Acceptance

I was recently having a conversation with someone and somehow the little bit of wisdom I do have popped through and I told them:

"We hang onto all these little slivers of something, even if we know it's not going to happen the way we want, just to hold onto the hope that it may. Knowing and accepting are not the same thing."

Somehow I knew what I needed to know yet I don't know how to apply it to myself... and I didn't face the reality of it until today.

I suppose part of me is sorry that it took me so long to learn that knowing and accepting are not the same. Yet... maybe I shouldn't be.

I wouldn't give up the love I felt for one second, the things I learned for ease or comfort, and I wouldn't trade a minute of it for any other minute.

I am one of a kind, not a single person could replace me in any way, shape or form. In fact, I hear I come from a cloth they no longer make.

So maybe... just maybe... it's a blessing that it took me so long to learn, so long to face the truth of it, so long to accept what would never be.

One could only be oh so lucky to have actually known me, and even luckier for me to show love, affection, and loyalty.

While I couldn't accept the reality of my situation... I, however, was accepting of people. People who hide themselves from others. People who don't share all of themselves. People who lean on another to make them feel whole... even though they are plenty all by themselves. People who shame themselves and feel as if they have to live somewhat multiple lifestyles.

I've loved people who don't love themselves, people who don't love me.

I've cared for people who haven't cared for me.

Maybe the blessing isn't in how quickly we accept things, but in what we learn while we're taking our time getting there. The journey between knowing and accepting—that's where I found myself.

My Unlikely Anchors

 Everyone that I have met here is amazing, not gonna lie. I've had spats and hurdles to jump, and some of them may not like each other (reasons not my business), but EVERY ONE of them is important to me. Each has helped me in different ways—ways they may not even know. And they all have their own specialties.

There will probably be a lot of "Collections" by the time I feel like I've gotten everyone, and even then I'll probably continue finding more threads to add to this tapestry.

Damien gardens and builds and loves his baby so much it pours out his pores (His garden was bigger than Randy's!).

Randy gardens, makes some really badass salsa, and does this pretty cool burn technique thing to kayaks. Randy is also a boob guy, so watch out ladies!

Tony and his professorism.

Travis, always being there for me when I don't know who else to turn to (like when he bailed me outta jail... lords almighty!).

Corey, well, we discussed him already—thank god his sense of humor saves the day.

Then you have Avon Roger who can think outside the box (I believe he should have a medical marijuana card...).

I can even say that Dan is the best at thinking outside the box... his line "it can all be done" opens up eyes to what is really possible (i.e., people saying "No, you can't move a gas line" —Dan would say "Why can't you?").

Amber and her vinyls and huge ass heart (her pups and grandbabies are really the way to her heart though).

Renee always popping out of the woodwork when least expected and saying "Hey, I have an engraver... let's make bottle openers" (who also gardens, cleans, and loves tools more than any man I know... that last part makes her pretty hot lol).

Mike being ok with my techno music, then bringing up Shaboozy and being extremely detailed when it comes to when and why something works or how-to's.

Josh's constant positive goodbyes to me, even though you can tell he's not feeling so very positive.

Jose and his entrepreneurship and 800 businesses.

Even the older gentleman that used to come into my last employer to get a chocolate milk with a chocolate donut and chocolate frosting—he's honestly been the most impressive.... I recently saw him and he remembered what project I had been working on and asked about it. (Most the time, people don't "hear" me...so yes, the most impressive by far.)

Then there's Lynn, who loves Japanese men but can clean up a yard like no one's business.

Char, who I've only met a few times, but has the biggest smile ever, and from what I gather is the very best extreme couponer there is known to man.

Then there is the local author whose way with words would floor the best of us.

Rami and Deb, well, they need their own post. They've never judged, they are always willing to help, and are sensitive creatures. Tami is open-minded and well-rounded with beautiful stories, and Deb has quite the musical history as well.

And Michelle. Who thinks she's alone, but is just like the rest of us—shunned by men when they don't get their way only to look in the mirror and be way overly hard on ourselves. She's super duper sweet and underestimates herself, but is one of the most amazing people here. She hunted me down just to give me insulation, and from there our relationship bloomed. She has a huge heart, wears her heart on her sleeve, and would do just about anything for everyone.

I could keep going for days, but I've got to work on my water line project I've started for the umpteenth time. I just walked home from my friend Michelle's, who did her Thanksgiving today, and thought about all these amazing people and how me discovering who I am has only happened because of them.

And that I am happy I do have them, even though I push them away, I keep to myself, and sometimes say things differently than most.... they all would still open the door, answer the phone, fill a bucket of water for me.

And that's why they have become part of my family.

Too Late?

My entire time here I've had things held over my head. Not by one person, but by many.

I get upset when it comes up—appalled, really—because how do they not remember? How do they not know that I'm not used to living like this? By myself. Without family. Without my lifelong friends. Without just about everything I knew?

How do they not remember I don't know how to do this? I don't know how to be this poor. I was the one most people turned to for help. I had an open door policy drilled into me since childhood, and I would rarely turn someone down. Anyone who walked through my door had to make a plate—there was always enough food for everyone.

How don't they realize I didn't pay my utilities so I could clothe a child that wasn't even mine? Multiple times.

How don't they know that when I'm finally done—pushed as far as I can be pushed—I won't look back?

How do they not see that I'm smaller, not as tall, hands not as big, arms and legs not as long? That I don't know how to swallow my pride? That asking for help is something I used to not be able to do?

That before here, I was never "alone" or "by myself"?

That different types of saws aren't common sense to me, just as roux, base, or binary code isn't common sense to them?

That my life consisted of 2nd and 3rd shift hours, that I succeeded and excelled best when shit hit the fan (for reasons unknown to me). I've never had a hard time getting a job. I never had my utilities turned off (except once for a mere day when identity theft really let all the shit hit all the fans).

And then I remember—this too is my fault.

The walls, the bricks so carefully placed to not fall, can't even be deciphered by me, the creator. Then I also remember that my beliefs, my values are not everyone else's.

And it is my fault, as well, that I am treated the way that I am. I've allowed it.

I've put people on pedestals they may not have deserved, pedestals they did not put me on. I've sat on the sidelines, patiently waiting and allowing. I didn't set boundaries until it was too late. I didn't think of myself until it was too late.

And I didn't realize how far I had pushed, and had been pushed, until it was too late. Too late to set boundaries.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

I lied. And it’s the one thing I can’t stand. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it at the time, but I’m still pissed at myself for it. So, I’ve got a few things to clear up from my first post.

Not “everyone” dips out. Some people have fought like hell, trying to find the right tool to break down my fortress of a heart—those damn superhero strength walls I’ve built over the years. But, at the end of the day? I’d dip out too. I mean, let’s think about this:

Me. I’ve been through hell and back so many times, I could probably write a collection of books longer than the entire Mommy Dearest series. They’d need to move Patterson over to make space for me. These walls I’ve put up? They’re damn near pyramid-level strong. No one even knows where they came from or how solid they are.

And the “select few” that I’ve let in? Well, she’s cool—actually, she’s more than cool. She’s hot, even, if you catch her at the right angle. But after the 567,908,981st attempt to break through, and getting rejected again... You start to wonder, “Fuck this. I’m out.”

So, no. Not “everyone” dips out. But I sure as hell push people away in my own fucked-up way. I stay home, buried in my bubble, because to me? This is my safe place. It’s where I can hide, where no one can get too close, and where I can just... breathe.

And yesterday? I realized that this makes me sad.

I'm The Damned Newbie- To Myself

So, here's the thing. I’m the damn newbie to myself.
And since I have no idea how to do this blogging thing properly, y’all get to ride the roller coaster with me. Buckle up.

I’ll apologize now—for all the typos, grammar, and profanity—so I don’t have to do it again.

I live in this BFE, 2ft-by-2ft square of a town. No joke. I used to think it was a cult. Like, 6:59 PM you might see people outside smoking, walking, chatting. Then poof! 7:00 hits and they vanish like it’s a scene out of The Stepford Wives. Creepy. But we’ll save that little gem for another post.

How I ended up here? Also important. But again—another post. (Yeah, I know. I’m awful. Deal.)

That being said… If I hadn’t ended up here, I probably wouldn’t be alive.
This odd little town has saved me.
And more than that—it’s teaching me who I am.

Crazy, right? That I’m just now learning this? But think about it. I come from a questionable upbringing, was a ward of the state by age 12, a mom at 18 (babies having babies, ugh), and I spent years trying to please everyone but myself.

So how the hell would I know who I am?

Let’s talk about the house.

It was a burned-out wreck when I got it. Fire-damaged, filthy, and filled with rubble. I shoveled that mess into a dumpster (an industrial one, thank you)—filled it in two days. Yeah, I had some help. That’s a whole other story. You’ll want popcorn for that one.

I’ve done a lot of work on this place.
Not enough.
Some help showed up, most didn’t stay.
I’ve cried. I’ve bled. I’ve sweat (like, really sweat—not the dainty “glow” women talk about). I’ve cursed. I’ve outmuscled grown-ass men—at 5’1” and 98 lbs, no less.

I’ve had some great teachers. And some jackasses.
And yes—some help left when they realized I don’t keep a jar of blow jobs in my back pocket. (Sorry not sorry. That’s the vibe.)
Still… some of ‘em? You can’t help but love ‘em anyway. You’ll see.  

But here’s the part that got me:

In my last “self-help” session (read: yelling at myself like Dr. Phil), I realized something.

I haven’t finished a lot of these projects.
And maybe that’s because once I do…
This place? It becomes my home. Mine.
Not my kids’ home.
Not some boyfriend’s.
Not the place I just landed in.
Mine.

And that’s terrifying.
Because it means I live here. Alone. In this quiet-ass town.
With no Thai food.
No partner in crime to run errands with, make dumb Target runs, or chill in silence on the porch.
No “Hey, let’s go grab a coffee” just because.
Just… me.

But today…
I finished a project.
And for the first time in my life—this is my home.
Weird. Beautiful. Mine.