I've been absent from writing awhile and it's been a challenge to figure out exactly why. Did I lose my mojo? Did I just not have anything to say? The truth is, I'd lost my sense of freedom.
I danced under a streetlight for 10 uninterrupted minutes to some Stevie Wonder and some Spice Girls. Didn't stop when cars went by, but truly danced and booty popped like no one was looking (it was on my bucket list). And in that moment it all just came smashing together like two inevitable toddler heads at a play date; I'd stopped doing the things that make me feel like myself, and feeling like myself is what makes me feel free to be or do anything I put my mind to.
Somewhere in that hustle and bustle of scheduled time, I'd neglected me and what makes me happy. Long walks to nowhere. Thirty-second (or longer) dance parties. Music and books, art and learning new things. Truthfully, the past month or two (or three) I'd been going to work, coming home, and...that's it. No writing. No reading. No singing. No joy.
I suppose I felt obligated to this idea of what an adult person's life is. My parental figures go to work and come home and that seemed like what the traditional American life is but I always forget I'm not traditional and that puts me in direct confrontation with people who say they want to understand or help me, but don't know me enough to tailor their "advice." From my hair, to my shape, to the words I chose to express myself, I never seem to be in-line with the life my family and some friends seem to think I should lead.
I get discouraged with having to explain my choices in life to people, not because they have any valid or vital for my everyday life but because I feel like I shouldn't have to. These are people who see me in passing, people who've never seen me furiously typing away at keys, or dancing while I brush my teeth. These people don't know who or what I am because they didn't make me. Why am I explaining myself to these people? If I were explaining it to folks on the basis of letting them know who I was, I'd have no problem with it, but explaining myself to be judged? Takes away that sense of freedom.
It's a feeling of obligation, I've decided, that makes me feel so unlike me. When I feel obligated, especially if it's to family or close friends, I block off the things that I need or want in order to make things happen for them and I give them my freedom.
But you know something? I'm twenty-two f*cking years old. I shouldn't be obligated to anybody's ideas of who I should be, because I'm still creating myself as it is. If I'm a wreck, I'm a wreck, if I'm a success, I'm a success, but that path I chose should be purely my own, and I should enjoy the journey, because I only get one.
So, moral of the story is this: steal your sense of freedom back from those who've hijacked it. Even if it's only for a ten minute spotlight/streetlight dance party. Even if it nobody else understands you or why you must scream-sing 90's R&B ballads when you drive (just me?). Even if you gotta keep explaining who you are to people over, and over, and over again. One day they'll get it, or one day you'll quit talking, but either way you'll still be who you are, you'll still need what you need, and it's nobody's responsibility to hand you your sense freedom. Don't be afraid to take it.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Saturday, April 6, 2013
What Is The Matter With Us Young People?
I'm fresh into this life game. Admittedly, I'm not brand new, but for perspectives sake I'd just like to make it known people still call me "Sweet Baby." In my eyes, I'm seven years from being thirty (!!!!!) while in their eyes, I'm just the youngin', the shorty, or the little sister.
So why is it that when I look around at my peers, we're starting families, we're moving in together and getting engaged?
I was thinking this over as I was talking to a coworker with an adorable Southern accent which I admire (admittedly, I have a Southern accent but her voice and her accent together is something stupendous) and she said that she and her fiance' were excited about the next phase of their lives. The last time I sat down and talked to her, they were simply dating and living together and now, she beamed a big, prideful smile and showed me her elegant, beautiful ring. When did this happen? Why is this happening?
Another coworker of mine just had her third child (all with the same man, mind you) and they're now engaged. Another is not engaged, but pregnant by a man she lives with, and yet another is proposing to his girlfriend this very weekend. None of us are over the age of twenty-five.
It took me back to my Sins of Our Fathers post and thinking on the ramifications of our parents actions as we ourselves reach adulthood. At this age my mother and father were married, had me and were living on an army base. At this age, so many of my co-workers and associates, friends and family members parents were either becoming or on their way to being parents. So are we doomed to repeat their pattern, becoming young parents before we know better, or do we actually know better?
A lot of us come from broken homes with one parent living away from home, divorced parents, widowed parents, and blended families that never fully blended. In watching our parents struggle to continue to love each other and the lives that they'd dealt themselves, had we learned that what they did was on the wrong side of right?
For instance, I plan to move in with my boyfriend sometime this year. No children. No engagement rings. No wedding bells. I want to see what he's like before I decide to make a family or a life with this him. Moreover, before he comes, I want to experience some independence, so I plan to have my own place in one or two months, start paying bills that I create, and learning how to be okay with what I've got. My mother never had that; she fell in love with Dad, she got pregnant, after living together two years, they got married. She never had time to decide if my father was "it" for her; the decision was made by an earlier decision she'd made to keep me and to stay with him. Had our parents known or seen what we now know, would things have been different? Would some of us be here? Would our families still be together?
Maybe that's what the matter with us is. Maybe we've had to mature so much faster, because our parents had to mature that must faster. Maybe we're now realizing at this age, what took our parents to learn at age thirty. Maybe we're trying to create the ideal families we never got to have, with people who understand where and what we come from and have an ambition, a drive, to do that much better.
Maybe there's nothing wrong with us at all. A lot of people from older generations like to lump us all into this pants-sagging, Waka Flocka admiring, good-for-nothing kids, but they fail to realizing that just like they had those same types when they were young (that they didn't necessarily fall in with) we have those same types. A lot of us are hard workers, in school, at our jobs. A lot of us are doing the right thing by not ourselves, but these budding families we're creating. We're doing the best we can with what we've been handing which, given the indiscernible 'gift' we've been given, is pretty damn good.
There's nothing the matter with us, I've decided. We're trying. We're striving. We're making connections and feeling free to be untraditional in the way we show our love, make our families, and even create our lives. We're learning; you were given the chance to, and now it's our turn.
So why is it that when I look around at my peers, we're starting families, we're moving in together and getting engaged?
I was thinking this over as I was talking to a coworker with an adorable Southern accent which I admire (admittedly, I have a Southern accent but her voice and her accent together is something stupendous) and she said that she and her fiance' were excited about the next phase of their lives. The last time I sat down and talked to her, they were simply dating and living together and now, she beamed a big, prideful smile and showed me her elegant, beautiful ring. When did this happen? Why is this happening?
Another coworker of mine just had her third child (all with the same man, mind you) and they're now engaged. Another is not engaged, but pregnant by a man she lives with, and yet another is proposing to his girlfriend this very weekend. None of us are over the age of twenty-five.
It took me back to my Sins of Our Fathers post and thinking on the ramifications of our parents actions as we ourselves reach adulthood. At this age my mother and father were married, had me and were living on an army base. At this age, so many of my co-workers and associates, friends and family members parents were either becoming or on their way to being parents. So are we doomed to repeat their pattern, becoming young parents before we know better, or do we actually know better?
A lot of us come from broken homes with one parent living away from home, divorced parents, widowed parents, and blended families that never fully blended. In watching our parents struggle to continue to love each other and the lives that they'd dealt themselves, had we learned that what they did was on the wrong side of right?
For instance, I plan to move in with my boyfriend sometime this year. No children. No engagement rings. No wedding bells. I want to see what he's like before I decide to make a family or a life with this him. Moreover, before he comes, I want to experience some independence, so I plan to have my own place in one or two months, start paying bills that I create, and learning how to be okay with what I've got. My mother never had that; she fell in love with Dad, she got pregnant, after living together two years, they got married. She never had time to decide if my father was "it" for her; the decision was made by an earlier decision she'd made to keep me and to stay with him. Had our parents known or seen what we now know, would things have been different? Would some of us be here? Would our families still be together?
Maybe that's what the matter with us is. Maybe we've had to mature so much faster, because our parents had to mature that must faster. Maybe we're now realizing at this age, what took our parents to learn at age thirty. Maybe we're trying to create the ideal families we never got to have, with people who understand where and what we come from and have an ambition, a drive, to do that much better.
Maybe there's nothing wrong with us at all. A lot of people from older generations like to lump us all into this pants-sagging, Waka Flocka admiring, good-for-nothing kids, but they fail to realizing that just like they had those same types when they were young (that they didn't necessarily fall in with) we have those same types. A lot of us are hard workers, in school, at our jobs. A lot of us are doing the right thing by not ourselves, but these budding families we're creating. We're doing the best we can with what we've been handing which, given the indiscernible 'gift' we've been given, is pretty damn good.
There's nothing the matter with us, I've decided. We're trying. We're striving. We're making connections and feeling free to be untraditional in the way we show our love, make our families, and even create our lives. We're learning; you were given the chance to, and now it's our turn.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
A Short Story (That Says A Whole Lot and Yet So Little) of a Short Trip
I hadn't seen snow since I was in my single digits, and the last time I visited this new, big-little city, I was sorely disappointed with all the sunshine; if I wanted sun, I could've stayed my ass in Texas. But on our anniversary it seemed as if all that hope from the last trip culminated in the white lattice falling from the sky. I may have squealed in glee, I'm not sure, but I do remember taking a big handful of snow and letting it melt in my mouth, just like I used to as a kid and was warmed inside by the nostalgia.
"Happy anniversary," he'd said, with a big smile.
If I were the spontaneous sort, I would've sat in the middle of the hotel parking lot and soaked up the ambiance the chill and inner joy that the snow was providing, but we'd made tentative plans with a few associates to go boldly where we hadn't gone (together at least) before. We were prepared to make fools of ourselves on a skating rink, and he and I were equally geeked to get there.Plus, I'd spent an agonizingly long time getting ready, and didn't want to make us any later than we probably were.
Now, the thing about driving in New Jersey is that you don't realize how long it's going to take until you're on the road. We'd been following his friend's car for so long, I began to wonder if I'd somehow traced behind the wrong car and we were on our way to a "Hills Have Eyes" situation. Upon mentioning that to him, the terror on his face made me laugh. Thankfully, we arrived at our location, after passing a few pastures and hamlets untouched by time.
The rink itself wasn't much; the building was small and a little shoddy with character. Long discarded spiderwebs swayed in the breeze from the cracks between the front doors and the concrete under our feet was cracked. Slightly rusted doors separated the entrance from the actual rink. Paint cans and wooden beams sat near the door as if someone had left for lunch and never came back to finish their odd job. I loved it.
I stood in front of him, keeping my feet as far apart as his, however, him being a foot taller or so it was harder than it looked for my small stature. Realizing I was mimicking him, he posted up in a stance that nearly put me in a split. Our chuckles filled the small space and we huddled up for warmth, or in my case, for the closeness. That's when it started: the bubble.
You ever stop and notice couples? Sometimes you'll see them with their friends or family, or even with each other but separate, and they're simply part of a crowd, and then, suddenly, they aren't anymore. They make a distinction between the world and them, forming an invisible barrier as if they're being filmed for a romantic comedy montage scene. The people around them subconsciously part, giving them room to pass, their intimacy obvious even at a peripheral level. They've made a bubble.
The first thirty minutes or so, it was just us, the folks we came with, and the people who worked there on the rink. The footwork of those people was insane. One guy, simply given the moniker of "Cool Mothefucker" seemed to walk and skate at the same time, another man literally moonwalked on his skates. Me? I stayed as close to the wall as I possibly could that first thirty minutes; I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of him, them or the experts by falling.
And then the DJ did something fantastic. He played a song I knew and loved, that put me at ease. It was a lot easier to skate after that, a lot easier to loosen up and have fun. Up to that point I'd been skating alone, but when looking behind me, there he was, almost as if keeping watch over me that whole time to make sure I didn't fall on my ass. I held out my hand, and invited him to make a fool of himself with me.
The couple we'd come with had made hanging with them a little awkward by the arguing and passive aggressive daggers they were staring at each other. Truth be told, even if they hadn't been in a cold war, he and I would have created our own space. Sometimes (more often than I would have liked) my bad shins forced me off the rink and to a seat, but seeing the experts, and my lanky steady, sailing by to increasingly awesome tunes fueled my fun and kept me smiling.
An hour went by and the place was packed. Adults and teens alike had flooded the rink and were skating backwards, doing flips, two-stepping - it was something out of a cliche'd dance movie but much more interesting as I got to imagine the plots and back stories of every skater myself. For instance, there was one skater who, every time he passed, would pop-lock. He wore a throwback buttoned down jersey short set and knee high socks. His skates matched his outfit and he had on a 80's inspired gold chain. My dude's eyes lit up every time he saw Jersey Guy and he whispered that he wanted to be just like him when he got older - fun, free and unapologetic about it. I said he could be all those things, just not like that, and certainly not publicly.
Another hour rolled by at which point my shins were on fire and swollen, but I didn't let that stop me. Okay, yeah, I did, but I was still having fun. I'd lost track of my group and instead, sat alone and made up stories for all the skaters and watched Tarzan breeze by and try not to get run down by the aggressive skaters.
When couple skate started, even Jersey Guy had found his steady and they rolled, dipped and slid right on by. I was sad I couldn't get up there with them, but to my surprise Tarzan came off the rink and sat with me. The music got more and more romantic, culminating in a song I've loved since I was a little girl. And that's when it happened: I was in the bubble.
Maybe I'd been in it that whole time and had to take a cue from the soundtrack of our life that was going on to notice. Maybe I'd been purposely oblivious to it to not get schmaltzy. Whatever the case, when you notice you're in the bubble, everything seems to glow. Arguably, it could've been the strobe light hitting the disco ball, but for the story's sake, we'll say it was love that had made my world gleam silver.
We didn't need to stay any longer than that. It seemed like that was the moment we'd been leading up to, he and I. Now, that's not to say the other places we went or things we did didn't seem like the type of things couples did or that we weren't in so many bubbles for the entire trip, but this one made us feel like a fairytale to me. So often with long distance relationships the time you spend together, everything seems special and dipped in honeyed gold and whatever, but because of my analytic mind, or maybe in spite of it, I knew that day was something truly important and special. Not only did the time feel golden, but I felt golden. I felt beautiful and delicate and all the things a young girl hopes to feel when she first falls in love.
I went ahead and took our skates to the counter and looked behind me to see Tarzan and Jersey Guy yukking it up and shaking hands. Turns out, Jersey Guy had been skating since he was a toddler and did it out of love for the music, love for the sport, and truth to himself. He encouraged Tarzan that, if he found something he loved, to never stop doing it. I guess there are worse people Tarzan could aspire to be like.
Whether this story tells you more about me, him, or us, I'm not sure. Whether it restores your hope in love, spontaneity, or even snow, I can't be certain. I can be sure, though, that for me, it restores something in me long broken. It restores that belief that fairy tale things do happen to ordinary girls. It encloses my former jaded self in it's sweetness and warmth, forcing the me under all the previous hurts to resurface. Finally, most important, it reassures me that the love I've always wanted, more so the one I've always needed, is indeed out there in abundance, and I truly, finally deserve to be the girl, smiling and strolling inside the bubble.
*New format sponsored simply by my need to write a story.
"Happy anniversary," he'd said, with a big smile.
If I were the spontaneous sort, I would've sat in the middle of the hotel parking lot and soaked up the ambiance the chill and inner joy that the snow was providing, but we'd made tentative plans with a few associates to go boldly where we hadn't gone (together at least) before. We were prepared to make fools of ourselves on a skating rink, and he and I were equally geeked to get there.Plus, I'd spent an agonizingly long time getting ready, and didn't want to make us any later than we probably were.
Now, the thing about driving in New Jersey is that you don't realize how long it's going to take until you're on the road. We'd been following his friend's car for so long, I began to wonder if I'd somehow traced behind the wrong car and we were on our way to a "Hills Have Eyes" situation. Upon mentioning that to him, the terror on his face made me laugh. Thankfully, we arrived at our location, after passing a few pastures and hamlets untouched by time.
The rink itself wasn't much; the building was small and a little shoddy with character. Long discarded spiderwebs swayed in the breeze from the cracks between the front doors and the concrete under our feet was cracked. Slightly rusted doors separated the entrance from the actual rink. Paint cans and wooden beams sat near the door as if someone had left for lunch and never came back to finish their odd job. I loved it.
I stood in front of him, keeping my feet as far apart as his, however, him being a foot taller or so it was harder than it looked for my small stature. Realizing I was mimicking him, he posted up in a stance that nearly put me in a split. Our chuckles filled the small space and we huddled up for warmth, or in my case, for the closeness. That's when it started: the bubble.
You ever stop and notice couples? Sometimes you'll see them with their friends or family, or even with each other but separate, and they're simply part of a crowd, and then, suddenly, they aren't anymore. They make a distinction between the world and them, forming an invisible barrier as if they're being filmed for a romantic comedy montage scene. The people around them subconsciously part, giving them room to pass, their intimacy obvious even at a peripheral level. They've made a bubble.
The first thirty minutes or so, it was just us, the folks we came with, and the people who worked there on the rink. The footwork of those people was insane. One guy, simply given the moniker of "Cool Mothefucker" seemed to walk and skate at the same time, another man literally moonwalked on his skates. Me? I stayed as close to the wall as I possibly could that first thirty minutes; I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of him, them or the experts by falling.
And then the DJ did something fantastic. He played a song I knew and loved, that put me at ease. It was a lot easier to skate after that, a lot easier to loosen up and have fun. Up to that point I'd been skating alone, but when looking behind me, there he was, almost as if keeping watch over me that whole time to make sure I didn't fall on my ass. I held out my hand, and invited him to make a fool of himself with me.
The couple we'd come with had made hanging with them a little awkward by the arguing and passive aggressive daggers they were staring at each other. Truth be told, even if they hadn't been in a cold war, he and I would have created our own space. Sometimes (more often than I would have liked) my bad shins forced me off the rink and to a seat, but seeing the experts, and my lanky steady, sailing by to increasingly awesome tunes fueled my fun and kept me smiling.
An hour went by and the place was packed. Adults and teens alike had flooded the rink and were skating backwards, doing flips, two-stepping - it was something out of a cliche'd dance movie but much more interesting as I got to imagine the plots and back stories of every skater myself. For instance, there was one skater who, every time he passed, would pop-lock. He wore a throwback buttoned down jersey short set and knee high socks. His skates matched his outfit and he had on a 80's inspired gold chain. My dude's eyes lit up every time he saw Jersey Guy and he whispered that he wanted to be just like him when he got older - fun, free and unapologetic about it. I said he could be all those things, just not like that, and certainly not publicly.
Another hour rolled by at which point my shins were on fire and swollen, but I didn't let that stop me. Okay, yeah, I did, but I was still having fun. I'd lost track of my group and instead, sat alone and made up stories for all the skaters and watched Tarzan breeze by and try not to get run down by the aggressive skaters.
When couple skate started, even Jersey Guy had found his steady and they rolled, dipped and slid right on by. I was sad I couldn't get up there with them, but to my surprise Tarzan came off the rink and sat with me. The music got more and more romantic, culminating in a song I've loved since I was a little girl. And that's when it happened: I was in the bubble.
Maybe I'd been in it that whole time and had to take a cue from the soundtrack of our life that was going on to notice. Maybe I'd been purposely oblivious to it to not get schmaltzy. Whatever the case, when you notice you're in the bubble, everything seems to glow. Arguably, it could've been the strobe light hitting the disco ball, but for the story's sake, we'll say it was love that had made my world gleam silver.
We didn't need to stay any longer than that. It seemed like that was the moment we'd been leading up to, he and I. Now, that's not to say the other places we went or things we did didn't seem like the type of things couples did or that we weren't in so many bubbles for the entire trip, but this one made us feel like a fairytale to me. So often with long distance relationships the time you spend together, everything seems special and dipped in honeyed gold and whatever, but because of my analytic mind, or maybe in spite of it, I knew that day was something truly important and special. Not only did the time feel golden, but I felt golden. I felt beautiful and delicate and all the things a young girl hopes to feel when she first falls in love.
I went ahead and took our skates to the counter and looked behind me to see Tarzan and Jersey Guy yukking it up and shaking hands. Turns out, Jersey Guy had been skating since he was a toddler and did it out of love for the music, love for the sport, and truth to himself. He encouraged Tarzan that, if he found something he loved, to never stop doing it. I guess there are worse people Tarzan could aspire to be like.
Whether this story tells you more about me, him, or us, I'm not sure. Whether it restores your hope in love, spontaneity, or even snow, I can't be certain. I can be sure, though, that for me, it restores something in me long broken. It restores that belief that fairy tale things do happen to ordinary girls. It encloses my former jaded self in it's sweetness and warmth, forcing the me under all the previous hurts to resurface. Finally, most important, it reassures me that the love I've always wanted, more so the one I've always needed, is indeed out there in abundance, and I truly, finally deserve to be the girl, smiling and strolling inside the bubble.
*New format sponsored simply by my need to write a story.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Forever
Thinking about forever...
I've been doing a lot of that lately, having conversations with coworkers and strangers about what they think forever entails and what they hope to accomplish with it, if there is anything to accomplish from such a fluid idea. And so far, I haven't gotten the most thought provoking answers from anybody, but I have surprised myself with what I used to think, and what I think now.
As a kid, forever was something I knew didn't exist. In the movies, the "forever after" part came when the movie was over, so, forever meant the end to me in the sense of "okay, this is over now." Forever was what I said when things were taking a really really long time. Forever is what I said when asked by my friends how long we would be friends. Forever wasn't a tangible thing, it wasn't an actual thing, it was just a word you said to symbolize a really long time, or until the end.
As I got older, my idea of forever was tainted by bad experiences. My family was supposed to be together, forever. I was supposed to be friends with the people I met in high school forever. I was supposed to go to college and get a degree and a good job that would last me forever. Forever became one of those childish things, in my mind, that I no longer had the time or patience to ponder and believe in, kind of like love (because as that point, I was sure I'd be single forever). It wasn't possible, forever. It was just something people said, like "Congratulations" when a woman becomes pregnant (even though that's what she's essentially designed to do) or "I'm sorry to hear that" when a person gives you some bad news about themselves that you either could really care less about or don't know how to respond to. Forever became a filler word without meaning.
And now...I've worked around to thinking about it again, to believing in the possibility of forever. I could say that it's because I'm with a partner whom I love deeply and can't really see a life without now that I have him. I could say it's because I've been best friends with the same person for almost four years now which, for a military brat and a loner like me, is super impressive. But the truth is, it's me.
I feel like I have changed for the better through understanding myself and what it is I want. I feel as though time has done me the service of providing wisdom and insight that I didn't have before. Forever was a fallacy, a dream made up by Disney and parents who wanted you to believe that "happily ever after" was true. But it can be; it's a distinct possibility that happily forever after does exist. The question becomes, how much work are you going to put in for it?
Are you going to let every step back steal your joy? Are you going to let some ex-douchebag ruin your potential happiness with someone else, let alone yourself? Or are you going to believe that joy is possible? That dreams don't die, they merely change? That forever isn't just a word people say?
That's what I'm working towards, the possibility of finding what my "forever" is. Is it moments where I find myself smiling despite myself? Moments where I'm with the ones I love? Moments where I'm left alone to contemplate nature, and humanity and God? I believe that forever is in those moments, the laughing until I can't breathe with best friend W, the arguing over fictional casting of a comic book movie with best friend Tony, the walking in the rain with Tarzan. Those are pieces of what I want my forever to look like, but it's not promised to me. I have to work to make those moments happen, organically or otherwise. I have to understand that the pursuit of happiness is just as important as the happiness itself. I can't be afraid to find out that my forever isn't what I thought it would be, but that it's exactly what I need it to be.
I've been doing a lot of that lately, having conversations with coworkers and strangers about what they think forever entails and what they hope to accomplish with it, if there is anything to accomplish from such a fluid idea. And so far, I haven't gotten the most thought provoking answers from anybody, but I have surprised myself with what I used to think, and what I think now.
As a kid, forever was something I knew didn't exist. In the movies, the "forever after" part came when the movie was over, so, forever meant the end to me in the sense of "okay, this is over now." Forever was what I said when things were taking a really really long time. Forever is what I said when asked by my friends how long we would be friends. Forever wasn't a tangible thing, it wasn't an actual thing, it was just a word you said to symbolize a really long time, or until the end.
As I got older, my idea of forever was tainted by bad experiences. My family was supposed to be together, forever. I was supposed to be friends with the people I met in high school forever. I was supposed to go to college and get a degree and a good job that would last me forever. Forever became one of those childish things, in my mind, that I no longer had the time or patience to ponder and believe in, kind of like love (because as that point, I was sure I'd be single forever). It wasn't possible, forever. It was just something people said, like "Congratulations" when a woman becomes pregnant (even though that's what she's essentially designed to do) or "I'm sorry to hear that" when a person gives you some bad news about themselves that you either could really care less about or don't know how to respond to. Forever became a filler word without meaning.
And now...I've worked around to thinking about it again, to believing in the possibility of forever. I could say that it's because I'm with a partner whom I love deeply and can't really see a life without now that I have him. I could say it's because I've been best friends with the same person for almost four years now which, for a military brat and a loner like me, is super impressive. But the truth is, it's me.
I feel like I have changed for the better through understanding myself and what it is I want. I feel as though time has done me the service of providing wisdom and insight that I didn't have before. Forever was a fallacy, a dream made up by Disney and parents who wanted you to believe that "happily ever after" was true. But it can be; it's a distinct possibility that happily forever after does exist. The question becomes, how much work are you going to put in for it?
Are you going to let every step back steal your joy? Are you going to let some ex-douchebag ruin your potential happiness with someone else, let alone yourself? Or are you going to believe that joy is possible? That dreams don't die, they merely change? That forever isn't just a word people say?
That's what I'm working towards, the possibility of finding what my "forever" is. Is it moments where I find myself smiling despite myself? Moments where I'm with the ones I love? Moments where I'm left alone to contemplate nature, and humanity and God? I believe that forever is in those moments, the laughing until I can't breathe with best friend W, the arguing over fictional casting of a comic book movie with best friend Tony, the walking in the rain with Tarzan. Those are pieces of what I want my forever to look like, but it's not promised to me. I have to work to make those moments happen, organically or otherwise. I have to understand that the pursuit of happiness is just as important as the happiness itself. I can't be afraid to find out that my forever isn't what I thought it would be, but that it's exactly what I need it to be.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Shame On Me (For Being This Size)
Not to quote the untalented rapper of this quarter, but I'm different. From the way I think, the things I read, the way I dress, I just don't seem to fit in with my peers (or even much my elders) and I've learned to be perfectly okay with that.
What I can't find myself being okay with is that people seem to want me to be less than what I already am, want me to revert back to that pre-high school train of thought that says because everybody else feels a certain way, I have to feel the same way.
For instance, I woke up today and perused my Twitter and found someone I follow, a very talented woman, fat-shaming the entire hell out of another woman for a really brave picture she took of her stomach. The former couldn't understand why the latter was so bent out of shape; she was only stating her opinion, the opinion that the latter's body was utterly disgusting, and what did she (the big girl) expect anyway? It's Twitter, it's rude and obnoxious and gets off on shade, drama, and slander, and this girl, the bigger girl, should've known better and been ashamed of her body enough to not post it.
(I'm reminded of a quote that says there's a special place in hell for women who aren't kind to other women, but I digress...)
I staunchly disagree. Firstly, who is anybody to shame anybody for something as superficial, something as ever changing, as how they look? Looks is one of those things that fade with time, but beauty is one of those things that grows as you grow, that develops out of your kindness, your creativity, and your wisdom. Beauty is an intangible, but it's really noticeable when you don't have it as it seeps into your personality, into your words and actions.
Second, and most important, anyone can take pride in how they look, whether they are traditionally attractive, or not. To tell someone they can't like how they look because it goes against how you think they should look, or how you yourself look is ugly. So what if someone's bigger than you? So what if they think paisley and floral prints are in and you don't? Let them do them, and you continue to do you, such is the wisdom of time; whatever someone else does, that doesn't directly effect you or your way of life, is them and should remain such.
Fat shaming is one of those things that makes me mad. I feel like I'm fat. Those who see me often and know me tell me I'm not. I eat whole grain, nuts and berries, love fruit and vegetables and have drastically cut down on my fast food intake. I've started walking and running after my shifts at work and even started a small weight training regime. I still weigh one hundred and seventy pounds, size 14, and I get discouraged all the time about it.
Standing naked in a mirror, I can't look at myself straight on for more than three minutes; any more time than that and I just want to crawl into bed and hide away my body. It's been this way since I was maybe twelve or thirteen and puberty hit, and I've been working ever since to become accepting of my shape. Some days, I'm there - I look at myself and think that I'm beautiful, inside and out, and I just smile and go about my day. Other days, I look at my stretch marked skin, bigger hips and thighs and just sigh and shake my head, pinching the fat in the mirror and feeling sorry for myself.
I shame myself. I don't need anybody else to say "shame on you for looking that way." But...why should I feel ashamed? I'm doing everything I know how to do to stay healthy. I'm keeping both my mind, and body, sharp and trying new things everyday to make me feel better about myself, whether it's standing in the mirror (and not picking myself apart) or getting rid of the super oversized (and super small clothes) that haunt my closet. I'm doing for me, I'm concerned about me; I don't need a stranger being faux concerned about me or my weight all under the premise that I don't care for myself when, if they knew me, they'd know I really do.
Folks find me attractive. Other folks don't. Neither of that really matters as long as I find myself attractive (well, me and Tarzan anyway). And most days, I do. And from what I can tell, he does too. And the day anybody else's opinion truly matters will be the day I say f*ck it and order me the biggest, baddest, bacon infested burger and start the damn downward spiral. But between me and you, I hate beef burgers, don't like pork bacon, and feel fine about me. And I refuse to be ashamed about that.
What I can't find myself being okay with is that people seem to want me to be less than what I already am, want me to revert back to that pre-high school train of thought that says because everybody else feels a certain way, I have to feel the same way.
For instance, I woke up today and perused my Twitter and found someone I follow, a very talented woman, fat-shaming the entire hell out of another woman for a really brave picture she took of her stomach. The former couldn't understand why the latter was so bent out of shape; she was only stating her opinion, the opinion that the latter's body was utterly disgusting, and what did she (the big girl) expect anyway? It's Twitter, it's rude and obnoxious and gets off on shade, drama, and slander, and this girl, the bigger girl, should've known better and been ashamed of her body enough to not post it.
(I'm reminded of a quote that says there's a special place in hell for women who aren't kind to other women, but I digress...)
I staunchly disagree. Firstly, who is anybody to shame anybody for something as superficial, something as ever changing, as how they look? Looks is one of those things that fade with time, but beauty is one of those things that grows as you grow, that develops out of your kindness, your creativity, and your wisdom. Beauty is an intangible, but it's really noticeable when you don't have it as it seeps into your personality, into your words and actions.
Second, and most important, anyone can take pride in how they look, whether they are traditionally attractive, or not. To tell someone they can't like how they look because it goes against how you think they should look, or how you yourself look is ugly. So what if someone's bigger than you? So what if they think paisley and floral prints are in and you don't? Let them do them, and you continue to do you, such is the wisdom of time; whatever someone else does, that doesn't directly effect you or your way of life, is them and should remain such.
Fat shaming is one of those things that makes me mad. I feel like I'm fat. Those who see me often and know me tell me I'm not. I eat whole grain, nuts and berries, love fruit and vegetables and have drastically cut down on my fast food intake. I've started walking and running after my shifts at work and even started a small weight training regime. I still weigh one hundred and seventy pounds, size 14, and I get discouraged all the time about it.
Standing naked in a mirror, I can't look at myself straight on for more than three minutes; any more time than that and I just want to crawl into bed and hide away my body. It's been this way since I was maybe twelve or thirteen and puberty hit, and I've been working ever since to become accepting of my shape. Some days, I'm there - I look at myself and think that I'm beautiful, inside and out, and I just smile and go about my day. Other days, I look at my stretch marked skin, bigger hips and thighs and just sigh and shake my head, pinching the fat in the mirror and feeling sorry for myself.
I shame myself. I don't need anybody else to say "shame on you for looking that way." But...why should I feel ashamed? I'm doing everything I know how to do to stay healthy. I'm keeping both my mind, and body, sharp and trying new things everyday to make me feel better about myself, whether it's standing in the mirror (and not picking myself apart) or getting rid of the super oversized (and super small clothes) that haunt my closet. I'm doing for me, I'm concerned about me; I don't need a stranger being faux concerned about me or my weight all under the premise that I don't care for myself when, if they knew me, they'd know I really do.
Folks find me attractive. Other folks don't. Neither of that really matters as long as I find myself attractive (well, me and Tarzan anyway). And most days, I do. And from what I can tell, he does too. And the day anybody else's opinion truly matters will be the day I say f*ck it and order me the biggest, baddest, bacon infested burger and start the damn downward spiral. But between me and you, I hate beef burgers, don't like pork bacon, and feel fine about me. And I refuse to be ashamed about that.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
I Smell Like Teen Spirit
I'm getting to that point in my life where everything smells like teen spirit.
I thought I was supposed to be out of this teen angst that seems to be plaguing my twenty-second to twenty-third year but it seems like the more I seem to grow up, the more disillusioned I get with the things I've already been told, the people and places I've already seen, that seem to never change as I keep changing. It's nonsensical; if I'm changing, why aren't they? Why is everything staying so still when I seem to be vibrating on this whole new plane of being?
There's supposedly this point in your teens where you realize everything your parents told you, for the most part, was bullshit. Sure, they got it right every now and then, but they didn't take into account a few things (I recall my dad thinking minidisc players were the new "thing" and would never go out of style. Do you have one? I sure don't.). I don't know about you, but I knew my parents were full of it around 8 or 9 when I saw them eating "Santa's" cookies. So why is it that I seem to still be grappling with the ideas, the traditionalism, that they kept trying to teach but never seemed to fit me? Is it that they were teaching to an archetype of a child and not to me personally? Is it that they never told me that it would be hard out here for someone like me, with all this inerrant good and big heart with so many vultures and scam artists circling?
Don't get me wrong, my life isn't a crap shoot by a long-shot. I've got a nice job, great friends, and a boyfriend I'm still madly in love with a year into our relationship. I'm happy, overall, but the disillusionment sneaks in in those small places where I'm unhappy and shakes awake that angry teenager in me. Why can't I have a better job? Why can't I go to a good school? Why can't my boyfriend be here, or me there, without so much fanfare/planning/logistical shit to deal with? Why?
It's nothing anybody can answer. It's nothing anybody has to answer to. It's simply the way things are. The thing becomes turning this angst into something workable, managing this generalized anger and disenchantment into something resembling a plan of action or a goal or a workout plan or something to occupy you so you don't lie in bed all day mad at the world.
Fresh back from an anniversary trip to see Tarzan, Jane is tearing apart her inner jungle in a frenzied fashion, trying to make sense of her emotions and the changed landscape within her. What does she do now? She rebuilds it (after she's done tearing it down of course) and cuts out those things that make her ask too many whys. Rearranges it so that the landscape is no longer foreign, the goals no longer hidden by the weeds and things that don't belong.
They always like to say that Rome wasn't built in a day, and they are right, but how long do you think it took a council (or even a single person) to come up with the idea that Rome needed to be built? For me, Rome is going to take maybe a week, give or take.
Wish me luck.
XoXo
I thought I was supposed to be out of this teen angst that seems to be plaguing my twenty-second to twenty-third year but it seems like the more I seem to grow up, the more disillusioned I get with the things I've already been told, the people and places I've already seen, that seem to never change as I keep changing. It's nonsensical; if I'm changing, why aren't they? Why is everything staying so still when I seem to be vibrating on this whole new plane of being?
There's supposedly this point in your teens where you realize everything your parents told you, for the most part, was bullshit. Sure, they got it right every now and then, but they didn't take into account a few things (I recall my dad thinking minidisc players were the new "thing" and would never go out of style. Do you have one? I sure don't.). I don't know about you, but I knew my parents were full of it around 8 or 9 when I saw them eating "Santa's" cookies. So why is it that I seem to still be grappling with the ideas, the traditionalism, that they kept trying to teach but never seemed to fit me? Is it that they were teaching to an archetype of a child and not to me personally? Is it that they never told me that it would be hard out here for someone like me, with all this inerrant good and big heart with so many vultures and scam artists circling?
Don't get me wrong, my life isn't a crap shoot by a long-shot. I've got a nice job, great friends, and a boyfriend I'm still madly in love with a year into our relationship. I'm happy, overall, but the disillusionment sneaks in in those small places where I'm unhappy and shakes awake that angry teenager in me. Why can't I have a better job? Why can't I go to a good school? Why can't my boyfriend be here, or me there, without so much fanfare/planning/logistical shit to deal with? Why?
It's nothing anybody can answer. It's nothing anybody has to answer to. It's simply the way things are. The thing becomes turning this angst into something workable, managing this generalized anger and disenchantment into something resembling a plan of action or a goal or a workout plan or something to occupy you so you don't lie in bed all day mad at the world.
Fresh back from an anniversary trip to see Tarzan, Jane is tearing apart her inner jungle in a frenzied fashion, trying to make sense of her emotions and the changed landscape within her. What does she do now? She rebuilds it (after she's done tearing it down of course) and cuts out those things that make her ask too many whys. Rearranges it so that the landscape is no longer foreign, the goals no longer hidden by the weeds and things that don't belong.
They always like to say that Rome wasn't built in a day, and they are right, but how long do you think it took a council (or even a single person) to come up with the idea that Rome needed to be built? For me, Rome is going to take maybe a week, give or take.
Wish me luck.
XoXo
Monday, February 4, 2013
Sins of Our Fathers
The sins of my father...
Turns out, it's more than a really dope Usher song, but an actual thing that, until today, I didn't know effected me so deeply.
My father was a cheater. My father wasn't there for me when it counted. My father tried to make amends with money. I idolized him with the sort of idealism that only exists in those not young enough to know better, those naive enough to believe that all anybody has to be is good and good would come to them. I was the best daughter I knew how to be, and he still left me behind.
I knew my father was a cheater when I was maybe 9 years old. He told me I may have had a sister (and possibly a brother) that my mother didn't know about. Made me keep that secret for years, only for me to meet the girl and not feel any sort of sisterly bond. That didn't make it any better.
Unlike what Usher says, the sins of the father don't just fall on the son. After my father left, I spent my time trying to fill that loveless space he left behind. Filled it by chasing after a boy who couldn't give any less damns about me for two years, spent time on a future baby father of 5 hoping to be lucky number 6, and fell in love with a cheater. I became some spiteful amalgamation of the cheater and the cheated on, over and over and over again, never stopping to ask myself where this whole thing started.
The father's sins on the daughter are tougher to see. Sure, everyone is walking around wearing 'Daddy Issues' t-shirts, but the fact is it goes so much farther than any of us can really see with the naked eye or fully explain with superficial proclamations My father molded me into a cheater's accomplice, a woman seeking love in all the places where a strong male figure should have stood. My father didn't teach me what to look out for when it came to wolves in sheep's clothing, how could he from thousands of miles away? My pride and hurt wouldn't let me ask him for a thing, making it so even now, when there's something wrong, I don't say anything to anybody; I handle everything on my own, because if my own dad could let me down, who can I really rely on?
Every man I've ever been involved with has had issues with their fathers, from the absentee father, to the abusive father, to the father that was there, but never there enough. We're all broken by our parents in some way; like priceless crystal glasses, from the moment we're let out of the box, we're smudged with fingerprints, dropped, cracked. Nobody's parents were perfect, and none of us will be perfect parents, but we all aim to be better than our parents were.
That gives me pause; my father's real father wasn't there. My dad's last name is different from the rest of his siblings. His mother treated him, and continues to treat him, as if God himself set him down in front of her and said "Raise him." Those things couldn't have been easy for him; he did the best he could, it just wasn't enough to prevent me from going through it with men, with myself, with the perception that I put forth of this solid ice queen.
One day, I think I'll forgive him. One day, I'll feel more sorry for him than angry. That day isn't today. Most likely won't be tomorrow, but it's coming. I can't focus on what he or my mother did wrong; I'm grown now, it's up to me to make whatever went wrong, right. I'll keep in mind though, that the cheating gene is in me. Keep in mind my propensity to run. Never forget the ease with which I tend to toss people who I find needless away. I will keep in mind the rest of my life what it means, that the sins of the father are passed down to the son. Or in my case the daughter.
Turns out, it's more than a really dope Usher song, but an actual thing that, until today, I didn't know effected me so deeply.
My father was a cheater. My father wasn't there for me when it counted. My father tried to make amends with money. I idolized him with the sort of idealism that only exists in those not young enough to know better, those naive enough to believe that all anybody has to be is good and good would come to them. I was the best daughter I knew how to be, and he still left me behind.
I knew my father was a cheater when I was maybe 9 years old. He told me I may have had a sister (and possibly a brother) that my mother didn't know about. Made me keep that secret for years, only for me to meet the girl and not feel any sort of sisterly bond. That didn't make it any better.
Unlike what Usher says, the sins of the father don't just fall on the son. After my father left, I spent my time trying to fill that loveless space he left behind. Filled it by chasing after a boy who couldn't give any less damns about me for two years, spent time on a future baby father of 5 hoping to be lucky number 6, and fell in love with a cheater. I became some spiteful amalgamation of the cheater and the cheated on, over and over and over again, never stopping to ask myself where this whole thing started.
The father's sins on the daughter are tougher to see. Sure, everyone is walking around wearing 'Daddy Issues' t-shirts, but the fact is it goes so much farther than any of us can really see with the naked eye or fully explain with superficial proclamations My father molded me into a cheater's accomplice, a woman seeking love in all the places where a strong male figure should have stood. My father didn't teach me what to look out for when it came to wolves in sheep's clothing, how could he from thousands of miles away? My pride and hurt wouldn't let me ask him for a thing, making it so even now, when there's something wrong, I don't say anything to anybody; I handle everything on my own, because if my own dad could let me down, who can I really rely on?
Every man I've ever been involved with has had issues with their fathers, from the absentee father, to the abusive father, to the father that was there, but never there enough. We're all broken by our parents in some way; like priceless crystal glasses, from the moment we're let out of the box, we're smudged with fingerprints, dropped, cracked. Nobody's parents were perfect, and none of us will be perfect parents, but we all aim to be better than our parents were.
That gives me pause; my father's real father wasn't there. My dad's last name is different from the rest of his siblings. His mother treated him, and continues to treat him, as if God himself set him down in front of her and said "Raise him." Those things couldn't have been easy for him; he did the best he could, it just wasn't enough to prevent me from going through it with men, with myself, with the perception that I put forth of this solid ice queen.
One day, I think I'll forgive him. One day, I'll feel more sorry for him than angry. That day isn't today. Most likely won't be tomorrow, but it's coming. I can't focus on what he or my mother did wrong; I'm grown now, it's up to me to make whatever went wrong, right. I'll keep in mind though, that the cheating gene is in me. Keep in mind my propensity to run. Never forget the ease with which I tend to toss people who I find needless away. I will keep in mind the rest of my life what it means, that the sins of the father are passed down to the son. Or in my case the daughter.
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