A friend of mine forwarded a posting from another blog about perfection and the misguided attributes it portrays. How being real is the most purest form of perfection. I've been thinking about this blog over the last few days and some of it really hit home. Growing up I was never allowed to be real. My mother was always concerned about what other people thought and god forbid I be seen in public with a wrinkly shirt or piercings and tattoos. Now at the age of 38 I find myself having a second or maybe third adolencence where being real is the key focus. I now have five peircings (had six but one got infected), one tattoo, and regularly avoid the ironing board. Some might call it rebelling but I don't.
Sometimes I have to be reminded (thanks Peg) and other times I have to remind others. People think they know me which makes me laugh because I'm just getting to know myself. First, in order for me to be real, I need to face the ugly. Ugly can be fixed, stupid is forever and if I don't fix it now I never will. So what have I come to terms with in my quest to be real so far?
-I'm lonely
-I'm sad more often than people think
-I joke and am silly because I don't want to admit how sad and lonely I really am
-I've conceded to the fact I will never have children
-I've conceded to the fact I will never have a boyfriend or marry
-I don't think I deserve either one
I've started to take antidepressants, something that I should've started taking over 10 years ago. Are they helping? Yes, I think so, at least I don't feel like ripping someones head off due to PMS.
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