I would like to take a moment to describe myself; it will make sense why in a moment. In quick summary I can tell you I am nothing all that special but there are details that go towards that point.
I am average height. I am neither stick-thin nor am I in any definition fat. I have a thinner build but because of the up and down roller coaster of my life there is a lot of wear and tear on it. I have cellulite that embarrasses me, arms that are not defined in any way and a pooch that is supposed to proudly show off the fact that I have had multiple children.
My IQ is pretty normal, nothing that can be really written home about. I am a writer and am currently trying my hand at being an artist. I live and die by schedules and I work best with music – usually of the acoustic variety – blaring in my ears. I can not come up with ideas and thoughts to write about except deep in the night and usually forget them by morning’s light. No matter how many notebooks I have by my bedside. (Hence, the number of posts this month.)
I dislike chaos. I don’t function in chaos, instead breaking down into a child like state of whining and complaining. I don’t like human touch – haven’t since I was a child. I can’t explain that little factoid about myself except to say, I just don’t need human touch in the ways others do.
I recently discovered I have a wonky thyroid gland that is causing no small amount of trouble. I have horrible teeth; I am talking drugged out of her mind bad teeth despite the fact I have never touched cocaine or heroin in my life. My hair is thick and wavy which means that it takes two hours to cut and doesn’t do anything but cause me to search out the nearest pony tail holder.
I have a disease that I am not supposed to let define me but truthfully, absolutely defines me. It is a disease that determines if my house will be clean or a mess; if my outfits will be changed or worn over and over again. It defines if I will make an attempt to better my health and wealth or if I will sit on my butt and simply dream of a time of betterment. It is a disease that guarantees nothing except that who and what I am today is not necessary who and what I will be tomorrow. It is a disease that demands that I be pessimistic, angry, frustrated, and often disappointed.
These things and more make up who and what I am. I could continue about being a mother and a wife, but those things while always the most important thing in my life, are there whether I wish them to be or not. I am a daughter and the sentiment is the same.
I am a voracious reader, a smoker, a Pintrest addict and mostly the kind of person who will help a complete stranger much more easily than I can a friend. In fact, friendship has always been a rather vague and mysterious relationship that I don’t understand. It hasn’t been until recently that I have opened myself up to the idea of having a friend and learning the give and take this requires; and I ain’t a young chick.
I have thousands of clothes and shoes that I don’t wear. I have a million ideas that never see the light of day and I have more pills on my kitchen counter, all expecting to be taken on time, than I have sense in my head.
I live with the frustration of realizing that there is general and sometimes quite specific hatred in this world. I live with the knowledge that no matter who and what I am there will always be people who can not live with me. They can not respect me and they can not like me. And there are people who honestly believe that the casual mistakes and time of the sick, elderly and others of a disadvantaged nature are somehow directly responsible for their own misery. There is little to no forgiveness in this life and that I think is one of the hardest things for me to come to terms with.
I mention all this because I wonder often how it is that I can change. For instance, why isn’t there many books out there to help me with the idea that my weight is just right for my height? Why aren’t there many songs that can move me to believe that flying into the beautiful morning only nature can provide is possible? Why aren’t there more moments of beauty that can make me believe that it is possible that we as a human race, as a person, can find the ability to change the world?
I need desperately the things in this world that will bring me the toasting taste of a newness. I need the signs that this world isn’t what I see and what I know, but what I dream. I need the holy, not just in the church of the local parish but the holy of perfection; and yet, it is so hard to find.
I guess more than anything else I am naive. I believe that people who ask for help, need help. I believe that people who are having trouble can use a helping hand. I need to believe that there are people who aren’t so interested in their own lives that they can’t help make someone else’s a little better. I need to know that the fine print is in fact fair.
I come up to this time of year, and the promise of the next year, and while I wonder naturally what is in store for me, I also find myself sad that once again another year has passed and I and this world is still so much the same. Despite the disease that I suffer that guarantees change, there is so little within me or around me.
And the question remains, do I not change because I see this world in such a negative and dismal way that change becomes impossible? Is the fact that I remain without improvement because I truly sit here waiting for the world to improve? Do I find myself, in this great life, waiting for some sign to be greater and miss the fact that who and what I am is the place to start?
And if I spend another year promising that this time I will change for the better will I just be fooling myself or will I finally find the power to make myself the person not as I described but as the person I always wanted to be; kind, loving, able and willing to help, able to find joy in the little moments and the beauty in the simple. Next year when I describe myself will I have really changed or done what this world seems to be so good at – delay, deny, downplay?