I’m Publishing This One

I’ve written and rewritten a lot of posts and never posted them.  Because of insecurity.  Because I’m afraid I’ll be judged.  Probably judged by you, my millennial peers for always talking about insecurity.  Or judged by you, generation x, for my self-righteousness and poor understanding of love.  I’m tired.  I can’t please everyone, and my following is so impeccably small that I what I publish is really just the parts of my writing that I don’t think my mom will hate or cause her to worry about me.

I suppose you’re judging me now for being so fucking depressing.  Or unnecessarily swearing.  But here’s the thing, I write in here, google docs, and in text edits about not letting fear consume you, that it’s import to live your life to the fullest and sometimes that makes me feel better but at the end of the day, after a ten hour shift at a restaurant, I’m still applying for copy writer positions and unwilling to supply the link to this website because I haven’t updated it in months.  Yet I have the gall to call myself a writer.  Maybe I’m not even that anymore.  Thanksgiving was last week and this girl at dinner asked what I do, and I immediately said I was a line cook.  There’s nothing wrong with food service, but it’s not what I’m made to do.

I tell myself that’s not what I’m made to do.  As if I only have one function.  As if I am just some one-dimensional extra in a coffee shop scene who order’s coffee and has no plans to leave because their lives aren’t worthy of character development and they need to fill out the background.

I am a person and I am not defined by any one thing and it’s about damn time I recognized that about myself.  I am a daughter, a bad Christian, a college graduate, a friend, a a girlfriend, a villain, a comedian; and yes, even the coffee-drinker in the background of someone else’s life.

Don’t you sneer at me.  I’m not the only one.  We all love to define ourselves.  By our jobs, our degrees, our tattoos, the stamps on our passports.  As if it means anything.  As if the things that make us unique are the same things that make us interesting.  As if we can waltz into our high school reunion and impress people with our so-called accomplishments.  Make him feel bad he didn’t take me to prom with my beauty, or show her that I’m smart because I have a good job, or show them that since I am married, that makes me worthy of love.  They’ll still think you’re the same person you were in high school.  Because to them, you are just a secondary character in their own lives.  Don’t do anything to make someone else happy.  Not unless making them happy, brings you joy.  If something that makes someone else happy, brings you pain, don’t bother.  You’re opinion of yourself is what matters the most.  If you can look at yourself and be okay with who you are, then you’re on the right track.

I have a boyfriend.  And I hid my pain from him.  He always knows when something is wrong and he asked me what was wrong and I would never tell him.  I either kept smiling or I lashed out.  It wasn’t healthy.  It wasn’t okay.  I gave him the version of myself I thought he wanted but what he wants is for me to be who I am.  So I try to be.  It’s hard letting someone in. It’s hard NOT to hide.  It’s hard to be fully yourself and let someone love you.

I’m not editing this.  Not even for grammar.  I don’t care how much of it makes sense.  I didn’t write this for you and I’m not publishing it for you.  This is a place where I am myself.  Don’t forget to like and subscribe.

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