I never gravitated toward the phrase “I have to get a couple of things off my chest,” largely because it always sounded a little dirty to me in that there are exactly a couple of things on my chest #womanhood Rather, when I’m overwhelmed, I feel it in my chest, like I have hummingbird-heart. Like my innards collectively palpitate at 2000hz and the cells of my marrow chatter like so many novelty teeth. Bones made of teeth. Or something.
Right now, I’m struggling to iron out some truly spectacular wrinkles as they pertain to the fabric of my life and career and so on. Since I can’t resist a metaphor, I’ll have you know that I typically only wear polyester knits that are 100% un-rumple-able and if the extraordinary happens, I just steam my problems out in a hot shower. I don’t even own an iron. In fact, I’m fairly ill-equipped when it comes to matters of practicality. All matters of practicality. And I can’t fend for myself if I don’t have the tools or the experience… or the confidence to believe that my case is a case worth smoothing out.
I’ve always been resourceful. I’ll learn how to do something and do it myself before asking anyone else for help. I feel the oppressive need to prove myself before I ask for anything… ever. The heels of my boots look gnawed on, and my winter coat is a hand-me-down from my sister’s ex-boyfriend. I’ve successfully fooled everyone into thinking that unkempt glamour is my thing, when, in reality, I’m just terrible at asking for what I need. I’ve always been resourceful. I’ve never been good at sticking up for myself, and I need to work on that.
For a long time, this blog served as a way for me to express myself without having to fight. I’ve poured a great deal of trust out into the universe. Sometimes it feels like I’m pouring out wine; like I’m throwing away something precious. Because when real catastrophe happens — the kind of sh*t that is far beyond the dilemmas of a young, broke lass — I want badass women in my corner. I want women who don’t care if they offend anyone or embarrass themselves or ask too many questions or ask for too much, themselves. I want women wielding hot irons who don’t wait for nature to run its course, and I feel very lucky to be surrounded by women like that right now in regards to one such catastrophic thing. One private, catastrophic thing.
It’s odd that we can be bold in some ways but not in others. It’s odd, but it makes sense that our personal histories seem to repeat themselves until we learn our lesson. And life, apparently, is trying to make a badass out of me.