Accepting Our Faults

I remember when I was unhappy.

I have been a victim of depression and anxiety for as long as I have been an adult -even before that, really – and for that, no one is to blame. A chemical imbalance in my brain is nothing I can say was planned by someone else or an intentional conception or my fault.

But, I can remember a time when I was truly unhappy simply because I chose to be. Sometimes we can get so deep into self-loathing that being mean to others and spreading that unhappiness starts to feel good somehow. These feelings probably have a little bit to do with depression – and a whole lot more to do with selfishness.

Continue reading “Accepting Our Faults”

When Bad Things Happen to Good Mugs

I had great intentions.
I was almost in dreamland last night when I realized I had forgotten to put the wet laundry into the dryer. Sometimes if it stays overnight in the washer, it can smell musty, so I rushed downstairs – miraculously avoiding the sleeping dog on the floor by my bed and switched the clothes over to the dryer.
Mission accomplished, right?
Nope. I thought I would be a baller and tidy up the recroom a bit.
Secretly, I just wanted to bring the mug I had been using upstairs so I could use it for coffee or tea in the morning.
My favourite mug, I might add.
It was my favourite for a few reasons.
It was huge and pretty.
It was also thick and wide brimmed.
It was also free. I won it at a wedding shower last year.
Just look at ‘er:
 PicMonkey Photo
 
She is beautiful.
I am pretty sure she’ll fit a good 8 oz and that makes her all the more glorious.
I ran with Mug upstairs and noticed the counter had a dirty butter knife on it and decided to put that in the dishwasher as well.
Unsurprisingly, in my midnight stupor, I swiped the butter knife onto the floor with one hand, holding Mug in the other.
With a clang, the knife flew off the counter and onto the ceramic tile.
Not thinking, I let go of Mug.
Ceramic tile be damned.
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She’s even beautiful while she sleeps eternally.
I don’t know where Mug is from.
It could be a dollar store mug, or a fancy mug from the Fancy Mug store.
Either way, her value was not on the amount she cost, or even the liquid gold she held for my consumption.
I just really liked her, dammit.
She was just one thing – ONE THING – that I looked forward to in my morning routine.
Sometimes we sipped and read the news on the deck while the little played in the backyard.
Once or twice she came on our walks to the mailbox – or even on a short car ride.
There was a time when I thought Mug was lost.
Turns out Husband was quite fond of her too – but he was irresponsible and left her in his work truck amongst some dirty tools.
He never used her again.
So there she goes. Ready for the recycling box of broken glass.
She will fit in well with the beautiful mercury glass candle stick Toddler broke just after Christmas.
Did I mention I had good intentions at the time?
I was going to clean her up and we were going to have another day together.
Yeah sure, she was abused and used as much as I wanted, but I never meant to hurt her.
Sometimes it happens when we mean to do good things – at least we think they are good. We have done them all along, even though they are a bit self-serving.
We may have this thing that we love, we almost take for granted, get a little reckless and then it all comes crashing down.
Mug is broken and can not be repaired.
I have done this exact same thing figuratively so many times.
I have had great intentions, lovely things – and I either drop them or throw them away.
Relationships, friendships, bonds of trust and even my own personal virtues.
I have broken many.
All too often they are broken beyond repair.
Of course, we could slap some glue and tape on Mug and she might hold out for a day, or give one last offering – but the damage has been done.
I am sure I will find a replacement somewhere.
Maybe it will be a blue one and we will forget about the accident.
My wine glasses are currently throwing me shade glances from their perch in the curio cabinet.
Fuck them.
Sometimes all they hold are bitter tastes and headaches.
They have their place, but it is not today.
Today –
I am Mug.
Love Yourself and Love the Things You Love Because You Can,
Allison

 

Why Waking Up?

I was telling my husband about the idea of this blog a while ago and I told him what I wanted to name it. He said “Waking up 30? But you are 32 – what does that mean?”

I find it a bit difficult to describe what Waking Up Thirty means to me without absolutely blowing your minds with dullness, so I will try to be as clear with as few words as possible.

There is a legend that says that a woman awakens on her 30th birthday. She is more sexually aware, self-aware, worldly, her true self, blah blah blah.

Well, what-the-hell?

I feel like 30 was probably the least favourite of my years, even 31 was not that great. Yes, I had a lot of wonderful life events going on –  we had a baby, moved – fun things happened… but I wasn’t fully there. (I did/do have some health issues that caused some problems. They are getting better, so let’s just leave that there.)

I just didn’t feel fully connected. I had really felt grounded and awake in my late 20’s when I was focusing on myself – getting healthy and being a bad-ass-bitch all around.

IT WAS GLORIOUS.

Then 30 came and went. Pregnant as fawk.

Then 31 came and went. Post-part-em bullshit.

Then 32 came and I was like,

“WAKE UP 30! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? YOU’RE LATE.”




I have slowly been poking that Dirty Decade in the ribs for the past few months. It isn’t easy. I have almost forgotten some of things I once loved. No wonder 30 didn’t want to come out to play. I was boring.

I think women are often bombarded with feelings that once your 20’s are behind you, it is time to shut up, sit down and eat the pasture grass. Beautiful and talented actresses get less leading roles in movies. Models basically retire. Working women often have to make the decision to either have children or keep their high-demand jobs.Generally we are told that our fun days are over.

I ain’t down with that.

I have come to realize that passions don’t just die with age. You can be in your 30’s and still learn. You can still discover something new within yourself, or you can ignite old flames.

So, I said – always the rebel – that I am going to do what I WANT. Screw society’s ideals. Screw the notions that 30 is a downhill ride in the back of a semi.

I started painting again. I started playing music again. I started letting go of my reservations that make me feel like I can’t accomplish something I have a passion for.

I started waking myself up.

I started a blog too.

I am learning new things:

  • How to keep my mind in tact while being a stay at home mom. (My kids are relatively easy, it is the day in and day out that drives me off the edge.)
  • How to make time for myself even when the guilt tells me not to.
  • How to love fully and not be resentful for the things I lack.

I don’t have it all together. I have none of my shit in the same wheelbarrow. I make rash decisions – like buying chickens when we have no mother-effin clue how to raise those. I paint over perfectly good paintings because even though I liked them yesterday, I didn’t like them today.

I am working on my patience, honesty and judgmental tendencies.

I am working on it. I am working on everything. I am a work in progress.

I don’t want to be satisfied with just being. I want to learn and I want to grow daily. and the only way I know how to do that is with practice and time.

I have eight more years with this 30 thing. I call it the Dirty Decade because I like playing with words and I feel like the 30’s can be such a time of self-reflection for so many… and that self-reflection can be freakin’ terrible.

Here is to laying it out, not letting any fear of failure take away my passion and just keeping it real.

Love yourself,

Allison