The times that I am not my best self

I was not my best self tonight. I threw a small fit, realized I was throwing a fit which made me more angry, so I threw a bigger fit, then tapped out. Chagrined, embarrassed, ashamed, and still mad. Mad at him, mad at me, mad at the situation. Mostly mad that I didn't keep my insides on the inside.

There is a part of me that will always be a 5 year old. I like that 5 year old and protect her because she keeps the kid in me alive. The hope, the purity, the joy, the curiosity- all of the things that kids possess, she nurtures. But she also has a temper. I also have a temper.

I am good at my temper. Not so much because I have learned to keep it in check, which I have (yay, rectangular breathing), but more because it's rare that I allow anyone to get under my skin deep enough to make me angry. I cultivate the duck in water kind of zen. Let it all roll off.

I have found that there are a very small subset of people that get under my skin with no effort at all. I don't know why. I don't know if it is a good thing or a bad thing.  But it feels like they find the fissure in the seams of my armor and use their nails to pull it back and slip right inside. That kind of intimacy leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable. Raw. I don't like it.

I was having a conversation with someone who saw me clearly the other day. He called me on some things that no one outside of my blood and adopted family can see. I hated it. At the same time I liked it. It left me questions: Is my mask slipping? Am I losing my walls? Is that a good thing? Why do they see me? What do they want with this information? What am I doing wrong to be seen so clearly? Is my smoke and mirrors act dissipating? Then it left me the usual solution when someone gets too close- run.

So I did, then I didn't. And tonight, ill in-tune with how far their fingers have penetrated my mask, I made a tactical error. I assumed that they had gotten lucky in seeing me and lucky in their wins instead of giving them due credit. In doing so I took an L and threw a fit. First the pleading kind to get my way, then the attitude kind to challenge the ego (also to get my way), then the tap out kind (because it was clear I wasn't going to get my way). I was not my best self. And he knew it.

Why do some people get into you like that? It feels personal. It throws me off my game and causes me to be irrational instead of logical. It frustrates the 5 year old in me. Both because my ugly bits show and because, well because my ugly bits show. I'm not so mad that I lost. I'm mad that I didn't lose well. I'm mad that someone who already sees me so clearly had another authentic glance. The not pretty kind.

I feel like I fell asleep with my blinds open and the lights on while napping nude. Once awakened I realized it was dark outside and that the inside is totally illuminated. The only thing to do is hope no cars drive by during the mad naked rush to close the blinds. Only to realize that the one person you don't want to see you in the buff is watching from the drive way. The cold realization washes with the hot shame and you are caught. A thing done can't be undone. A thing seen can't be unseen. Now all you can do is brazen it out and hope that they afford you your dignity. Hope they are willing to pretend that it didn't happen all the while knowing that that's impossible.

I was seen at not my best self tonight and now I have to look the person in the eye tomorrow (or not) and accept that they have a new knowledge of who I am on the inside. Who I am naked.

I hate it.

Dewb

The Things I Know to be True

Why is it that when I need to write the most I forget that I am a writer? Why is it that I forget that it is my voice that has always been my power? Why is it that I forget that when things get complex I simply need to listen backwards to act forwards? Maybe the other voices are too loud. Maybe I simply forget that it is as simple as creating a word document and that in that white space and 84 keys my life’s fog dissipates.

I am a writer. My blog saves my life by preserving my voice. In here I am the true me. The authentic Amy. Ready to talk, listen, read, and remind.

I want to write about expectations. About how people choose to see you through the lens of what and who they are as opposed to who you actually are. About how if you aren’t careful you will start to believe that who they think you are is what you actually are. About how easy it is to live someone else’s expectations of you and how because they want to be you, they will try to convince you that you are them. And you are not. About how it is a kindness to them to mute yourself but in that muting you can easily forget the sound of your voice. Lose your plan.

I want to write about running shoes. I ran for a long time. I started when my brother left and continued until I had deteriorated the cartilage in my knees. I ran to think. And to breathe. And to find my voice in the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. My shoes represented freedom and health and life and discipline. My shoes represented both who I was and who I wanted to be at the same time. They were all I needed when things got rough. They both tied me down and set me free.

I want to write about men. About silly ones and cowardly ones and ones that act like girls and ones that act like men. I want to write about men that surprise me. And men that are exactly what they seem to be. I want to write about how good men go bad and how sometimes moving across the continent is the best way to see that: yes, he was hiding something and it was pretty terrible. Dodged a bullet, again. I want to write about young men that make me question my wings and old men that make me cringe when they touch me.

But I don’t think that I am going to write about any of these things. Not because I don’t have alot to say about any one of them but because I do. I think what I will write instead what I know to be true. In this moment, in this space in time, here is what I know:

God is love.

He loves me.

Love is the most powerful thing in the universe.

Mothers love no matter what.

It’s ok to fly.

It’s ok to fall.

It’s ok to fly again.

In being a part of nothing people will want to make you a part of their everything.

But you can’t do both.

I am a good roommate but a bad boarder. I need my home to be a haven not a hostel.

I have itchy feet that need new adventure to be scratched.

True love happens so frequently it’s ridiculous. But it’s still a miracle.

True love usually happens outside of romantic relationships.

Babies. Babies are true.

Next time I should pick the nice guy.

Be patient and stick to the plan.

When Jehovah says no on a guy, take the no.

Messi is messy. Messes are gross.

There are plenty of guys.

Call your mom.

Call your dad.

The kids will be fine.  

Don’t get into a relationship with a guy that lives with his mother. Mothers and sons have interesting relationships, especially if there are no daughters around. It’s like a queen bee and subjects that you will never shake. No queen bee wants another queen bee around. Especially if they still live at home as adults. Walk away.

Being content is not mutually exclusive to following the bigger plan.

Sometimes you still have to jump.

Love yourself.

This is what I know to be true tonight. That and the fact that I still love the blog. I will walk away tonight a little more (a lot more) centered, reflective, calm and ready to take the next days steps with power and grace. I think I am going to set a quarterly reminder in my phone to blog. Or a note that says, “Don’t forget that you are a writer. Go write.”

Yeah, I’m going to do that now. Well, as soon as I post this.

Dewb