Ron White is one of my favorite comedians. I love how unapologetic he is. Not necessarily the bad boy stuff, but that he’s upfront about what his personality is.
I used to be that way. 100%. I started stepping on myself in my early twenties. I tried to be something that I wasn’t and in a weird way, I fought it tooth and nail as much as I accepted the concept of “should be.”
That’s that dichotomy part of me.
When I was in my teens, I can almost split that time into sections.
I had a close friend, girl, that I cared a lot about and we spent a lot of time together. We had some things in common, both good and tragic. With both came a sort of understanding. A connection between two people. That ended one night when she did something rather stupid that I warned her not to do, but she did it anyway and dragged me along for the ride.
I wound up paying the price for it. For protecting her and for getting her out of trouble. I stepped in because that’s what I always did. A very dark time in my life. A time that, while I no longer think about it every day, it’s still always going to be there, whether in my brain or looking at the scars on my body while putting on lotion. It was one of those defining moments for me.
The friendship ended because there wasn’t a single “thank you” for doing what I had done. Never an acknowledgement and, in fact, worse than that- judgement for an event that had taken place a handful of years later and something I didn’t let myself get attached to that had nothing to do with me.
I met my best friend from those years, guy, not long after this evening of violence and stupidity. He was one of those unapologetic people. I loved him for it. I always knew where I stood with him, even when he was being a manipulative jackass. He had “it.” That “it” that actually winds up making you want to smack the back of someone’s head for getting away with the crap that they did.
One of the best memories I have was a night that I was a complete mess. I couldn’t sleep and this hardass I had in my life rode on a bike, in a nasty thunderstorm in the middle of the night, with his guitar strapped to his back, just to come and spend time with me and play me to sleep. He didn’t care what crap I was going through. The actual problem didn’t matter. He couldn’t fix it, couldn’t change the past, couldn’t change the memories I couldn’t deal with. And he didn’t change himself in any way. He was still the same jackass he always was. But he came. The first thing he told me was to “f–king clean myself up and stop whining like a girl.” Even if I wound up crying again. He sat. Listened. Ignored my screwed up problem. Ignored the idiocies I was spouting. He let me be weak in a way that actually helped me not be weak. To stop apologizing and excusing and to see that the damage I was reliving had absolutely nothing to do with me.
There were a lot of things like this that he gave to me, and even in my darkest days, living with the PTSD or other tragedies, I’ve never forgotten them, even if I couldn’t always put them into action. It was so different than my stringent grandmother’s sense of propriety and to never let damage show and the strive to be perfect and controlled. To wear the right clothes, know the right people, to do the perfect things- body, speech, and action. In a lot of ways, I loved my grandmother’s strength. She was also one of those unapologetic people. But after that night I was a mess, I also saw her strength as a weakness. A cage. I know she was trying to teach me what she thought of as having dignity and pride. I also knew that it was because she wanted to have and be the perfect family, and nothing was going to get in the way of that life. The one that had no cracks in it. Where nothing bad ever happened. A complete lie.
And here was this guy, with all the hell he’d lived through, also unapologetic, sitting in my bedroom and living his life. Living his hell. Loving his life in as many ways as he could. Unashamed and arrogant and pissed off and accepting, all at the same time. Accepting me, as I was. He never stopped me from biting off more than I could chew. He never stopped me from taking risks. He never stopped me from falling on my ass when I needed it or coddled me in any way. When I was hurting? He never let me back down from that, either.
My second fiance was the same. Completely different in his outlook and personality. Adrian was a lot gentler and more compassionate with people. He was also unashamed to be who he was and lived his life to the fullest, especially since his family had tossed him out. His death in a car accident was a loss for the world. Recently, I’ve been reminded of the gift he was in my life.
This is why I’m grateful not to be 23 anymore. I got hung up in the “should be’s” even though I have never believed in them. I tried to be a housewife. I tried to be perfect for jobs. For interviews. To make the unpalatable about Life in general not be shoved up the noses of the people around me who couldn’t deal with it. I tried to walk away from being the wild child I was and actually apologized for it in many ways, including being silent when I shouldn’t have, because of other aspects of my outlook in life that I do believe in. And that is how I wound up stepping on myself.
One of the questions I get asked the most be people who know some of the details is “how the hell did you survive?” Including today, when I was talking with a neighbor. I just… did. I’ve been struggling with this dichotomy for a bit and I’m nervous about the interviews I’ve been on and will be going on. I hate those questions: “Where do you think you’ll be in five years?” or “what’s your definition of ‘success?'”
You know what I always want to say? “If you have a cookie cutter job, what difference does it make what I say here?”
I’m sorry, but to me, if you have a job or meet someone who is worth putting up with the bullshit for, why on earth would you ever leave? Isn’t that a plan? A success? Why would you walk away from something good or could grow into something being good, even if it doesn’t fit your ‘plan’?
My neighbor said something very nice to me: “Life doesn’t ever get easier. It’s just going to keep being that way.” I love her for saying it. Because it reminded me to keep going. A gentle ass-kick.
I’m not sorry that I stepped in for my younger friend. I never will be, even with the consequences of that night. I was being me. I was being me when I stayed silent, too, and that is the part of me I am giving up on. I’m not the young idiot anymore who believes in blind loyalty or proving what I believe in and who I am when there’s little coming back. I’m also not the young idiot who believes in having that perfect mask all the time, either.
There is a Facebook page I’ve seen recently called “Do No Harm but Take No Shit.” Boy, that phrase certainly puts my thoughts in perspective.
I’m not perfect and I don’t try to be. I don’t want to live in limits. I’m not saying I want to live stupidly again. Life has so many amazing experiences to offer and I’m not willing to give those up. Not anymore. I’m not willing to be a passive observer in my life who only “should” keep in mind all the things I’ve survived and let it limit me.
There are people and situations in the world that ARE worth putting up with the bullshit for. Someone who’s willing to ride through a thunderstorm on a bike? Hell, yes. It was worth it, even when he acted like a complete jackass.
I love my cats, my writing, my tattoos, cooking, quilting, counted cross stitch. I love what my house is turning in to. What I tried to make it as, while trying to be a working housewife. It certainly isn’t perfect and I do get annoyed when the plumbing goes, each and every time. I also love fixing it. I love my tools even though I never wanted to have as many as I do.
No. My life isn’t what it “should have been.” Yes, I miss a lot of people that are gone now.
And yes, that isn’t my life anymore. I’m grateful for it. I can say “so what” to f__k ups and put myself together after being ripped to pieces and forgive. To say: “Okay, a wrong choice was made here. Is it worth going back and fixing it?” instead of being apathetic. To say:
“Okay, I don’t necessarily like what I do for a living anymore, but I can take steps to change that because I have my books now.”
Today is a gorgeous fall day, and even though I am sad and nervous over some things right now, I also see my cosmos are in full bloom. The sun is shining and last night, there was a silvery layer of dew all over everything. I have a pumpkin growing out of an unexpected plant that will be awesome for Halloween. The bees are out and I’ve seen a hummingbird flitting around the past week. My car got fixed. My cats are healing. I had an amazing weekend.
I have plot lines going through my head for about six books. I feel the fever coming on. The itch to write and, at this point in my life, there is no one stopping me. No one saying- “hey, you have to put that aside for my needs.” Except for my princess cat who is flirting up a storm so she can get my chair. I have Ron White’s “They call me Tater…” going through my head and wonderful memories and playing my favorite mix of music that, after almost two and a half years, I haven’t gotten sick of yet. I’m finishing up Ash and all my white boards are full of ideas for Oak, Hawthorne, and Ivy. LampLight will be coming out in March 2018, and I have a massive rewrite in progress for my first book, The Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing, because I finally figured out where I went wrong with the last remake of a novel I started over 30 years ago.
Even with all the crap Life spits out, there is so much good and I am learning to know what I want to ignore, what I want to leave behind, and what I want to reach for. If it reaches back, AWESOME. If it doesn’t… there’s always a reason to keep going.
