I’d hated their width and length most of my life. They were anything, but feminine in my eyes. I never got to be obsessed with high-heels or sandals, the way some woman are – because they were so difficult to find.
Now I realize how far they’ve carried me.
How they never failed me.
No matter the circumstance.
–S
I’m not wearing pants. I have lacy panties on sporting holes on both sides because I’m anything but careful. Always getting dressed in a rush or running late.
My hair is greasy and lays in a fallen bun on the side of my head, not even the top, and my face needs to be washed.
I’m wearing a crop top yellow Wu-Tang shirt that is flecked with oil from the pesto pasta I ate earlier and no bra.
I am anything but flawless.
Which is why I have been avoiding writing a list of things I love about myself all week. I just figured that I wouldn’t have much to say, but I’m doing it as a practice of self-love.
I assume I’ll have ten nice things to say. I can manage ten.
I imagine myself opening the Word document and staring at the flashing cursor as I struggle to think of likeable qualities, I can’t even touch any loveable ones. I imagine feeling embarrassed as ten and twenty and thirty minutes pass and I’ll blank by five likeable qualities.
But I surprise myself. The loveable qualities pour out of me, until I’m up to fifty. I keep thinking, okay, that’s probably it. But then there’s another, and another, and I don’t even touch the likeable ones.
Because I’m focused on the loveable.
Focused on the love.
Focused on the self.
Focused on me.
–S.
So, I’m taking the time to date myself.
To court myself.
To become my own best friend.
Again.
To re-learn the song of my own heartbeat.
The hooks, the verses, the chorus, and even the background vocals.
Somewhere along the way – I forgot. I forgot that this was a forever job.
That the song of my heartbeat was and always had been the soundtrack of my summer.
Every season after that.
And of my life.
I’m humming it now and I don’t have to share my popcorn with anyone.
–S.
You’ve been getting drunk and going out with friends to sing karaoke and dance at night clubs. In those moments – you really feel infinite. You can’t feel the heartbreak. It’s almost like nothing even happened. Almost like he’s still yours.
You’re coming home to him, only to find out that your bed is empty. I know what you’re thinking: One, what are you going to do with all of the things you know about him? All of the things in your head. Can you erase it? Can we file it away? Can we fax it to his new girlfriend? Two, it’s exhausting to keep reintroducing yourself to someone in hopes that they will fall for you.
What is he doing with all of the information that he has collected about you? You want to bet me money that he doesn’t even care about half of it.
See, the truth is that you are worth knowing. You are worth loving.
He probably never knew that your favorite color was purple, that it makes you really sad that you are allergic to lavender, that you still cry every time you watch the Notebook, and that you get jealous when your sister gets close to someone.
You were ready to commit to him. He was going to be your one, forever.
But how could he be your one if he didn’t appreciate these things about you? Your one will appreciate your quirks. They will adore all of the things that make you uniquely you. You have a story. No one on this planet could ever be you.
We are all a kaleidoscope of a million different things. Things we have picked up from school, books, music, television, movies, magazines, life, death, love, heartbreak, loss. All of those little pieces gorilla-glued together to make a collage – a you.
So stop thinking that you’re not worth it. Don’t let him ruin it for the real one. Don’t shut yourself off in the dark, and collect a string of one night stands. It’s not worth it.
You’re a lover. A romantic. Hold onto that. Don’t kill that.
More importantly, don’t allow someone who cared so little kill something that you care so much about. You have always believed in love.
Believe in love – again.
Always, again – always, one more time.
–S.
An excerpt from a letter that I wrote years ago to my then best-friend who went into the Air Force.
First and foremost, I am a writer. I think that my best writing comes from the darkest of places, and sometimes I have dry periods where I am not motivated to write any words. It has taken me a long while to share anything because rarely do people care about one another on that deep of a level.
Sometimes you don’t even want to heart your own voice. Not because I have been depressed or anything. I’m okay. I’m good. You just get tired of it – as with all things. The day is July 8th and the time is 1:31 am. Like the summer nights that have come before this one – I can never go to sleep before three or four in the morning.
My apologies. I feel that we left things in such an awkward place that sometimes I think – will we ever come back from that? I know that you have bigger things going on in your life and it doesn’t really compare to what friendships are going to survive or not. That’s how we are, I know. You’re with me or you’re not. But I also know that sometimes we have to swallow our pride, a million times over, and just speak.
So, here I am.
I’d like to tell you about myself. If you ever start feeling like you’re in a prison – I hope these words help you find a way out in your mind. I hope you find it in your heart to smile while reading my words and maybe even laugh.
Lord knows we need all the laughter we can get,
but I’ll probably be doing a lot of crying.
–S.
Eight Years Ago.
My brother was born the day before my father’s birthday.
For the last ten years, he’s been his greatest gift.
Every year, we make a party celebrating the both of them.
As I watched my parents this weekend – putting everything together, my mind drifted over the twenty-three different ways my birthday was celebrated over the years.
I always wanted more from my parents. The most expensive gift. More gifts. A better birthday cake. No homemade food, give me pizza. Give me a thousand different colored balloons. Get me a new birthday outfit. Every year should be better than the last.
I watched them clean the entire house. I watched them decorate it. I watched them prepare all of the food. I watched my mom make the cake. I watched them prepare the porch for the guests that were coming. I realized in all of these moments that I spent so much of my younger years wishing for more that I overlooked all of the present moments.
I never realized how hard they tried. I never appreciated the things that they did give.
I didn’t count the roof over my head as a gift. I didn’t care about their full-time jobs. I didn’t count the shoes on my feet and the clothes on my back.
I didn’t need a car on my sixteenth birthday or gold earrings from ‘Santa Claus.’
I needed to learn the art of appreciation.
If I could talk to a younger version of my self, I would help her to start appreciating mom and dad earlier. I would tell her to not allow it to take twenty some odd years to make certain realizations.
Start now.
They are amazingly complicated people in their own right, but breath deep and be patient.
Let them surprise you.
Time with them is the ultimate gift.
I’d tell her.
-S.
The Messy Middle 🖤 