My burning question this morning upon waking… knowing that hindsight is 20/20, would I do it all again knowing things would go the exact same way… and I would end up right here where I am today?
I used to think that I needed to get my eyes checked.
Instead, I’m starting to understand this little life of mine better.
I stumbled upon a TikTok of someone promoting a book by an
author I knew personally. Right before we stopped talking, he had forwarded a
copy of one of his books before he sent it to the publisher. His exact words
were, “Are you ready for your story to be told?” It was strange reading someone
else’s perspective of me and my story after being rejected by me. The title of
the book was Never Send a Monster. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it then.
As I watched this short video about his new book, I
struggled a bit. It’s been nearly two decades, and his interaction with me
still aids him in character development. Am I really that intriguing?
Bigger question yet… did you see me for me? Because it
doesn’t feel like me.
It does feel familiar, however. I have been touching my way
through all the past versions of myself, from tiny little me until yesterday.
What I have found is that I’ve shielded myself from view in so much of my life
because I was afraid to rock the boat. Of course, the me that feels certain has
popped up from time to time. It’s like that teenage girl who went on a goth
bender and dyed her hair black… then showed up to church and was rejected by
all the tried-and-true huggers because of her hair. In that moment, I learned
that the me willing to experiment and find new ways to express the depth of my
heart and soul could - and would - be rejected.
Last weekend, I decided to put purple, my favorite color, on
my hair. For some reason, it didn’t make my hair purple. Instead, it made my
hair an ashy black. It’s always fun when I dye my hair. My natural auburn-brown
takes color and chooses its own adventure, usually. I was worried kiddos and
parents and co-workers would have something to say about their gothy/emo art
teacher. But I’m in a space now where the people who know me aren’t that
incredibly invested in judging me based on appearances. And if they are, I
don’t give a damn.
It was a full-circle moment that I didn’t know I needed.
When I think about the many versions of me throughout the
years… my own character development comes into play.
The introductory character here would probably be that cute
little child with the big eyes and curiosity for days. I may have asked way too
many questions and learned that most adults found my queries annoying. I had
access to a dictionary and an encyclopedia… and learned to answer my own damned
questions.
That girl eventually fell prey to genetics and packed on a
few more pounds than the children around her. She learned to be awfully
accommodating just so she’d have someone to play with at lunch recess.
There was the teenager… When she landed in high school, she
looked like a totally different person. All of those boys who would never stop
picking on her in years past suddenly changed their minds. The teenager finally
felt seen, but only for one thing. There was still a depth inside that remained
hidden.
When he walked into the radio station less than five minutes
after speaking his name, it felt divinely orchestrated. And maybe it was…
character development. When it ended, she felt robbed. Like she didn’t do her
job, like she wasn’t the right “whatever he needed” her to be. She spent almost
ten years in agony, thinking of every possible “What if?” and not being fully
present in the life in front of her.
I’ve sat a lot with that girl… the one riddled with anxiety,
the one who feels like she’s never enough, the one who is heavily critical and
hides her true character, thinking that’s the problem. I
have loved on her so hard and tried to present her with evidence that she is
the coolest and sweetest… that the gut-wrenching ending that happened way, way
back then really didn’t have anything to do with her, even though that’s how it
was presented.
I’ve had to sit with the girl who made life choices from
that place… the girl who sprinted to marry the next seemingly safe guy who
appeared to like her more than she liked him. She didn’t know him… and he
definitely didn’t know her. I remember overhearing a conversation that guy was
having with a long-distance friend at the beginning of the relationship. The
way he explained this amazing girl to this friend didn’t feel like me at all.
And then he called me, “Punk Rock girl.”
Oh baby. Yes, I love Punk. I’m so much more than that. While
everyone was awestruck by Nirvana… I was over here lusting after Trent… and
Pretty Hate Machine was my anthem album. But I also adored the American Beauty
long-stem roses planted in my garden. That girl eventually discovered Bauhaus,
Type O, Dessau, Circle of Dust… And she also loved playing with kittens and
puppies. She wore nothing but black and had an affinity for old creepy
cemeteries, but also smiled a lot and made friends easily. She wrote deep, dark
poetry that she never shared and loved her family fiercely… She worked at a
mortuary but always sought connections with living, breathing humans. That girl
still played small because, what do you mean I’m not good enough?
But I was only seen as a “Punk Rock girl.”
How about that overly optimistic girl… the one so excited
for second chances? I never worked so hard to make something work in my life.
Completely mortified that the ending was more like a true-crime story that
didn’t have a chance to play all the way out… bloody and battered and
humiliated and barely hanging on. That poor baby circa 2010 was something to
behold. I love her so very much. Despite all the odds, she still managed to
make honor roll, fall in love again, go out and enjoy life!
And then there was that girl who desperately wanted to
believe what he said… that he “can’t do it without you.” Oh, that sweet,
tender-hearted girl… longing for her very own love story. Always looking over
her shoulder at the version of herself that learned something, but not enough
to be confident in it. The woman who wanted to be indispensable. The one who
believed that if she was necessary, then she certainly wouldn’t be abandoned.
That girl showed up and made it work. Owned up to her
choices and still sought the best in every situation. She relished in easy
motherhood. Playing with her babies. Teaching them her ways… her music… her
ability to deeply think. She was a beautifully delicate human being, and I love
her so much.
The light-bulb girl, though… the one who realized that she
was in charge of her own character development. That the character presented
back to her by men who never took the time to know her, who only desired to
control her, break her, crush the spirit that made her so enticing to them in
the first place, did not have the rights to write this story.
Real, snatch-your-soul-up-by-the-shirt-collar kind of love
has two edges. The light and the dark. And I appreciate them both. When I truly
express myself, I am loud… only because the contrast between black and white is
significant.
My sweet nature invites people in who need it the most. I
never want to be mean. I spent my younger years as the fat kid and know just
how hard it is to thrive in that realm.
My desire to have connections has made me shelve parts of
myself that seem too bold, daring, and intimidating to others.
My desire to be seen for who I really am leaves me trying to
explain myself to a world that doesn’t care enough to observe or ask me first.
All those versions of me sitting sad, mad, frustrated, and
unseen… looking back at the battlefield where I had become a knock-off
character that never felt quite right… or remained the controlled whipping post
because I allowed myself to be there. Or the Punk… Or the fat kid. The LOVER…
And then there’s the present version of me, giving MYSELF
the connection and love that I have always deserved. Looking back, seeing that
every single time I started fresh, it always worked out… just as it is right
now. I always exceed my expectations… glimpses of my daring, bold, dark, sweet,
loving self shine through.
If you’re watching, Will, and I know you are… can we
incorporate more of that? The woman who finally picked up the pen herself, who
decisively finds herself, loves herself, knows her worth, adores her life?
Because that seems like a mighty fine character to me.
But honestly, you may have written characters based on me… I
am writing the ending of this story.
Maybe the character I was always waiting for someone else to
see is this woman finally learning to see herself.
I am so in love with this version of myself.
And to answer my burning question from this morning… Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t wish any of it on the woman I love. But would I erase it? I don’t think I could. Every version of me brought another piece of herself home.
What you seek, you already are
The seeker and the sought are one
The lover and the beloved are one
All of this is one human being.
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