On Being An "Older Woman"

The “old woman” I have in my head is gray-haired and slightly plump, wearing a neat dress and maybe even pearls. Her hair is permed. She speaks quietly and asks little for herself. Even in private, her demeanor is even-keeled, no longer at the mercy of emotion and desire.

I, on the other hand, swear and curse with impatience. Faded jeans are my go-to wardrobe. I’m obsessed with myself: my writing, my drawing, my inner conflict, my emotions--swinging from self-loathing to flights of transcendence. I am anything but settled. I can’t stop plowing forward into my wounds, fighting for more territory in which to live.

Maybe I have borderline personality disorder. Or is this what it means to be an artist?