Day… 10 of Forty Days On Being A Seven (I actually forgot I was doing this for a while). And it’s about… becoming.
Gideon talks about how he was expected to be different, “like most Sevens, my process of becoming didn’t fit”.
And a… different way of being born again.
Imagine you are being birthed right now. What are you being born out of?
(What boxes and expectations are you shedding?)
and
What are you being born into?
(What expansive spaces can you now occupy?)
and
What does it look like to more fully express who you are in this world?
I’m typing it all out here because I’m about to leave in a few minutes. Gideon says to take a walk, if possible, so I guess I’ll carry these questions with me a while.
Funny, I just saw a Doctor Who snippet, of… 15 telling his story. “I’m born. I die. I’m born.”
Guess that’s the theme for today!
I’m thinking of… reinvention. transformation. A little more Madonna and butterflies and Sabrina Carpenter (that point when she became the Sabrina Carpenter with the look that’s recognisible) and less Jesus Christ.
I’m also thinking of moving out, becoming an adult, and of weddings and marriage. The latter because I’ve been roped into a wedding prep party, not because I’m the one planning for a wedding (thank heavens, because that’s a whole other issue).
The box that I’m leaving behind…
I’ve been, slowly, bringing clothes and things from home with my parents to home with Jarrod. It was, at first, something fun. For a stay over, for a few weeks, for almost a month.
Then yesterday, as I was packing another set of bags to bring over, I hit the tipping point — I was going to have more things at Jarrod’s, the essential things, than I had at my parents’.
I’m starting to move in. Which means I was moving out.
And that felt… sad.
I got home to Jarrod’s and was odd for a while. Jarrod noticed, of course. But I’m always off after a visit or a call with my parents, so we both put it down to time, and a need to recover, and maybe a yap from me to him later.
When we went to bed, I realised I was grieving. Moving out also meant that I’m, for the first time, outside of my parents’ home, and I was on my own, no longer a child. I’ve become an adult, with all the responsibility of one. And I have no clue if I’m doing anything right.
Like, I had to choose if I wanted to spend $1,040 on six months of dance classes that evening. It’s a lot of money, I’m not sure if it’s the best/right thing to do, and whether I’ll come to regret it, and whether I’ll be able to keep up with my finances later. Nothing is ever clear when it comes to being an adult, and all the safety features and blinders and guides and boundaries are gone.
I know everyone is just winging it, being an adult. How come no one said everyone’s winging it terrified??
Because are y’all going through all this uncertainty perfectly fine??
…
I’ve been here before. I’ve been through uncertainty before. It’s scary, and that’s alright. Do it scared, babygirl. Do it scared.
…
Today Jarrod gently asked what was wrong. All I said was “I’m sad” and “moving out”, and he understood. “It’s okay to grieve,” he told me. When I mentioned becoming an adult is scary, he added, “We do this together. You’re not alone.”
Whatever / Whoever that decided I’d get Jarrod as my boyfriend / partner, thank you. (Thank you Divinity.)
…
So.
The box that I’m leaving behind is the one where my parents were my boundaries, and my safety net.
It’s the one in which I am a child, with little say in what happens in my environment, and what I can do.
I’m also going to leave the boxes that say I’m probably a terrible person when it comes to my work. Because I’ve done a book for a client. It has gone to the top of the bestseller list for weeks. And I’ve sold my clients’ homes, and helped them buy their next place. (Especially now when I’ve realised that my first solo client, a really old man who just wanted the money, decided to [1] pay no attention to my advice to buy another home, one with an extra bedroom he could rent out, ensuring an income for the rest of his life, and [2] went on four holidays in the space of a few months, and splurged his cash. My guilt is over, because I can’t fight/go against someone else’s decision to play they way he’s played with his life.)
There’s more to say, but this is gonna be a long blog post, and I’m… tired? I want to work on other things for the moment.
detour: the wedding is over!
Not my wedding. A friends’ wedding. I got roped in at the very end and I’m still exhausted.
I was so tired and spent and on edge that I cried that night, and Jarrod had to go into overdrive (he was already tired and battling gout) and bundle me up into a blanket burrito.
It’s been… three days? Four. And I’m only just starting to recover. My social battery is probably at 2%, energy battery at 25%, and I’m on a three-day course for my real estate / ghost writing business. (It’s an asset progression course, and the trainer is also my upline, and she’s thinking of a book, so I’m here typing my brain to smithereens. Am so tired of having to transcribe and understand and be friendly…)
I had to blanket burrito myself, and Jarrod came home one day wondering why I hadn’t replied, and found me asleep in bed, no interest even in McDonald’s and bubble tea…
I still want blanket burritos. Gavin my Palm Pet goose is actually out of my bag, and it’s an indication of how much I’m just trying to self-soothe.
Why am I so disregulated?
Well, I just spent… a week? going out, meeting people, draining social battery in exchange for social meter. I had my period the same time, and that’s tiring as well.
Sleeping at 3 am the night before the wedding (we were setting up the place at 10:30 pm, and then when we got home it was eat, stone, shower, then finally sleep) and waking up at 5 am the next day for the wedding… smiling, welcoming, dancing with the crew and the guests, trying to be light for the people around me so everyone was comfortable…
I was already spent, and then I had to evade one over-zealously friendly guest, then there was the wedding (with wedding reactions) and the people to keep things light with…
I’m glad to be able to experience the wedding, and I thanked Jarrod for not wanting any of it.
Weddings are exhausting.
All the people, all the planning, all the setting up, just for a few hours of strangers forced together to eat and mingle, the couple just popping between tables and food, and I’m just… sick of it.
Too many people, too many moving parts.
Everybody get away!
I’m also triggered, really. Over-zealous guest just wanted to dance. But his insistent unwanted attention had my emotions raised, and because I was already supressing how tired I was, I suppressed that triggered reaction too. All I knew was that I kept looking for Jarrod, and being extremely physically close, and now I realise I was looking for some form of safety. I was freaking out, and I didn’t know, couldn’t show, and all I could do was cry at the end of the night.
It took me a while before I had enough energy to give myself that space and safety. Realised that I would never feel safe looking for it outside, and I had to create space inside, within myself.
As for the wedding, and all the thoughts that come out of it, I’m leaning to the idea that I don’t need all the pomp and fuss and pagentry. No music playlists and walk-in rehearsals. No trying to fight or argue or negotiate with decorators and wedding venues and caterers.
I just need me and my baby, and according to him we have to have a solemniser and we have some vows read out, then a nom with… people, as expected by friends and family. And that’s it!
I’m leaning to the side that says a wedding is just you two. Maybe it’s the handfasting ceremonies I’ve read about, maybe it’s the realisation that a relationship is just to people and no one else.. But to make it official there are things to do and people to have. And I guess there’s the bit where you want to celebrate your love with the ones you love. I guess.
Definitely don’t want any of my guests to plan to organise or handle anything though. Just come, eat, have a little fun. Bring people you like to spend time with, if you don’t get to spend time with us…
what’s the “box” i’m going into?
Don’t like boxes, don’t like limitations, but everyone has a definition and an adjective, and when you’re something you’re instantly not the opposite.
So, for now, temporarily while it lasts, I am…
Free to define myself any way I want? I don’t have to carry the stories that I’ve carried, I think, is the message of this reflection, but what stories to I pick up to start writing?
Writer, obviously. That’s what I’m doing at this very moment. Realtor, because somehow that’s part of my life somehow. Ghost writer, for my clients, while that runs.
I’m moving to the section that’s titled “Wife”, probably with a chapter called “Fiancee” right before that.
I… adult? In charge, as in responsible, as in I have the right to make nice or mess up my life?
I went to therapy today. Just the very first session. Talked about my history, gave her an idea of what I think my problems are, set a few goals. She asked if I had a little soft toy with me, and I pulled out Gavin my emotional support Palm Pet — everyone thinks he’s a duck, when he’s actually a goose, but I forget and think he’s a duck too.
She said to run or jump or have Gavin out, because I’m regulting myself, and to stop thinking about what’s normal, and telling myself that I’m not.
Seems like I have expectations of myself, even when I think I don’t.
I might not have goals, per se. But I do seem to have expectations of behaviour when I’m in social situations. (Hmm where would that have come from? Perhap my mother?)
So I’m in Coffee Bean, typing away happily, with my pasta and a double-drink cup (limited edition), Gavin out beside me. My ears are plugged with the earbuds Jarrod gave me, and I’m making faces and swaying while this post is leaving my fingers.
And honestly, who cares? So long as I’m not suicidal, and not out to murder people, who gives a –?
Ain’t no harm done, do what ye will, right?
So what, given the entire Earth and my time I have on it here, do I want to do?
What box would I like to step into? On what stage?
Dancer, I forgot dancer. I might not sing or act, but I have dance classes now, and competitions, apparently, in the future to sign up to.
What expansive spaces can you now occupy?
I’d like to be good at what I do. (Okay, pick one.) Everything.
Does it matter? I’d like to be good at what I do, whatever I am doing, whenever.
Whether I’m typing now, for myself, or typing at Jarrod’s website or doing his Tiktoks, typing up my client’s book, or figuring out my client’s *cough* asset progression *cough* journey.
I wanna be good as a, ahem, wife (squeal, panic squeal) when I’m with Jarrod, I guess when that time comes. Now I just have to be a good girlfriend…
A good person.
I wanna be good at being a person, not an adult child reacting to the world.
I wanna be good at whatever it is I’m paying attention to.
Does it have to be a box? Like, wife, daughter, writer, realtor, dancer, then you realise you forgot something? And feel stupid for not being able to juggle everything at once?
I wanna be good. Blanket… ban, burrito, layer. Blanket statement. I wanna be good at.
I wanna be good at being kind to myself and doing what I wanna do without considering judgements, because I might as well be all out with this.
No one’s living my life except me.
So my rules, my standards, my judgements. The person who thinks I’m passing or failing is me.
What does it look like to more fully express who you are in this world?
Last question.
It looks a lot like what I’m doing right now.
I got food and drink and music and self-expression. I got Gavin, and I know wherever Jarrod is (Orchard, I think), we’ll come back together soon, and for the moment, for the day, my life/attention/time is mine to chase/spend/fill.
And I get to choose that.
That’s why I’ve never done the 9 to 5 life.
(And Adele is singing “stop trying to be somebody else“.)
It looks like me trying. Learning. Feeling free to be new and curious and… young.
I am young. For goodness sake.
I have a soft toy. I like pink. I’m wearing a dress. I don’t really know how to do make up. More importantly, I have so many more years ahead of me for life worth living.
Seriously, I’ve been through some absolutely terrible things and some tough times and I’m still… Gavin. Bright-eyed, white fur, yellow happy, one arm raised to say “hi”.
Still soft and fluffy and that’s as much a strength as getting grumpy and closed off and in self-imposed social exile.
Maybe what this looks like is me accepting that I’m myself, the way Jarrod just accepts me as I am. No “can you stop dancing”, “can you stop bouncing”, “can you please stand/sit properly”, “can you please behave”, “stop”.
That yeah, maybe I mask happy, and there might be something quieter and stable and still underneath, but maybe I don’t try to judge or force or be annoyed with myself. Because since when has that worked?
Authenticity is being more of who you are, not less, not edited, not presented.
Being obsessed with what the world things and perceives you to be is my mom’s problem, her anxiety, not mine. It’s not a burden I want to carry.
Being obsessed with what I think, and how I’m building my mind, my world, my life? Now that’s a hill I can die on.
Growth and acceptance. Kindness. Love. Softness.
I tell Jarrod to be gentle with himself. Guess I need to say that to me.
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