War of Art

i just finished The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. i mean like just now read the last page. it would be a travesty not to immediately write something. Pressfield is a fiction writer but this book is about the true depth, intensity and consistancy re: creativity. particularly the specific idea we each uniquely have. i've never read anything like it, great book. half the book is about "Resistance," a strategy of the enemy. it's a quick read, so read it.
discovering this book at this particular time in my life is no coincidence. for about 2 years i feel like i've been slowly waking up to pieces of truth that someone stole from me. as if i had it long ago and sort of forgot about it or assumed it was lost, etc. and then i saw someone else walking down the street with it and, all of a sudden, i'm like "hey, jerk! those are mine!" probably 8 or 12 years ago is when the thievery began. it's been an inconspicuous and gradual thing, like if you have a cleaning lady that steals one CD or DVD everytime she comes over. and maybe she doesn't even take the case, just the actual DVD so you have no idea when it disappeared and assume you lost it, i.e. "it must be me. i must have misplaced it. surely no one is malicious and inscrupulous enough to actually take my movie." (see, even that is a part of the lie that replaced the truth.)
so what am i talking about?
it's the assumption that there's an expectation to give up pieces of myself in exchange for welcoming new pieces. in other words, "now that i am a wife, i can no longer be a BLANK." "now that i am a mother, i can no longer be a BLANK." ok, let's be clear. this isn't a black and white issue. i mean if the sentence is "now that i am a wife, i can no longer be a prostitute." i would say, yes, that's a good decision, dear. i'm talking about receiving labels and letting that be the ultimate definition of us. being enslaved by our labels.
when i became a mother, i was already very happy and in love with my husband. then, i discovered a whole new version. wow! but for years, inside i had been mourning my old self. for some reason i believed i had to trade parts of me in. like there wasn't room for all of me.
i'm not talking about growth. growth is good. maturing, gaining wisdom - all good.
i'm not talking about sacrifice. sacrifice and serving my family - all very good.
i'm talking about who am i? i'm not a wife, a copywriter, a mom, a pathetic wannabe runner, etc. i'm kelly. kelly happens to be a wife, etc. you get it. i'm called to be a wife, a mother, etc. but what does that mean?
i used to believe there might be more for me, more to see, taste, be. when did i stop believing that? when did i think i had eaten at all the great restaurants (that's a metaphor, by the bye.) don't call the cheese police yet, i'm done for now.
and anyway, i don't have all this figured out. i'm learning. i also don't have this blog all figured out. for example, i just lost 2 full paragraphs i had written and i can't find spell check.