“She’s full of herself.” That’s something we’ve all heard—I remember being accused of that by a guy on Oxford Street once, whose number I didn’t want to accept. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?” he sneered. I was baffled—what a strange accusation to level at someone. I had no idea how to respond: “I… guess?” Why shouldn’t I be, exactly..? This was very unclear to me.
What does it mean, really? To be full of oneself? It’s not something I identify with, myself—but it’s supposed to be bad, I can tell that much. The way something is full of shit—someone is accused of being full of themselves.
I can think of many things that are full of nice things. Like a bowl, full of ripe, gleaming, dark red cherries. Or a vase full of an explosion of freshly cut flowers. A cornflower blue sky full of puffy white clouds—or a blush-pink one full of wispy lavender ones, streaked with gold and grey, a perfect Lisa Frank sky. A cinema carton full of warm, buttery popcorn (the mixed sweet and salty kind). A basketful of soft, sleepy kittens (if you can picture that without imagining them being farmed for some nefarious purposes). A not-too-hot-but-just-right bath full of lightly fragranced bubbles. A mouth full of your most favourite, flavourful food, igniting your tastebuds and all your senses like popping candy. A room full of your best friends, family, and people you love the most (in a scenario in which you are not dead and they have not come to pay their respects). An ice tray full of ice cubes (maybe with multicoloured flowers frozen into them). A cupboard stocked full of your favourite snacks and supplies, like a Narnia of abundance. A playlist full of only songs that spark your very best memories, like that one amazing summer when you were 17. Water, so clear you can see the soft sand, shimmering full of sparkles and sunbeams.
Being full of something is not the worst thing I can think of. But being full of myself? That doesn’t quite feel right to me, either—it’s just slightly off.
The worst I’ve felt is when I don’t feel full of myself—when I feel full of doubt, inadequacy, uncertainty, and misgivings. When I’m so not full of myself that I can’t even see myself, and I don’t trust myself. It’s when I look at everyone from under hooded eyes, where my limbs are as loose as a puppet’s, on strings that can be jerked this way and that in a macabre performance of whoever I think I’m supposed to be and however I think I’m supposed to act. My insides are hollow and writhing at the same time. My voice sounds like vomit but I’m also being strangled, and I can’t breathe. My hearing intersperses between a big whooshing sound and a sparse rattle, and I’m dizzy. I stumble on feet made of wooden clogs, and the ground is made of deep sand.
The opposite of this feeling doesn’t feel like being full of myself. Being full of myself sounds like I’m something that’s not organic to my own being; like something from outside that’s been placed in me but doesn’t really live in me.
The opposite of the bad feeling—my abandoned self—feels like a flower that’s blooming inside me, filling me right to the sides with its soft, full petals. When it grows, I grow with it. When I breathe, it expands, unfurling itself delicately and filling me with its gentle fragrance, like a perfumed sigh. Eventually, I become the flower; because I realise I am the flower.
It’s a flower nobody can pick or trample or take for themselves, because it’s mine. It’s inside of me, and it is me. It can only be regarded, perhaps admired, maybe sniffed at (hey, some people are allergic). Nobody can take it from me but they can’t deny that I am the flower, either. Its leaves are entwined along my hands and come out of my fingertips, and its buds have braided themselves into my hair. My breath is scented with its bouquet, and my touch diffuses its pollen wherever I go.
I am not full of the flower; I am full with the flower. I am full—with my softness, my perfume, my life, my beauty, my essence, my truth.
I am full with myself.
A very sweet thing happened the other day. I was buying myself a coffee and as I paid, I saw another notification for a payment I’d just received from one of my subscribers. It meant the world to me to know that one of my readers had just paid for my first coffee of the day. Thank you, to whomever it was!
If you enjoy my writing and would like to buy me one coffee a month, you’d be supporting me in a more meaningful way than you might realise. It’s not just about the coffee :)
If you can’t/would rather not become a paid subscriber right now but enjoy reading The Percolate, it would also mean the most if you’d help it go further by sharing it with your network or anyone who might like it, too.
Thank you so much for being here. I appreciate you!