I’m not Nice

I’m not particularly a nice person, but I can be nice to be around. I can also be terrible to be around. I would describe myself as a kind person. A thoughtful person even. Very caring, compassionate, loving, but not nice.

Some people will read this and disagree, some people will read this and think I know myself well. Some will say I’m neither kind nor nice. I say fuck em.

That’s right, I swore, in my own blog, because I’m a grown woman and I can. Scandalous.

Maybe it was my religious upbringing that made me fear banishment to hell if I swore that makes me swear so much now. Now that I know that’s untrue. But I do. I swear a lot. Too much to some, just enough to others. It can provide comedic relief, it can add passion to a story, and it can express my emotions. The alternative was fists, would you rather I hit?

Is swearing so bad? Does it make me look immature? Will I look back on this and think of course it does you dumb bitch, now shut the fuck up? Maybe! But I think I’lll probably say hell yeah, I was cool even then.

Listen, I’ve tried to be the perfectly calm Audrey. The one that has it all together. The one who barely swears. The one who only has meltdowns behind closed doors. It only led to further suffering. Stifling my voice. My need for expression. I’m sorry if my expression hurts you, it’s not supposed to. If my expression is hurting you, just know how badly it’s hurting me to not be able to hold it in any longer. I don’t just tip over, I combust.

So instead, I show up in the world in big ways. Some better than others. Has anyone watched Inside out? The scene where anxiety is crashing out over the controller panel? That’s exactly what’s happening in my head when I can’t get a grip. It gets worsened the more people are in my presence. I can’t hide, my worst is about to come out. It can get a little hard to control, but I am controlling as much as I can. I may be a grown woman but I’m still a young woman. A young woman who spent her moments of suffering completely alone in her bedroom. Nobody saw her cry, they only heard her ripping her sheets off her bed and throwing pillows. And one time I broke a hairbrush, but let’s just say I dropped it, that’s what I told my mom anyway.  My bedroom: my first rage room. Alone. Safe.

I love my sister, and I don’t hate her for any of this: but she would tell on me when I was throwing things. I would then get scolded for my outburst, that was alone in my room, to me, who was I hurting? And why didn’t anyone ask why I was hurt? That didn’t help me feel like it was safe for me to express my emotions. I kept them bottled, like I know so many of you reading this still do. It was mortifying when they would come out in ways that hurt others. Always unexpected. But it’s something you now have to face. Who you are in the times of high emotions.

I guess what I am trying to say, is that humans, including myself, are much more complex than we appear to be. You only know those in your life so well. There are layers to people, as Shrek once reminded us, we are like onions. We all have stories and reasons that we are the way we are. While those things are useful information for understanding, they are just excuses without a change in development. You have to change when confronted with the information of your patterns and how they damage relationships. I’m no stranger to this, even when I know I’ve been deeply wounded by another. Both sides need to be heard, both sides need to apologize, both sides need to forgive. To forge a relationship again is another part of the process if you decide to pursue a better relationship after being presented with all of the information. You are allowed to forgive and let go.

Lately I’ve been dumped a lot of cases in my lap that I have to file through. Some cases I never wanted to examine, but alas, more work I don’t want to do. When am I going to stop being surprised that we don’t get to decide when we have to work on things? Judging from observing the adults ahead of me in life, I’ll never fully learn that.

So yeah, I’m not nice, because sometimes my anxiety takes over and makes me a raging bitch. One that knows she is and is trying to regulate but she needs a padded room, a baseball bat, and somebody’s head on a platter. Sorry too scary? A watermelon, yeah that’ll do. I’m tired of pretending that I’m so insane for feeling violent when filled with rage. Aren’t those two in a toxic relationship? It’s hard to get one without the other. I would love nothing more than to carry around a pop up sound proof room, a Xanax, and a tire iron everywhere with me just in case I need to have a meltdown. They are called meltdowns for a reason, ever had one? No? Well damn, how does it feel to be perfect?

I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way, because I’ve surrounded myself with women that are not scared to show their big feelings too. They own them, and they apologize when they need to. They commit to doing better, and being better, so they are. They slip up, and so do I. Now what the fuck are you going to do about it when you make a mistake too?