Muddled Reflections

I'm writing again, really writing. It's something I haven't done in a while, at least not in the light. And like the day after you've worked out muscles that haven't been used in awhile, it's ugly and it hurts. Steven says I've had a "to hell with it all" moment this summer that actually let a little bit of me slip out. I've started to climb out of this self imposed mold that I've worn for years. A mold built from self doubt.
Am I a good mother? Am I a good wife? Do they think I'm doing a good job? Do I look like I've got it together. I'm not good enough to be an artist, a writer, I'll stick to the laundry, thank you very much.
Along the way this ugly self doubt caused me to hide away the artist part of me. I have a closet full of paintings and drawings that no one will ever see. Secret writings threaten to spill out of my bedside table. When the creativity threatened to burst out I poured the energy into kid crafts and family meals. Good things no doubt. But the secret art, the me art, the art I pour myself into was hidden away, and before I knew it I was beginning to drown in my own self doubt. The creativity is my air, it lets me breathe, and I was suffocating.
At some point this year I snapped. At the point when I thought my melancholy was going to consume me I said enough and I started writing. I started writing in rambles of peace seeking conversations with myself and God. I hung a piece of my art on the wall because I thought it was good enough.
I'm still working through it all. I still have moments when I crawl back into the comfort of my shell. Though it's dark there, it's easy. Like I said, working out hurts.