I Am Who I Am

This letter shook me up: A Daddy’s Letter to His Little Girl (About Her Future Husband)

In fact, it made me cry. When I haven’t cried in months. Even at some of the lowest, and I dare say, most pathetic points in my life, I choked on tears that never formed, yet here I was, reading something that had no direct relation to me, and getting overly emotional about it.

Well, I shouldn’t say that it doesn’t relate to me. I am my Daddy’s daughter after all. And though he’s never said that many words to me in my lifetime, I know deep inside he’s probably thinking all that but in more convoluted sentence structure. Every Daddy wants the best for his little girl. Even if Dad never knows where I am or remembers how old I am each year, I know he wants the best for me. He’ll even check out reviews of all the tablets there are on the market and send me an entire email of links to check out before I make my purchase – after I only casually mention I might buy an iPad. Yeah, that’s the kind of thing my Daddy does. That’s the way he shows he loves me.

And now I feel like I’m completely letting him down somehow.

I’ve let people bully me, walk all over me, treat me like shit, treat me like I’m not good enough, use me, walk in and out of my life like it doesn’t matter, and just generally abuse me, and somehow I’ve managed to, thanks to my innate faith in humanity and ability to keep giving people the benefit of the doubt, actually give excuses for all their behaviour. And in the process, acknowledging that maybe I AM not good enough, that I AM not worthy, that I DON’T deserve any better.

But that’s bullshit. I’m not a haphazard project put together by fate. I am the product of a loving family, of years of education – education not only of a secular nature, but of a spiritual one too; not only of knowledge, but also of values. That makes me good enough. That makes me worthy. That makes me deserve better. That makes me worth it.

Yeah, nobody might discover that. Life isn’t made of fairytales. You really could spend your entire life kissing a lot of slimy frogs and never actually finding your prince. That’s a risk you’ll just have to take. But no one should have to settle for any of these toads.

Because that’s what they are. They’re toads. They don’t magically sprout wings, or smell like fields of lavender just because you start making up excuses on their behalf. They’re icky, yucky (sorry toads, you’re being blasted in my unfortunate analogy), and we should all run a mile when we spot one. (Technically, that means we should run 1.60934 kilometers since we follow the Metric system, but it’s just much smoother to say a mile.)

And if these prince-wannabes can’t adore me for me, why should I try to be anybody else for them? Why should I feel like I should be the one apologising that I don’t exactly “measure up” with the rest of the world? Why should I feel sorry that I don’t act or behave or think or function like other people?

Why did I want to start off this paragraph saying “I’m sorry I… (insert embarrassing little-known fact about me here)”?? Why is it that every time somebody rejects me, I reject a little part of myself as well? If I don’t love all of me, who will?

Yes I’m willing to admit I don’t like loud, crazy music all the time. There are nights I prefer a good live band, heck, even some jazz, or some 50’s to 70’s classics.

Yes I’m willing to admit I don’t always enjoy drinking alcohol; then again, there will be nights of whisky mixers and there will be nights of sangria and there will be nights of wine, depending on my mood.

Yes I’m willing to admit the reason why I paint my nails is so I won’t nibble on them, and not really because I think it makes me more attractive.

Yes I’m willing to admit that I don’t shave my legs and don’t think men should make women shave anything they don’t want to.

Yes I’m willing to admit I do exotic dance or dance sensually in a club because I enjoy dancing, and not so much because I’m trying to seduce anyone.

Yes I’m willing to admit that I am drawn to handsome or pretty people, but that perception changes when I get to know their personality and character – they stop being attractive the moment I realise they have an ugly soul.

Yes I’m willing to admit that I do like dancing in the rain, it’s not just some cliche that sounds romantic because I’ve watched one too many soppy Hollywood romance films (probably a Nicholas Sparks film at that), and whatever you say, no I will not find it silly.

Yes I’m willing to admit that sometimes I actually do talk to myself, have conversations with myself, and interview myself, just to keep myself in check; I don’t do it to appear cool like I’m dysfunctional or a little weird so people think I’m interesting.

Yes I’m willing to admit that as much as I try to be the life of the party and keep my energy high (for the most part of the party at least), I am prone to just snapping and stoning in a corner.

Yes I’m willing to admit that I talk a good game about everything I want to do, whether it’s with my life, my time, in this year, whatever, and then fail to fulfill half of them because I’m too busy, too engrossed with something else, or just procrastinating too much. But hey, I’m still trying.

Yes I’m willing to admit that deep down inside, I’m still a good little girl with good old Christian values. That I try to be kind on every other day (every day is too tiring), that I watch my P’s and Q’s and try not to curse unless the situation or the statement or storytelling calls for it (for impact, usually), that I do treat older folk with respect, that I do care about what the other person is feeling, that I do try and smile and make people laugh when I can.

And yes, I’m finally willing to admit that as much as I tell myself I don’t, and will myself not to, I do want to own a life that comes with the adoring husband, mischievous kids, white picket fence, and the dog – or cat, I think I prefer cats, hmmm, not sure.

Nobody knows when it’ll happen, or if at all. But I shouldn’t deny myself from admitting that it’s alright and legitimate to want these things or feel or be a certain way. And that I shouldn’t be pressured into feeling like I shouldn’t, can’t, or might possibly have a higher chance at happiness if I didn’t set too high or unrealistic expectations. They’re not unrealistic. They’re just not yet reality.

I am who I am. I of all people should never deny myself that. And nobody should have the right to tell me that’s wrong. In any case, if you don’t like it, you can just f*** off. (OOPS. I did say I do *try* not to curse. You didn’t hear that, Dad. Tee hee.)

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