It’s rainy,
cold and raw outside. If Mondays had a weather pattern, this would be it as far
as the common, traditionally-collectively-accepted idea of Mondays, goes. Today—right
now—I am that common. (On other days, of course, you’d better believe I am
absolutely un-fucking-common!).
In my
constant effort (and I say that because sometimes that’s what it feels like—even
though I know better) to learn, be grateful for everything and be happy, I will
not call today a bad day. Despite
momentary emotions, I know that it’s not. Today is a this and that day. You can’t know this without knowing that. One of
those days that make you appreciate other things better.
For some of us writing is
a form of expression. We write what we feel, think and believe. I know that I
can come across as preachy, snarky, bitchy, pissy, pathetic, fun, mildly (!!!) opinionated, sexy,
ridiculous (my favorite) and foolishly-to-many optimistic (never say die!). It’s
all true; it’s all me. Some days I’m a fucking ray of sunshine and other days …
well, on other days it’s obvious that this fucking cheerleader has dropped her
pom-poms. Right now, I’m looking at them lying in a heap on the floor and
thinking about kicking them across the room.
Before I go
on (and because it has to do with part of my subject today and because it’s a happy thought): Today is an anniversary! This
blog is two years old! I’m going to take a moment out of my whining to celebrate
this auspicious occasion. I am a writer (and I still love saying that), and I’ve
known this formally since I was 10 but only recently gave myself permission to be one. The response I’ve received has
really been overwhelming. Not that I need outside validation here; I do this
because I have to. It has opened up
some doors and provided me with opportunities I wouldn’t have had if I didn’t
put myself out there. (More proof that following your passion works). Plus, if I ever get lonely, I have the
options of accepting the numerous offers of the internet trolls who see my best-out-of-three-taken
(had to make sure the hair showed right) profile picture, tell me I’m “intriguing”
(is that a fucking buzzword nowadays?—I hate it, by the way; ‘intrigued’ is a
temporary condition, regarding anything) and ask me to “write a book” with
them. (Yes, pick-up lines are now vocationally focused.)
Either way,
I have options!
I write what
is true for me, whatever it is at the moment. And I am as long-winded as I feel
(got that, Mom?). I try to be positive, even when I’m not fully feeling it. I’ve
actually tried to just write pissy, and couldn’t. It HAS to end on a better
note. That is not a strategic maneuver, it is what I need to do for me. People
with rose-colored glasses, the fucking cheerleaders, live that way. No one even
has to read what I write, but I’m putting it out there; I’m putting myself out
there. This is how I entertain myself and
work things through. Simple journaling isn’t enough anymore (although I still
do it); journaling is private, and allows me to continue to hide and pretend. I’m not doing that
anymore. I don’t have to be anyone’s cup of tea other than my own. I have to admit that I am proud of myself for
stepping outside of my comfort zone many times, here and outside, and being a
little more real each time. All of it. The good, the bad and the ugly. I have
to balance things, too. What I put out can’t just be my highest thoughts,
because there is more to me than that. And I am learning to fully accept all of
me, unshaven legs and all.
Yesterday I
was just saying that I love the little reminders I get on FB about what I was
doing “on this day” over the past couple of years. Not that I need reminders (I
remember a lot), but they can be fun, and sometimes there are pictures! And sometimes there are pictures … sigh.
Some days, I don’t like them too much.
The reason
for this morning’s … nostalgic
introspection doesn’t matter. The less I focus on the reason, the less I
will feel these lower-based energies and the sooner I can pull my head out of
my ass—out of the darkness and into the light, so to speak. Situations,
circumstances and other people are what they are. Their “meanings” are what we
believe them to be and our feelings about them are determined by those meanings
we’ve given them. People, places, things and events don’t make us feel a
certain way, we decide how we feel
about something, and we react. How we react is our own choice. Paying attention
to the beliefs and perceptions we have about something and being able to figure
out why we believe or feel a certain
way will help us understand our own reactions and help us re-direct them. I’m
not telling you that; I am telling me.
I am telling
myself that it is okay to feel this way. To not just like myself when I’m
ballsy and obnoxious. This and that.
Total acceptance. The more I accept and allow all of me, the better I can do
that for everyone around me, right? And by validating the feelings that I have
(even the lower ones) I am showing myself the love that I deserve, not from anyone other than myself. Unconditionally. Everything will be okay, baby.
--No. It’s
all good now.
The clouds will
break to allow the sunlight in, cold will recede and allow warmth to seep in,
Monday will give way to Tuesday, April paves the way for May, and the way I
am feeling now will transform into something else. Something better.
Telling you
has helped already. Thank you.
(I’ll pick
up those pom-poms in a few minutes.)
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