When I was twelve it was the first compliment that I remember. Maybe the first one that was spoken. I was sitting on the living room carpet, legs stretched out under the coffee table and coming out the other side, writing thank you cards a few days after I had been confirmed. In the eyes of the Lutheran church, I was a woman now. I could have wine in atonement for my sins. Worthy, because I’d recited the books of the Bible correctly to the nods and smiles of the congregation. Or maybe that was simply the shelf life of the sacrament of baptism.

“You really have a way with words,” my not easily impressed mother commented as she read over my twenty different ways of saying ‘Thanks for the cash.’

When I was sixteen it was a challenge. My English teacher/Senior class advisor cornered me in the guidance office and told me I should be in AP English. In an ocean of people where I felt invisible, she saw me. Saw right through my thick black eyeliner stretched across the heavy eyelids of stoner, past my attempts at feigning the apathy my group of friends naturally expressed and threw down a gauntlet. I let it lie.

I did write well. I should. I’d been keeping a diary on the daily since I was eight. Plus, my dad was a writer. I figured the ability to string words together in a way that made people go “Hmmm” had come in the package along with his green eyes and long legs.

Hands on my black leather covered hips, fingers spreading out from my Madonna-like black lace gloves, I turned her down. Wouldn’t even consider it. It was clear she wanted me to thrive. While I was just trying to survive. Some days I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to do that. But I knew, in that place deep down that knows things, that writing was my rock in a sea of uncertainty. But I had a lifestyle to maintain: how could I skip school and still make honor roll if I took AP English? How could I do my homework half stoned and quickly–so I could go out and party with my friends at night–if I took AP English?

More importantly. . . . what if I failed? I needed all those A’s. My fragile self-esteem depended on them. Ever since I’d tested into kindergarten early as a four year-old I’d been using my academic achievements to balance the scale that always, no matter what I did, seemed to tip towards a deep seated inadequacy. My world felt crazy and unpredictable, but not at school. Here, I knew how to work it. Don’t make me give that up. Don’t take that away from me.

As an adult, I dabbled in it. But I didn’t have the time. Too distracted falling in love or out of love with someone or other. I picked it up again in my thirties and forties, chronicling my world travels and insights. It wasn’t until I was fifty that I gave myself the gift of seeing what this gift was really all about. I moved to Key West. I biked around Hemingway’s house. I joined a Writers Guild. I sought inspiration and encouragement from the legends that were here before me.

It was never about time. It was never about talent. Although, those were things I often told myself. It has always been about me with my hands on my hips in an act of deviance against going to the place I really want to go. Trying to deny and hide from it. And hiding it from others in the process. It’s always been about self-sabotage.

Somewhere, somehow, I still feel unworthy of amazing things. Somewhere, I still feel invisible.