the spirit of it all

The spirit of anonymity.

I initially chose to write under an alias. An alias: used to indicate that a named person is also known or more familiar under another specified name. An alternative definition: a false or assumed identity. Let me be very clear when I profess that nothing about this identity will be false or assumed; rather, it will be true and evidential. For that reason, I pray to God nobody will find these stories to be known or familiar.

Nonetheless, my ultimate choice was not to use alias. Bold choice, considering the discernible nature of my name, but allegiant to the reason I wanted to begin writing in the first place. The spirit of authenticity. The spirit of creativity.

The other night I listened, begrudgingly, to a friend of mine rehash her childhood experience with religion. While she unraveled the incredibly nuanced and not-at-all overly-stated detriment that Christianity posed upon her livelihood as a straight, southern white woman, something stuck. “My mom never really talked about demons or the devil, per-se,” she recounted, “but she would say things like, ‘The spirit of pride is strong with you today.’”

I thought it was absolutely genius. Of course, my mind beelined to what ‘spirit’ might be my vice, weaved into my designated character flaws. It was a road of reflection that led me down into memories of a woman who left my side not too long ago, one I somehow let be replaced, though she’s the closest I have ever felt to myself. So I’m doing what feels like a thing she would do. I’m honoring her in that way, bracing myself with hope that she might make an appearance.

Even as I write this, I feel a tug-of-war happening—spiritual warfare, if you will—between a spirit that feels like her’s—one that’s unapologetic, brash, fearless, charismatic—standing in opposition to one that feel much different from her’s… one who carries hesitancy, doubt, and insecurity. For so long, I resented the latter while yearning for the former. I’ve failed to shame myself into the version of myself I loved more, so I’m trying something different. Instead of keeping them stuck in this relentless game of tug-of-war, I’m handing them the same colored jersey and demanding they make it work.

And, now, my spirits are just as confused as I am.

Here is why: I have so much to say. And, sometimes, not a thing at all.

I will say something anyway.

The spirit of it all.