Being an only child I had to go out into the world and find people to love. I was blessed with my fair share of cousins, and grew up nestled in-between a group that felt like the best kind of siblings, because they went home.
I enjoyed being any only child. Being alone has always been one of my favorite past times. I am my favorite person, and I mean that when I say it. You have to be something pretty special to drag me out of my house, away from a night with my mind, a pen, and my bed.
Making friends has never really been my thing.
My first time at bat with non-relatives was school, and I was the class cow to a group of girls who had no idea how adorable, sweet, and funny I was. Thankfully I started sixth grade and they had all gone to public school. #thankyoulordbabyjesus
I am always (minus the year I sold my soul to the devil, and was the most popular girl in my 8th grade class, mostly because I was a touch on the hoe side, and probably when I was in the clique at Old Navy) I have always been pretty outcasty.
I have found many beautiful people to love me along the way. I have a few people still in my life who have loved me since I was stealing boyfriends, and eating Taco Bell on a reg. I have so many people I am beyond words grateful to have loved, even if I don’t know them anymore.
I have high standards, an old boyfriend told me they were too high once, but I like to set the bar as high as I possibly can, and I don’t mind all the falling down anymore. It took me a long time to not mind the feelings of unmet expectations in others. it took me a long time to even see it was MY problem, not these unsuspecting people I wanted to love me.
Heartbreak only come when I stay focused on trying to fit someone, or something in that does not fit where I am trying to put it, no matter how much I try to steer this ship, God has entirely different ideas.
I know that to get happy there has to be this brutal level of honesty that has to cause earthquakes without drama. It has to shake everything I thought I knew to the ground. I have to watch it all fall apart, and I cannot lose my shit. Not for longer than it takes to shove the last handful of chips in my mouth to fill up these holes I cannot get to stop screaming.
I have left places shaking and sobbing, I have felt heartbroken, I have envisioned American History X curb style injuries, and throats ripped out, and there it is, thudding behind my third eye, this reminder to breathe, and stop acting like I know anything at all. The not so gentle psychosomatic symptoms to just let shit be what it is.
I have met lots of people I don’t like at all, I have loved people a lot, and figured out I don’t like them anymore.
The key to it all, is forgiveness. For myself for changing, for them for not being what I wanted, and for courage to keep showing up, leaving space, and not turning into a wounded ego monster.
It has got to be ok to have MY own preferences in people, music, food, color palette, and those preferences do not mean that what I don’t like is wrong -it just means it is not for me.
Somehow walking away from things, or people, even if they aren’t right is stupid hard. I hate leaving people out, or behind. I hate making people feel bad, because really, I just want the world to see the sparkles. I make myself small to feed peoples egos, I fuel my own ego by painting situations in drama.
I am learning to be very honest about what I need from the people in my life, I am holding my boundaries firm, with love. I am learning that it is not my job to explain myself to people. They will either get me, or they won’t, but I am just going to keep being myself.
It is hard to stay honest in a world that loves everything to be fake.
I love fake things myself, orange hostess cupcakes, fake boobs, fake hair- I am an American after all.
I am over weaving this artificiality into my relationships, and experiences, not my eyelashes.
I want real love, and mermaid hair.
Remember glitter muffins, if you want to change the world, change yourself first.
