two-ish years

One phrase rings true when I think back on the past two-ish years of my life: the first line of Charles Bukowski’s grim memoir “Post Office” - it began as a mistake.

And then - well, it grew to be a series of mistakes. And - well, giving credit where credit’s due, I existed for two-ish years cruising through a remarkably solid trend of monumental fuck-ups. I fucked up my marriage, and then I fucked up dating. I fucked up one job, and then I fucked up my next one. I fucked up my self image several times along the way. And then I peppered my bigger fuck-ups with less significant fuck-ups just - y’know - to spice things up a little. And by “a little,” I mean “a lot.”

One thing is certain, though: I am so, so glad I did.

Por que why? Because, through my own shambolic, idiotic, more-often-than-not downright stupid actions, I became a better person - or, at least, someone who stopped simpering and pointing the finger as soon as shit hit the fan. I started to take full credit for the full range of my mistakes: from the mindless mishaps of someone with a bad case of foot-in-mouth syndrome, to the genuinely obtuse ethical decisions. 

So -

Let's start from the beginning.

It truly did begin with a mistake. This story begins with me choosing - to blatantly misquote my least favorite poet - the path that ought to be less travelled for 21-year-old college students: marriage over grad school. A marriage that yanked me 6000 miles away from home, at that. 

Through rose-tinted glasses, it was perfect. In retrospect, it was pure stupidity.

And - well, the fact is, I overlooked this because, for the first time in my life, I had a chance at something Normal-with-a-capital-N. I had a Good-Man-capital-G-M in my life, and I wanted that. I had always wanted an Out, and my own confidence in my ability to climb the Career Ladder was tempered by the fact I saw, very clearly, that I was a Poor Kid with a Vague Notion that I kind of wanted to just Write For A Living - and, wompitty womp, I had no idea how to make that happen.

I also just really liked being in love. That's all there is to it.

If we fast-forward here - four years, to be precise - it's to me-slash-us living the best life a millennial-slash-pair-of-millennials could ask for. It was, essentially, boomer life for the millennial era: no significant financial burdens, a relatively happy marriage, a cushy job. It was Christmas cards sent out on excellent cardstock at no relatively extravagant expense.

It was also - I now see - an excellent foundation for a burgeoning freelance career, but any and all creative gusto I’d once had began to wane until, eventually, it evaporated altogether. In the interim, I lived three relatively painless years as the wife of someone who meant something, came home to a bottle of wine every night, and ultimately had everything I had never had the luxury of having as a kid.

With no kids, might I add.

The love portion, on the other hand, is hazy. Love potions don't exist. And there is no fertilizer that can bring dwindling plumes back to life.

So the marriage went kaput. There are a few reasons for this, but ultimately: I aimed the Roundup in the right direction. In a few senses.

And so - after the marriage went semi-mega-bing-bam-boom-bye-bye, I became a very odd person. 

It was an odd situation to begin with, obviously. I was an odd person in a strange world. It got even stranger as I jerked my way through life in the middle of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere without a car, attempting to date for the first time in eight years in what can only be discribed as a small-town cesspool in which the male:female ratio is 7:3 - at a push.

The solution? Move somewhere you've never been before. You've done it before, you can do it again.

And, by all means, this seemed like a cool plan - until I unwittingly moved to the hottest, least walkable city in America. Without a car. Without any idea what to do or where to go or who anybody was.

Case in point: I walked into Twin Peaks, day one, and got hired.

Case in point: I showed up to work a job - the aforementioned job - that I detested so viscerally that it sent me into a spiral of depression so dark that drinking my way out was the only viable solution.

Case in point: I saw men as expendable objects.

Case in point: I hurt a good person because she was the only person who I saw real kindness from. 

All these things were fuck-ups.

But.

Also.

The thought process was always the same: I was putting myself in uncomfortable situations, deliberately, because - as every parent sings to their child when they squirm before unfamiliar green foods - you don't know if you'll like it until you've tried it.

With my glasses off - however roseate they were, or if they were a blind person’s opaque glasses, or if they were long-sighted/short-sighted/whatever-the-American-phrase-is-for-that - it is with true clarity that I now see that I was putting myself in situations I had not experienced, nor had ever foreseen myself experiencing, For A Reason.

I don’t have the foresight, or the religious inclination, to work out what that Reason was. But I do know that I have to go back to the roots that I ran so vehemently away from, because they’re the seed from which I started from, was sent from, and ultimately gave me the confidence to blossom from - and I have to thank them.

So, um -

Very obviously: thanks, Mum and Dad - for having good enough genetics to opt me out of the expansive club of well-versed-in-optometry members of society.

And while we’re at it - thanks, Mum and Dad, for telling me I ought to send myself away in the first place, and then supporting me the second time.

See also: thanks, Mum and Dad for teaching me that don't know if you'll like a thing until you've tried it.

But -

No thanks to: Mum and Dad for teaching me how to live in modern America.

But it's not their fault.

It's mine. Entirely mine.

My takeaway from all of the above? It's better to fuck up and learn from it than to live life teetering around the edge of things before you do them. It's better to recognize that you fucked up than to ignore it and be self-righteous enough to keep playing along with yourself. And, most importantly, it's best to live your adult lives as children do: fall down, and then get back up. Cry, and then stop crying. Say you hate the vegetables, and then learn to like them.

One lesson rings true from Mum, and from Dad, and for the weird military life that I sort-of participated in for a bit -

Bloom you're planted. Because plants don't know where they drop their pollen and which bee is going to do plant-sex with whichever other bee - but either way, it works. It still gets done, and it’s still a beautiful, fruitful thing. We still eat the fruits. We still eat the vegetables.

And, clearly: I don't know a damn thing about biology. 

But -

All of this is a mistake, my friends, but what you do with it is what matters. 

Don’t don't be afraid to fuck up.

Just see it for what it is if you do. Eat it up.

And then? Send it. Create a story out of it. Carve it into a narrative, something that festoons into something you can leave behind. Peek at it occasionally to remind yourself of where you've come from. And then turn over a new leaf, and grow.

You don't get two chances at life. You get one. So make it your own.