Life is messy

Get real. Get dirty. Might as well get real dirty while you’re at it.

When I was a kid I liked to dig holes in the yard, play in the mud, climb trees, and wound up with my fair share of skinned knees. Tasted my own blood, actually learned that I liked the flavor, been a fan of medium rare steak ever since. Once upon a time I use to play with bugs, not with the intent to harm or torture, just gently handle them. Turns out, they’re afraid of us more than the other way around, and they’re just trying to survive.

I had to get more mature, and quick, when my family suffered the loss of my older brother and grandmother. I tried to be perfect, not able to process their loss as beyond my control. I needed to grieve, but instead I changed myself. When others projected their needs, I sought to acquiesce, trying to keep those I loved from leaving me by doing everything they might desire. It was flawed thinking, but that’s only clear in hindsight. People make mistakes for all sorts of reasons.

It took years, maybe a lifetime, to crawl out of that shell and stand my ground, hold my opinions, and challenge contentious thoughts. My mind and heart grew tougher for their scars, and I learned to resent my former behavior enough to reflexively flip the fight switch when pushed around. I had to find my own way.

Throughout those growing pains, I tried to learn everything I’d need to take care of myself: cooking, sanitary practices, applicable mechanical knowledge, sewing, first aid, health and wellness comprehension, and of course basic finances. There’s more each and every one of us needs, but that’s where I started.

Whether it’s getting my hands dirty, making a mess while working, or just sorting through all the confusing emotions I go through day to day, I’m finally at a point that I don’t care how it looks. You can clean up afterwards, talk out hurt feelings, and those that love you are going to understand that you’re doing your best and still struggling.

Perfection is an illusion, one I still chase like an idiot from time to time, but it’s more important to be myself than be the rendition of me the world would prefer. I try not to worry about my image, but as a writer I understand that I should to some degree.