The day I met myself for the first time.

I set out to write this blog as a tribute to my vivacious, precocious, energetic, talkative, thoughtful, caring, fearless, lover of bugs, and all things pink and artistic daughter.
I found myself wanting to give back story. My childhood. My marriage. My pregnancy experience. My childbirth experience.
Quickly, I lost focus. This isn't the road I had intended to travel tonight, but I am now just a little too open not to write. If I don't, I will lay in bed thinking of everything I want to say until I get up and get it all out.
Everyone has a story about the emotional journey they've taken in their lives. For me, most of that journey centers around the women in my life. While there isn't a real beginning, for me, there was definitely a moment when I became myself for the first time in my life. For me, finding my inner strength, and confidence and the ability to love myself was something that eluded me for most of my life.
There was one moment. One night. One person woke me up and shook me and made me live.

All my life, I was afraid. As a child, I was scared of everything. I didn't like strangers. I was paralyzingly scared of insects, particularly spiders. I was scared of the dark. I was terrified of and hated being alone. Even as an adult, I would run from the doorway of my bedroom and jump into my bed and pull my feet up because I was sure that something was going to jump out from under my bed, or from a shadowy corner and the end of my life would be something worthy of a horror movie.
 As a young woman, I wasn't very mature, I was blindingly angry, I was devastatingly sad, I was bitterly disappointed. And I had no idea how to feel those things, or why I had to feel them so intensely and constantly. There was and sometimes still isn't a middle.
I feel lucky now, to be able to feel something so deeply; because I understand that it's a gift, this intense passion. When you're young, it is more of a curse. It's all consuming, terrifying and hopeless.
I remember, in middle school, I had written something and showed it to a friend. She told me that it was scary. She didn't like it, understand it; and I felt different. When you're in the 7th grade, the last thing you want to feel is different. So I wrote in secret, and it was dark. It was scary. It was angry. It was graphic. I don't know where it came from; because I wasn't angry then. But, when I'd sit and think of a story, it seemed to be pretty twisted when I was done writing and looked down at the paper.
If teenage angst was an art, I perfected it. While the purple bangs, and black nail polish, and combat boots didn't make it out of high school, the unfaltering knowledge that I wasn't like everyone else stayed with me. I was ashamed, and tried out so many different versions of myself to try to fit in with someone; but nothing seemed to stick.
I forged ahead with a career, then abruptly gave it up to get married and move across the country. Despite falling in love and getting married, not a lot changed inside. I discovered new depths to my disappointment and anger and added resentment to the list of reasons to
try. not. to feel anything.
Having my daughter wasn't planned. I was never the kid that wanted to babysit; I never had baby fever; I didn't enjoy being in public places with other people's children. When you are angry and resentful, you exist in a miserable place of judgement and disdain for others. Other people's happiness is a source of ridicule and disgust. The pure innocence and joy of a child was lost on me. It was an annoyance. It was an awful way to live. All I ever did was compare my life to other lives, and it never seemed to be as good. I never felt like I had control over my emotions, or my life at all. Being a military wife, where my life was never a priority by default, didn't do anything but exacerbate the feeling of worthlessness, especially when you add deployments and their effects to the mix.
When my daughter was born, I remember the feeling of sheer terror that I had the first night in the hospital. I just knew I would be charged with murder because they were leaving me alone with her in the hospital over night and I was supposed to keep her alive with nothing but myself. Literally, with just me, I had to feed her, and hold her, and comfort her. I have never been before or after that night, more scared of anything in my entire life than when my husband left that room.
That is the moment when my entire life changed. It was the worst and best night of my life. I didn't sleep. She cried constantly, and she would sleep for only fractions of an hour at a time. I was more exhausted than I'd ever been, even though I'd been able to stay awake for days on end just a few years before this. Never in my life did I have to think and act exclusively for someone else. I was silently frantic. Inside, I was screaming  and gave up over and over and over. I just kept thinking, "I don't know what to do! How could anyone think I could do this? I CAN'T DO THIS!" I would sit, and when she wouldn't eat or need to be changed, I would rock her; hoping that it would quiet her. I cried the whole night. I'd never been so helpless and also so determined at the same time. Every piece of me was telling me that I had no idea what I was doing. Every thought I had was telling me how I'd be a horrible mother. I just knew I wasn't going to be able to make it through the night.
But, we made it. She lived through the night, and so did I.
I haven't been the same person since. She saved me that night. She saved me from a reckless and tragic and empty life.
Before I had my daughter I was hollow, unfulfilled, purposeless. Before I had my daughter, I was afraid of the dark. But, that first night in the hospital; we sat in the dark together. And I haven't been afraid of it since. I am strong: for her, because of her. I may have kept her alive, but it was my life that was saved that night.

The Why

I am more comfortable talking about my most personal fears and thoughts, and desires and dreams on my blog, with it's false sense of anonymity, than with anyone I actually know. Sure, people I know will read it. But then, they can choose to have the conversation or not. There's no awkwardness where I say something, and they are visibly and expectedly uncomfortable. There's no face-to-face, urgent, penetrating moment where I have to wonder if that person gets me, like really and truly,  that what I'm saying. is. Resonating. There aren't any obligatory nods or hollow words of encouragement and reassurance or insincere attempt at empathy.
I don't like to see the eyes as they strain and falter to find something relevant and meaningful to say. 
Maybe that's just me. 
 There are some that feel we are all connected and that makes us never alone. Then there are some that are painfully aware of the tragic and painful yet equally beautiful and necessary space between us all. Yet, there is still the hope in us all that we aren't the only ones. 
This is why I write. There is a space inside that is empty and wrenching and painful when I don't. There are endless questions and paradoxes and even, sometimes peaceful and quiet observations inside and they all refuse to be stacked neatly in the corners of my mind while I trudge on through my daily life. They, like me, will not be shushed. 
For someone who is really always talking, there is so much I can never seem to say. I just fill space, usually insignificantly; having conversations without real consequence is protective and safe.
I like to pretend that what I'm saying has some meaning, I'm sure we all do. The truth is, most of who I really am. What I really feel. Is hidden quite deep.
There is a spectacularly dark place we all go, and probably also try very hard to ignore.
The Why place.
When you start to question things, a sense of restlessness appears, quietly at first, nagging and tugging until it fully unsettles you. and satisfaction and contentedness become just....Out of reach.
In their place; however, a new thing forms. For me, it was just that thought.....the thought that, without the Why, I would disappear into a desolate void of normalcy. I much prefer to embrace the darker, uncertain, uncomfortable, artistic side of things than to try to swallow all the "normal". We've created an empty and awful place where conformity is fois gras: ideal body image and socially acceptable gender roles and behavior, what products to buy, even unrealistic parenting standards are shoved down our throats;
but I'm not even a duck.
I have this moment here, where I can scream out something and no one turns their heads and thinks I'm crazy. I can say that I won't be shushed, or that I can't be the only person in the world who is never not lonely, or perhaps write paragraphs about how much I love thunderstorms, how all of the seasons are my favorite, but only the beginnings of them because it's new and exciting, or how I think Frank Sinatra is the best way to start every single day. 
Sometimes, writing for me is the equivalent of a two year old throwing themselves onto the floor and screaming and crying in frustration that they aren't quite understood. Sometimes, though, it's a way to capture the stillness of that perfect content moment when you notice how gently the wind coaxes the leaves of the tree outside your window to dance and play on a perfect, crisp fall morning. Sometimes, it's a reminder not to forget to look out that window. 

This Is Why I Write. Because if I didn't, I would suffocate and die trying to swallow all the disgusting things I'm fed about who I should be, how I should act, what I should look like, dress like, when to cry, and when and how to be angry. I would suffocate on the empty illusion of success and happiness. 
I choose to learn to breathe. I choose to not be a duck. I choose the Why. I choose to look out the window. 
Maybe one day, we can sit and talk about it. I won't ask. 
I only invite you to read and hopefully, I make you very uneasy. Hopefully, sometimes too, you're nodding and smiling and occasionally you'll look off and think "Yes!" But, I don't have to sit and stare at you waiting and hoping for that moment. 

I do so hope you enjoy my journey......not being a duck and looking out the window and breathing and having tantrums with me. And If not, we don't ever have to talk about it.

The first inspiration

Today, I was....shushed. No librarians were present, holding their fingers to their lips; nor am I an elementary school student. But, today; I was quieted. Or, as is more accurate, strongly encouraged to be more quiet. To choose my battles. To not be so......opinionated.

It's a shame, really.

My daughter has a behavior color chart in her first grade class. They start in the green, and then can earn a purple by exhibiting some subjective and undefined excellent behavior throughout the day. Or, more likely (and quite frequently for my daughter), move to yellow, orange and (insert ominous music) red. My daughter is often in the red zone. She doesn't bite the other children. She doesn't hit them, or even call them names. In fact, two days ago, she showed another boy how to tie his shoes. Whatever could she be doing that keeps her from being a positive example for other children? The answer is simple.

She Talks.

A lot.

She is bright, kind, and energetic. But she "talks too much". Unfortunately for her, so does her mother. And, while I do try to impress upon her how important it is for her, and others, to accomplish their assignments; I am secretly proud. Maybe, she knows this. Maybe, despite the fact that I only have rewards on her chore chart at home for yellow, green and purple days; maybe she knows that I kiss her every night and am thankful each time that I have a daughter that Never. Stops. Using. Her Voice.

As a woman, as a girl; we are often taught to be seen and not heard. It might not be a direct statement; but it's embedded in our culture. I saw a video today, and I've seen it before on Facebook. It's about women "staying in their lane" with relationships with men. The man clearly has all of the worth and power in the video, explaining why the women aren't good enough to warrant his respect and time. The women are even pleading to be more valuable to the man in the video.

It's easy to watch it and find the humor. But at what expense? Why are we, as women, always selling ourselves short. Why do we always feel like we have to ask for what we want? And why would we ever, ever, find humor in something that undermines and debases us? Is it a lack of solidarity? It's so easy to judge and say that another woman isn't on our level.

It sounds so simple; but it isn't.

Being a woman in the modern world is confusing enough, but being a woman in the business world is even more complex. Confidence is arrogance, assertiveness is bitchiness, being passionate is being overly emotional, and emotion is most certainly weakness.

This is my journey to make a difference; for myself; for my talkative, beautiful, creative, passionate, vivacious daughter and all the other women who wondering......how can I master the art of being an "opinionated woman"?

I too, am wondering. To not being shushed......