In scrolling through Instagram Stories the other night (confession: I have yet to film one or share pictures on there) one of a former blogger that I’ve met and still very much admire talked about positivity and authenticity. She made a point that got me thinking: of course there is a time and a place to be a positive because there is always something in life to enjoy and be thankful for but maybe we don’t acknowledge the hard shit sometimes or as much as we could/should.
I tend to be on the more positive side of things than not, I wouldn’t say I’m a cynical person but sometimes finding the bright side and being positive is hard and exhausting. Sometimes I want to just scream or cry and say “YES! THIS SUCKS AND IT IS HARD!” Sometimes I want to complain about a problem without automatically thinking to myself #firstworldproblem… and yes, sometimes I think to myself in hashtags. (Millennial, much? Although I’m actually not a true millennial. There are different versions and I’m one of the older ones. That’s a post for another day.)
So, here I go being authentic and telling you things that won’t show up in my Instagram feed or on my Facebook.
I love sweets. Specifically chocolate in the form of dark chocolate chips straight out of the bag, double stuffed Oreos, cookie cake with too much icing and hot fudge. Yes, I work out. Yes, I take supplements to make my body stronger but no, I do not cut out sugar as much as I should. I know it’s bad and I know it can cause cancer and a whole host of other problems but I love it and I eat it. This is not a problem but more a confession so that I don’t appear to be fake.
There are parts of my house that haven’t been cleaned by me since we moved in five years ago. I assume our cleaning lady does the baseboards that she can visibly see/reach from time to time but I have never done it.
We still have a few boxes in our basement, I think related to my stepdaughters that remain unpacked and sitting on a shelf.
When I went to the play with my dad this past weekend I wore my purple-grey wig. It doesn’t look overly real unlike the other wigs I have. I love it and don’t care that clearly it’s not my real hair color. I got a lot of stares. I heard one comment about how it was an interesting hair choice. I held my head high and enjoyed the play, the time with my dad but when I got home, after taking off the wig and seeing my bald head once again, I burst into tears. Horrible, ugly cry, body wrenching sobs. Cancer fucking sucks and is hard and people don’t help when they judge someone by their cover (or hair color) and you’re overwhelmed from managing side effects albeit small ones.
As much as I love to plan, I’m horrible about writing things IN MY PLANNER. I store everything in my brain which I’m sure is a waste of space and function. I’m Type A without always being Type A.
Ever since my mom passed away, I can rarely fall asleep without some sort of noise at night… not white noise, but Netflix, podcasts, music. I was able to break the habit for a short time but it came back. I know it’s not healthy for my mind, brain, body, etc., but if I don’t have noise, I wind up lying and staring at the ceiling while my thought swirl around and around.
I hate folding laundry and putting it away. Or rather, I don’t mind folding it but I don’t often put it all the way away. It drives my hubs crazy.
I am often waiting for the other shoe to drop. Once you’ve endured a shitty custody battle with mud-slung at you, a mom who had a really rare form of cancer and passed away within 70-ish days of finding out about it, a dad who had a heart attack in front of you, a recent and surprising cancer diagnosis all within the last five years, it’s really hard for me to just go with the flow and that all things are good/will be ok. I worry. More than I should. Waste of time? Yup. Totally. I’m aware. I’m working on it.
I eat cheese from the bag standing up and in front of the fridge. It’s a weird quirk. You’ll never see that on social media.