A Beautiful Mess

Sometimes we forget who we are. We get caught up in events happening “to” us or “with” us or “around” us and we lose the epitome of “me”. Of “you”. We let go of that instinctive need to be okay with who we are and stop apologizing. For me, I feel like I’m constantly having to apologize for being “emotional” or too open about what’s happening. People are offended or annoyed because somehow they see themselves in a blog I write, whether or not it’s about them. People see what they want to see. But you know, I’m just me. I’m incredibly flawed and often a mess. (Though I have one friend who hates it when I use the term “mess”. The reply from this friend is “you’re not a mess, you’re just perfection in progress”) But what if I am? What if I am a mess. Messy because from my conception, life finds it necessary to test my strengths, push my buttons and see if I’ll still love it back. If I’ll give up. If I’ll stop caring or being nurturing or being god forbid —- emotional. To that I say f*** you. I will often feel like quitting. I get mad and frustrated and have stupid moments of weakness where I think, “god, why are you always here? Why are you so friggin screwed up”. I do. I then go to a place where I question everything about myself with the exception of being a good mom because that – THAT I’m great at!

I think, hey, I’m a writer. Maybe I’m actually good at that but regardless, I’m writing so even when someone thinks it is too “honest” or “crass” or “exposing” I don’t care. I cannot care. If I spent all of my time being so cautious then I would probably stop getting emails about how grateful someone is that I am willing to show even the ugliest parts of myself and not apologize for it. I can’t hide behind perfection or spout claims of “let’s all just love each other” because sometimes, sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you’re not okay with things. Sometimes you do wonder what the hell is wrong with me. And you know, A LOT is wrong with me. I’m an imperfect girl. But at least I can admit that and still spend every second of my life working towards being better. Working towards not letting life’s pissy little tantrums take away the essence of who I am. Sure, sometimes I really hate that I forgive so much. I hate that I overreact. I hate that I look in the mirror and allow certain situations to taint what I see. But in that dark place, in the worst places of me is love. Not shallow, apathetic love but compassionate and true and beautiful and empathic and hopeful. I do see the best in people, so what. If I don’t, there aren’t enough of us out there who will. Someone’s gotta be able to see past your brick or steel wall and see that inside is beauty. Inside you are capable of so much more. There aren’t enough of us out there asking you to be better, asking you to risk it so you CAN have love or be loved or be the ones brave enough to tell you, fuck off and go away because you’re too painful, because you’re poison. Because even when we say that – when I say that – I mean, just DO better because in some way, I’ll still be here hoping you’re going to be better.

I may seem sad or say things like my heart is breaking or I feel like I’m suffering. It’s true. But wake up people, that’s called being human and I am SO grateful I feel at all. I can’t imagine allowing any one situation or person to leave such nasty wounds on my heart that I’m not able to tape it back together. Sure, it’s not going to be as pretty as it used to be and once in a while a little blood seeps through but eventually, the tape will work. The pieces will stick and even when they start to peel and weather, I’ll put stronger, better tape on. I can’t lose my heart. I can’t give up hoping. I can’t stop writing. I can’t pretend. I just can’t. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. If you think it’s about you, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Unless you see YOUR name, don’t make assumptions.

So am I a mess? I am a mess but maybe, maybe I can be a beautiful mess. Maybe a mess isn’t such a terrible thing. It’s honest, right? It is fragile and bitter and strong and empowering. But a mess can still be beautiful so here I am – exposed. Messy. Imperfect. And?