mollyzwinters When I was a little girl, I read and wrote all the time.
On summer breaks, I’d often read a book a day — The Babysitters Club, The Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew, or Trixie Belden.
It shouldn’t be too surprising, then, that those books provided the inspiration for my early work. I’d lug out my parent’s 80s-era Smith Corona typewriter and set to work, writing what my mom always called The Great American Novel, but was, in fact, a ten-year-old’s version of the One Last Wish Series meets Nancy Drew.
I got older, but not much, because my next step was X-Files fanfiction and other such stimulating works.
I wrote off and on through adolescence, but as I entered college classes, it didn’t even occur to me to take English or creative writing. I loved writing, but why would I want to be graded on it? Why on earth would I subject myself to having experts read what I wrote?
Nope — too scary.
I studied sociology and psychology instead. Look internally and reflect on myself? Hell no. Other people? Sure thang!
Around this time, I discovered alcohol, and boyohboy, I took to it like a duck to water.
A cat to catnip.
A hippo to potamus.
I couldn’t get enough of the stuff that allowed my trapped internal free spirit to crack stupid jokes, click my tongue on the side of my mouth while simultaneously pointing finger guns, AND get out my flute from high school and groove like nobody’s business — in front of people.
I’d always feel enormous shame and humiliation the following day. How could I possibly let go like that?
By this point in my life, control was a biggie for me.
I would tell myself things like, keep it together, Molly. Be organized. Be productive. Get good grades. Volunteer.
But show my goofy, silly side? Only with booze.
Bring up the things I noticed through my intuition, or while observing the room? Only with booze.
Crack dry jokes that left people wondering if I was stupid OR funny? Only with booze.
Are you sensing a theme here?
I had a lot to say. A lot to write. Wisdom beyond my twenty-two years on earth — and natural intuition that I didn’t trust.
I was so concerned with being good, doing things well, and following rules.
I had nicknames like Molly McButter and Molly Pocket.
That’s what people saw — because that’s the only side I showed them.
Unless I was drunk.
After college, I still wasn’t writing much. I was twenty-two (just a baby) and the next responsible step was to get a job. So that’s what I did.
And along the way, I met a guy.
A funny guy.
A funny guy who would crack hilarious jokes whether he’d been drinking or not.
A funny guy who didn’t really care what other people thought.
A funny guy that didn’t play small, even though he was 5’6”.
He was precisely the kind of free I desperately craved for myself (but didn’t know it).
He said what he thought.
He would gladly make finger guns and sound effects without drinking alcohol first.
Naturally, I fell head over heels for this guy.
We dated in the cozy, overcast town of Bellingham, WA — full of coffee shops and dive bars.
We befriended a group of fellow nerds who also happened to be poets and writers.
Our nights consisted of watching their slam poetry performances and then going to local bars to drink beer, play air hockey, and discuss books, movies, and Battlestar Galactica.
Did I once mention that I, too, was a writer? That it was the only thing I ever saw my future self doing when considering following my passion?
Of course not.
They’d want to see what I’d written.
They’d want to ask me questions or have me involved in conversation. But it was so much easier and more comfortable to sit back and observe instead.
I continued on, through my twenties, with that same boyfriend at my side.
I continued drinking but vowed to quit every morning after. I tried quitting SO. MANY. TIMES.
None of our friends knew it was a problem. They’d all say, “You just need to learn your limit,” because it wasn’t possible that goody-two-shoes-lil’-Molly could have an alcohol problem, right? And you certainly couldn’t be an alcoholic in your twenties, right?
Because if I fessed up and truly showed that I had a problem, or that I was a writer who dreamed of nothing but living in a cozy cabin alongside a river with a laptop and cup of coffee — I would have to stop playing small.
I’d have to finally show up as me. And what if they didn’t like me? Worse, what if they didn’t GET me?
If they misunderstood my deepest desires, secrets, and hysterical jokes, what would that mean about myself?
Who the hell knows, but I sure wasn’t going to find out!
I kept life together and continued to play small.
I married that wacky boyfriend on September 5th, 2009 (15 years to the day, as I write this).
He went to graduate school a year later.
We had our first baby a year after that.
And our second baby by 2014.
Shortly after, I finally had a big enough scare that I was able to quit drinking once and for all. (That’s a story for another day.)
And now, I’ve been sober for ten years. It finally stuck after two hundred and thirty-seven attempts to quit. (This is called hyperbole. I didn’t actually keep track.)
But had I figured out how to stop playing small? To stop hiding behind my productivity and capabilities?
No.
My brother once said I get more done in a day than he does in a week. And it’s probably true. But is that the goal? Is that the life I want to live? An incredible list of things I’ve done?
Yes and no.
I love being a doer. I love that I can accomplish a lot. But I’ve grown to understand that I must distinguish between accomplishing things because I feel I’m supposed to — and because I want to.
So as I reflect on ten years, it begs the question(s).
Why do we drink to excess?
DO to excess?
Shop, overspend, and fill our homes to excess?
Become personalities we think we’re supposed to be?
What hole are we trying to fill inside?
Why do we start and end our days looking at a small handheld screen?
Why do we wear earbuds while walking past other humans on the street?
Why do we read books about getting organized, how to stop procrastinating, or improve our habits?
Why are we constantly telling ourselves we aren’t right? We need to be just a little bit better. We’re almost there.
We’re not really a writer.
We aren’t really the type to crack jokes in front of big groups.
We couldn’t possibly make finger guns and tongue clicks to a crowd.
So here I am, asking you — WHY THE HELL DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES?
Do you know when I finally became comfortable enough to call myself a writer?
When other people began paying me for my work.
Why did I put them on such a freakin’ high pedestal? Who are they to decide my future?
We’re a goofy bunch, we humans — with our strange behaviors and unpredictabilities.
But we also have a hugely incomprehensible ability to dream.
To achieve.
To conquer.
To overcome.
For better or worse, we’re capable of incredible things.
But perhaps the most incredible of all is to follow our internal barometer. The needle that will guide us if we honestly open up to it and TRUST.
It’s a much scarier concept than living an organized and rule-following life. But I think we can do it together.
Through human connection.
Human spirit.
Whadaya think?
Are you in?
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