You know. You have to know. Because anyone who comes here is utterly misunderstood. Most of us are trying to just get through the day without being shunned to an island full of fellow misfits…even though it doesn’t sound all that bad. At least they won’t try to impose societal rules upon us. You must wear pants, and all the related cockamamie. Even though, that’s a really ridiculous yet important right for us, as women. Which is insane…that it was ever NOT okay for us to wear pants…and that there are still places, many places, in this world where women cannot wear pants.
I’m here as a spokesperson for the misnamed “Weirdos” today. For all the ones who have had ideas or aspirations and were told they were silly or strange or odd. That they were acting like children. That they needed to grow up. Get their bearings about them. Start making grown up decisions.
And for the past few months I’ve really tried. I’ve tried so hard to start a path toward a “proper” career. And that’s all fine and well, but the thing is, nothing pulls me. Nothing makes me feel passionate or thrilled or want to go off on full on tangents about how wonderfully amazing my thing is going to be.
And all the job postings out there are, like, Accountant, or, Data Analyst–which I pronounce all wrong, and apparently that’s inappropriate. And the careers for writers are so god awful if it isn’t what you want to do. Copywriting sounds just so arduous to someone like me. And some people love that. Some people get real into their careers, and that’s fantastic. But nothing does that for me. It’s part of why I’m still slinging liquor on year three at twenty-six-years-old. Because at the end of the day, at least I get to meet new people. At least it doesn’t get boring.
So, I’m stuck, in this troublesome rut that society pushed me into. I’m stuck here because I don’t fit in the little box. I don’t fit in the Stay At Home Mom box. I don’t fit in the Career Woman With A Family box. I don’t fit. I don’t fit. Which has always been my biggest flaw. That no matter where I go, what I do, who I know, I’m always this strange creature with just enough cleverness to not flounder terribly at the bottom of the social hierarchy sea. I’m fooling people into knowing what the hell I want from life, but really, I am utterly lost and confused and my head is filled with stories and odd creatures and odd timelines and if I truly spoke what was on my brain everyone would run away screaming that the dimpled one is a loon.
And then…this thing happened. I don’t know if it was Doctor Who that did it–the fact that Twelve, even though he’s old and wrinkled and gray, is still in there, after all. I don’t know if it was my cousin who patiently listens to me whine, or my Bostonian friend who reassuringly quiets my angst, but I realized, that I’m trying so hard to fit in that I’m losing who I am. “Be enough for you,” someone smart told me. “Try to be enough, just for you.” Something clicked.
I’m trying so damn hard to squeeze myself into this teensy little box of perfection that I have forgotten to do all the things that I love. I’ve forgotten that the only thing I’ve ever truly loved is writing. Pursue a Marketing degree? Sure, that looks spectacular on paper, but it looks a lot less happy when I can physically feel my soul being wrung out to dry. Veterinary Technician? Molly, you literally are still having PTSD flashbacks of the dog fight you had to break up. Not a good idea.
I’m fighting an invisible army, I feel. I love, and I mean love, the fight for women. I love strong women. I think every woman should be allowed to be strong. To be weak, if they want to be weak. To be whatever they want. To simply be. We are people, all of us, and we all deserve the same things. But I felt this push to be more, to do something huge. Don’t get me wrong, I still feel it, but what I’ve realized is that I have to put the work in. I have these big aspirations, but I can’t take a detour or a bypass to get there. I can’t achieve what I want by taking some other, seemingly simpler path. The things I want are extremely difficult to come by. They mean rejection. They mean getting beat up emotionally, which, in a lot of ways, is so much more intense than physically. And that’s something that terrifies me. That after everything, I’m going to learn that it’s all been for nothing. That everything I am and have worked toward is meaningless.
But I’ve got to try, right? Because not trying is so, so, so much worse.