Beautiful Where You Are Broken

Yes, yes. Bitches be crazy. That’s what we are told everyday. By the fluff pieces of ambling DNA that are easily shrugged off, but also by the ones that are supposed to love us. 

I wasn’t called crazy. I personally was called ‘terminally neurotic’ and I’m sure I was supposed to laugh that one off, too. Hi-sodding-larious. 

You know us silly, crazy girls with our silly, crazy lady brains. Always not behaving. 

But, as our ancestral not-behaving women might have said, after pricking their fingers while doing the expected mending of their husband’s garments…

Fuck. This. Shirt. 

(See that? My unstable girl brain making a feeble little pun. I should stop. We all got the memo that women aren’t funny. )

But guess what? We are funny. You put four fantastic women in a room, like the one I was privileged to sit in last night, and you will laugh your ass into next Thursday. 

Are we crazy? Sure. Are we Amy crazier than the four ex-husbands and various other ex-somethings that were mulled over? Not possible. 

The fact that we were there in a business capacity, for real and invigorating project work, and not just to bitch about lousy men is heart-warming. Because I had more support around that table last night as a friend, as a mother, as a hopeful sexual being, as an artist, as a human than I have had in a long, long time. 

That’s not how we’re expected to comport our female selves, is it? Aren’t we all supposed to be competing for the same men? Three of us are auditioning for the same acting role this weekend. Shouldn’t we be contaminating each other’s wine glasses with strept bacteria and dysentery?

  
(Although I was handed a suspicious tea bag sometime during the night…)

The point here is that I am so proud to be included in such an amazing group of women. Where we can talk about kids that smell like Guinea pigs and a vagina that looks like a stegosaurus. 

But then we also talked about production resources and story structure and business plans and creative directions. And it was god damn beautiful. 

Fate and its minions have knocked me around a bit lately. I’ve had to gather every one of my own resources to keep my head up and then somehow put one foot in front of the other. Some of the knocking was deserved and my fault and I’ll own. Some of the knocks were certainly not. With help, I’ve been able to tease out what is illness and what is plain assholery. 

And it’s a gift of no small measure to have someone look you in the eye and say, “Yes. You are going home alone. But you aren’t alone. You have a hand to hold and a sounding board for your crazy lady ideas. Yes. You are fucked up. We all are. But you are worth the trouble. When you speak. When you write. When you love. Don’t stop fighting for who you are and what you want. Don’t let anyone make you small. Be big in thought and presence and wants.  Take up lots of mental and corporeal cellular space. Keep being brave. And keep being awesome. ”

I haven’t been happy in a while. Not really been sad. Been numb. And that’s still a thudding implant in my brain.  Requires some smacking and rubbing to be sure all the parts are still there. (Spoiler: the are. I just have to remember where I hid when for their own protection.)

And I wasn’t happy driving home after the meeting last night. Bonkers. I should have been manic-level elated. No.  Still kinda sad. But this morning, I was inspired. And hopeful. And feeling like there was a hand to grab me if I reached out into the scary dark. 

Love you girls. You beautiful broken girls who shine where you’ve bound yourselves back together. You make me want to celebrate my own broken and risk another rent in my facade for the chance to gleam. 

Time to go to work. 

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