I can't believe I am back to this blog. I originally birthed it as Scandalicious Suburbia. I got a kick out of being an unexpected goof ball. Maybe I come across as composed and with my shit together. I am not. Sometimes I am. Not really though. I don't know everything. I don't have it figured out. I do know life has a way of teaching me that you can never know what is next.
I don't like to tell my story because I know that it is just that - a story. It's my "this is why you should listen to me" plea. This is why I matter. Honestly, we all matter. You matter. Let's tell each other stories.
When we believe that we are unique and super-special, it's like we mentally hop a luxury yacht to the Island of No One Understands Me. Island life is unsettling - most everyone else is on the island of misfits or on their own private island of specialness. When we are over concerned with our own uniqueness, we send the message that any understanding, compassion, and love directed at us is misguided. If they haven't lived to tell the story you have lived to tell, how can they possibly understand? If we don't want to be alone, a victim of our story, we have to row-row-row ourselves to the island of misfits. It is there that we will find community among kindred souls.
How do we get to a place, as individuals, where we can both deal with our individualistic minds and expand our consciousness to include our desire for community and love? How do we rectify the two? Our egos want to us to believe we are Jesus reincarnate, but our souls know that we are all Jesus reincarnate. My story is your story. My antagonist is real to me, yet still an antagonist - a crucial character to every good story. My story has been told before and will be told again. My story, though the events are seemingly rare, mirrors at least one other story that I am aware of in my small city. How can I be so selfish as to worry about the stuff I go through when I know that people go through worse? Yet, how can I not worry about me when I have to help me survive? It's a conundrum that requires at least a year's worth of tissues, bad movies and sugar-laden treats to get through.
I was never one to lament. I am not a fan of it.I am a lover of life - as it is. And yet, I am sad to report I have spent the last year lamenting. I have grieved my choice to love and be open with people, I have said a big F-you to living in the moment (because it's really hard when the moment is shit covered in vomit), and I have just been a place where authenticity (caution: buzz word) seemed inconsequential and "playing it safe" seemed, well, safe.
But you know... if I really believed that I wouldn't be writing this. Playing it safe is not my cup of tea. If I live once (or live again with no memory of this), why do I care about being careful? I don't have a death wish. I have a life wish. I wish to live fully, in every moment. I wish to love. I wish to help. I wish to see beauty. I wish to breathe and dance and play and laugh.
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