purchased when my muscles protested the lowering and raising required for the Adirondack chair. If someone saw my mother and me from behind, they might assume I was the older of the two - my once long hair cut short into an easier style, my body bent over a walker. I still haven’t figured out how to be graceful with the walker, or even if there’s such a thing as being graceful with it. I suppose if I used it full time, it’d be easier, but I still have days I can walk unassisted. My mother watches me, and her gaze makes me wish I didn’t need this damn thing today.
Finally lowered onto the chair, I slide the walker to the side, and Brian moves it against the house. I’m mildly annoyed that he doesn’t ask first, but I’m more annoyed with my mother’s inquisition, so I decide to let it go.
“Have you been on any dates?” My mother raises an eyebrow, or, rather, her right eyebrow twitches, protesting against the nerve blockers she uses to look my age.
“I have actually seen someone a couple of times.” I know this line of conversation will result in my mother blushing and stammering, but I persist.
She clasps her hands over her white pants. “Oh, tell me all about him; how did you meet?”
“I met her on Tinder.” I pause, taking in the change in my mother’s expression. She tries to cover it up, but I catch the hint of regret. She wishes she hadn’t asked the question.
“That’s nice, dear, now tell me about your writing.”
Jullian’s well-practiced uncomfortable-subject-avoiding technique is flawless. I ignore it. “I went out for lunch with her once, and we had takeout here at my place a couple of times.”
“That’s nice, dear.” Mom sips her vodka lemonade, and a tiny yellow drop escapes the mouth of the glass. It lands satisfyingly near the knee of her pants. She doesn’t notice, and I watch the pale stain spread into a perfect circle.
“She’s married to a man, so not looking for anything serious, but she’s fun and pretty, and I’m enjoying her company.” I choose this detail because I know Mom will struggle with it.
Mom’s face turns red, a stark contrast against her cream satin blouse. Her hand shakes as she sets her drink on the side table. Condensation trickles down the glass, resting a pool of water on the glass tabletop. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, practicing the WASPY version of meditation, where we take deep breaths to stuff our feelings and avoid uncomfortable conversations.
When she opens her eyes, her mouth is set in a thin line, and I want to tell her that I can see the lines that formed before she gave up smoking a few decades before, “Honey, you need to focus on people who are available.” She leans forward as if she has a secret.“You don’t want to be alone forever, do you? Don’t you want to be a mother?”
My mouth falls open; my hands freeze on the arms of my chair. I look around for Brian, but he must be inside gathering more food items. I look back at my mother’s botoxed look of concern. It’s not a surprise that she said this, she’s done it before; it’s just not something I’ll ever get used to hearing. I am a mother. I scream it in my head, but somehow I don’t have the words to tell her the same.