My Inner Teenager

I am a clumsy friend. I sort of stagger into relationships, hoping for the best though nearly always feeling deeply insecure with the one I'm trying to get to know. Most people have an inner child that oozes out unresolved childhood anxieties, or a critic in their head who tells them why they can't do anything right. Me? I have a teenager, an inner 15-year old who has managed to hold hostage a portion of my perception for decades. She's quiet most of the time, idling away God-knows-where in this cavernous head of mine. But certain things will bring her to the surface, particular equations of life and love that will create enough of a disturbance to invoke her angsty self from hiding.

Nothing seems to waken her more than my attempts to better my life.  She will come full force blabbering into my ear (no respect for my personal bubble at all) demanding to know why did I do that, and how come I didn't do this, and really, who do you think you are anyway? She is relentless. This persnickety teenage girl can bring a buzz kill to the best party.

Like the other day. I managed to get an invitation to interview for a scholarship given  by a foundation here in Oregon. Only 20 percent of the applicants get an invitation so it really is affirming in so many ways to make the short list.



After the interview, which consisted of sitting at a round table with three interviewers peppering me with questions about my future goals, I naturally began to assess how I did. Did I convey confidence? Check, I believe I did. Did I communicate effectively and forcefully enough why I am going to school at this stage of life? Check, I definitely did.  Did I..... wait....damnit. She's awake.

Before I could finish the self-assessment in she rolls, disheveled hair, dark circles under her eyes, an innocent look on her face. Why do you think they'd pick you anyway?

Argh. With one sharp question this impetuous girl deflated my sense of well-being and accomplishment, but I would not take it quietly. I argued with her. "I don't know if they'll pick me or not, but at least I got an interview. At least I got this far," I retorted as she moved closer from my  subconsciousness to consciousness.

"The interviewers seemed bored with you. Didn't you notice how they kept looking at the clock?"

I let her lag on a bit, as I usually do, for though she's a mouthy little pest, I have a strange affection for her. I think some people might call it co-dependency. Or self-loathing. Take your pick.

After a few more stabs at my self-confidence I sent her on her way. She faded from sight, melting into the backdrop shadowlands of the hidden part of me.  

I need to pray for that girl. Seriously. That's how I dealt with my writing critic. I was at my friend Jane's house a few summers ago, or more accurately, in her treehouse.  She asked me how writing was going. Dismal, I told her, the writing critic that lives in my head won't let up. I can't write anything that satisfies.

"Well let's pray for that critic in your head then, Pam," she gently suggested in her Jane-special-way, "after all, that critic is not just a part of you. That critic is You."   Well then, when you put it that way. And so, Jane and I quietly prayed together for the healing of the writing critic in my head, that she would become my friend rather than foe, that she would be released from all anxiety about the public writing life. In that treehouse, where we talked and prayed, the treehouse that Jane's husband had built many years ago beside the flowing goodness of Salmon Creek, something astounding happened. The writing critic dissolved under our prayerful hands.  Emerging in her place was a new creature, a new friend... a writing coach. I can mark that since that time my writing has improved and flourished once the leash of the writing critic was cut. I now have a wonderful alliance with the coach who was born that day. She  gives me direction, constructive feedback, inspiration. It really has been remarkable how that one prayer session with Jane became a game a changer.

I guess I need to do this with my inner teenage girl. I wonder how that would go? I can absolutely imagine telling her, Hey, God loves you, I wanna pray for you.  And her giving me the middle finger shouting F*ck YOU! as she bolts back into hiding somewhere inside the invisible world of me.  Maybe I better have some rope handy before I spring this on her. Maybe I ought to call Jane and see if we can meet-up in that treehouse again. There is a whole lotta life to get a grip on and risks to take, courage is needed and failure is absolutely a given part of the process.While some folks inner teenager might lead them into reckless living, mine would hold me back and drag me into hiding away from the big world of grown-ups.  

Where is Jane's number.....?