I'm a pick-me girl

I've watched way too many seasons of the Bachelor because I could truly, madly, deeply understand all those wounded women dressed up like Disney princesses and pageant beauties and prom queens, hoping they'd be chosen over all the others.

I've been a pick-me girl most of my life. My teenage daughters have explained that this girl seeks male validation and attention by changing her personality and preferences. For myself, I'd expand it from "male" to outside validation in general.

It's cringe-y to write this, because it sounds so needy. Because it is so needy. Please like me. Please tell me I'm special. Please tell me I'm the only one. Please make me feel worthy.

I'm doing the same with writing. Every time I send out a sample or a pitch or an application, I wait for some editor to pick me.

I've stopped counting my rejections. I think that means I'm starting to put myself out there enough. Some of them hurt more than others. After coming back from vacation, I received rejections for two writing residencies I was excited about. I was sad, so I bought myself some flowers and a new mug to drink tea.

Cheryl Strayed's advice in my ears - Write like a motherfucker - I bought a printer and highlighters and printed out all three drafts of my memoir.

And then I started reading the 154,381 words I've written so far. I'm about halfway through now.

I promised myself last year that if I didn't get picked for any writing residencies, I'd plan my own for this summer or fall. When I got those rejections, I thought why not now? I found a cheap flight and a quirky AirBnB in a place that's sunny and doesn't require winter coats.

But then I couldn't bring myself to hit the "book now" button because it's irresponsible to spend that money on something as frivolous and luxurious as a solo getaway. What if I get there and just watch Netflix while eating chocolate instead of writing? I left the page open on my laptop ("book now! only one ticket available at this price!") for days.

I went to an Al-Anon meeting and blurted out that I was taking myself on a solo writing retreat next week. Was I? The trip was not booked yet. I didn't even know if the ticket and AirBnB were still available. Afterward, people came up to me, happy, hugging, telling me I was #recoverygoals. I felt like a fraud.

I'm not a fraud. I've learned what works for me. I say things out loud before I actually do them, not as a way to "speak them into existence" but as a way to hold myself accountable to actually do the damn thing. All the therapy and support groups and breathing meditations and talking and writing and working out and taking breaks and practicing new ways of being have incrementally brought me to the place where I would even consider doing something kinda big just for myself.

I'm still a pick-me girl.

I pick me. I value my creative work enough to invest time and money and effort. I won't wait for someone else to bless this book project or validate its importance or give me permission or see my potential or convince me I'm good enough.

And yes, I absolutely wrote this out loud to hold myself accountable for acting like I mean what I say.

So after the meeting, I went home and clicked "book now."