I’m Not Perfect

I don’t often write posts of a strictly personal nature but I need to get a few things off my chest. I’m not perfect.

I’m not a perfect writer – that’s why we have drafts and revisions and even then I find typos in my published works.

I’m not a perfect wife. My husband and I have a happy, devoted, loving marriage. And we fight, a lot. I cry a lot.

I’m not a perfect mother. I swear in front of my children, listen to music that isn’t exactly kid friendly, and lose my temper, a lot.

I’m not a perfect introvert. I love talking to people at trade shows and flea markets and street fairs. I like direct sales parties, and birthday parties, and BBQs – in small doses. But at the end of the day I need to sit with my writing or my knitting, and not deal with real people for a while. The longer the better. And most of the time I’d rather live in my own head.

I’m not even really a perfect ME. I’m scared of some of the things I think. I’m scared of some of the things I do. I’m forever second guessing my likes and interests.

I’m not a perfect person but this doesn’t make me a bad person. Or a bad mom. Or a bad writer. Or a bad wife.

I want to be better. I want to remember to do the housework without being nagged. I want to be better at talking to people I see everyday. I want to have more patience. I want to understand extroverts. I want to be better! But I’m stuck in a tough spot. I’m out of ideas on some issues. I don’t know what to do. But I’m also sick and tired of people foisting their opinions on me.

I won’t get into details because it was a misunderstanding, because I happen to like this person an awful lot even though we haven’t known each other very long, yet, and because, for better or worse, I tend to avoid conflict whenever possible BUT something happened. Someone thought I needed advice. Someone didn’t realize that I’ve heard most of it before, that I’m under A LOT of stress, and that under other circumstances I would have smiled and nodded and taken as a sign that they cared. Instead I cried. At work. And was SUPER embarrassed because of it.

Because introverts get embarrassed easily. And they can feel broken very easily. See, I’m not strong willed like my daughter. I’m no push over, don’t get me wrong, but afterwards I break. I carry a lot inside of me, a lot of pain and broken pieces and insecurities, and when someone scolds me or judges me I stick it inside with the rest and I smile and I carry on and at home I cry and I fight with my husband.

Maybe that’s not healthy. But I have a hard time being someone I’m not. This is who I am, this is how I cope, and I don’t know how to change. I think I’m holding very tightly to this way of being because it’s what I know because I reject advice left right and center when it’s about me.

When it’s about my kids I try everything and anything once. I still can’t get my daughter to stop drawing on the floors and walls and couches. I take all her crayons away, she takes the pen from her brother and draws on my couch. She will find a way to do it her way, to get the last word, the last deed, her own way. I don’t want to change her, I don’t want to break her, I want to teach her boundaries. I don’t want her arrested for painting on the school walls without permission. I don’t want her arrested for taking apart air compressors at gas stations or anything else she comes across.

I want to stop feeling broken and judged, more than anything else. I want to feel like a complete person again. I want to feel like me again. Instead I feel like a mask taped to a broken doll. As long as I smile and make small talk and laugh along with everyone else you won’t see the cracks and I can go home and hide in my TV shows and my music and my writing. I want to feel like a success for once. I don’t want to feel like a failure anymore, I don’t want to feel like my dreams are pointless. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of being yelled at. I’m so tired I’m ready to say FUCK IT and walk away. But I can’t. I can’t because I can’t afford it. Just like I can’t afford to take a sick day. And I can’t afford to stay up until midnight writing blog entries (but I do it anyways).

This didn’t go where I wanted it to but I’m going to leave it out here because I think it’s more honest than I intended. Maybe not as graceful or poetic, but certainly honest. And if people are going to see me different because of it, maybe it’s for the best. I don’t like pretending after all.



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