I think the special post might be 1001 because today I want to talk about letting go. Today was Daddy day, the new gig albeit a temporary one has a schedule where I am off every other Friday. Pretty fucking cool.
It’s a bitch getting up at 5am again. I’d forgotten what that was like and I am not a fan. It’s a bitch scheduling Uber on the daily. It is cheaper than investing in a vehicle but I am not a fan of relying on the service to get to work. It’s a bitch to be in that office right now but Monday should be better for a variety of reasons. All that bitching doesn’t mean I am not thrilled though.
I needed to be back in this swing before the ‘real’ gig. Working from home is awesome but you forget what it is like to have to put on a bra and commute and relate in an office with other people. I needed that reminder because the real gig is going to require me to do all of that.
One thing about your significant other having keys is that you are aware that they can be in your house at any time. It’s great that I can hear his key in the door, or on a morning like this where I sleep in he just makes himself at home while I rest. It also can be triggering for a girl like me.
I’ve told many stories about my youth and young adulthood here. I will tell more as the years go on. I don’t think that I detailed how the judgment of my youth created a malfunctioning Nicole.
One of the things I went through was Bonnie’s anger at being left with a child and how that translated to this particular adult.
From an early age I was alone in the house on Limekiln. I was responsible for things at age 5 and 6 many of my peers were not.
I had to cook and clean and wash clothes like a grown woman. I was responsible for managing my mother’s work uniforms and packing her lunch, while doing the same for myself.
The house had a lot of furniture and knick knacks which required at a minimum weekly cleaning. I had to dust and vacuum. All the shit I have to do now in my own house. Nothing was ever good enough for Bonnie, and I grew to dislike the domestic portions of my existence. My friends had chores but they didn’t have the long list of shit like I did. I just wanted to be a child. As I aged I began to rebel and stopped doing the house chores. I was a bold 8 year old.
It was a point of contention with her that I didn’t want to clean. She called me nasty and dirty and lazy and over time I began to resemble that. In the 70’s we didn’t speak on children possibly being depressed or what that would look like. As an adult, I can see what it was but then I could not. I assumed I was dirty and nasty and lazy.
When I moved into Godfrey Ave I made it a point that the apartment stayed clean. My bedroom not as much as I think of the piles of clothing. The dishes were always done, the trash always out and the floors and bathroom cleaned. My bed was always unmade though and the laundry piled and piled.
After Clyde, our homes fared a similar fate with varying levels of tidiness. It wasn’t simple caring for a child with Autism and working full time and keeping house but it was never filthy.
I still thought of myself as a dirty and nasty and lazy bitch though, no matter what the house looked like.
Living in the shelter didn’t cure that. Living on Manheim St didn’t cure that either. While those who visited might tell a different tale, I always thought dirty nasty lazy.
Living in 1 room for 3 years like I discussed with the Daddy didn’t cure it either. If I thought I was on the mend my time at the Summer House simply reminded me that I was dirty and nasty and lazy. Moving back to Philly I didn’t clean a lot. I didn’t feel invested in the house and pretty much just contained myself and didn’t mess up the common areas. In fact, I stayed out the common areas mostly.
I was making myself small, instead of living my life big and bold.
It was here in California that I began to make strides in altering how I’ve lived the past few years. One of the moves was to UNPACK. Since 2015 I’ve lived in 3-4 plastic bins. When I got here I emptied every bin and put the bins in the outside storage. Sure they could come in handy for season weather swap outs but the closet is large and holds all my things so I made the deliberate choice to empty every bin. It seems like such a small thing, but it is a big deal to me. It was a reminder that I don’t have to live as I used to, that I have permission to spread out because this is my home.
I organized my kitchen with my things how they would work best for me and didn’t have to consult anyone on why I made the decisions I did. I can hang my towel in the bathroom and not worry that someone else will use it or find it encroaches on their space. I can play my music at any volume I wish, as long as the upstairs neighbors don’t complain and they have not yet.
I worried about going back outside the house to an office to work. I told myself that my nasty and lazy and dirty ass would be too tired to work and that I would not want to do it on my days off and I would be dirty and nasty and lazy. Turns out……I am not. Well I have lazy MOMENTS but I am not a lazy person.
I was so tired that first day I did….nothing.
I was less tired the next day so I hit the bathroom. I was more tired the next day due to after work activities but I did all the laundry. By last night, I looked around for what I would need to do before Daddy day and realized that I didn’t have to do a lot. I set this apartment up to be able to deep clean within 2 hours. I maintain it in little ways daily. I can take a day off if I want and it won’t be dirty or nasty.
I stressed though, worried he would walk in and call me dirty and all the progress I thought I was making would be wiped away and I was who they told me I was.
He got here and I was asleep. I’d set my alarm to get up early to touch up, but my pillows held me hostage. I didn’t even hear him come in, he can be quiet when we chooses. He was here for about an hour before I woke. He’d made himself at home, and kissed me awake when I called out for him. He’s a clean man, not one of those who doesn’t give a shit what your house looks like because he’s just trying to hit it and bounce. If this house was not up to his standard, he would say so. I kept apologizing for the ‘mess’ and he shut that down. He was comfortable and at home, without my extraness.
As the day went on we talked as we often do, and he commented on my toilet paper. Yep, toilet paper has re-entered the conversation. He’d mentioned last week that I was using Scott 1000 rolls. He called it industrial and grade school. He didn’t tell me to upgrade, he reminded me that I have a bidet and that proves I care about myself. I ordered Angel Soft the next day. That was on the roll today and he compliments me for the upgrade. I tried to make a joke that I couldn’t have him talking shit about what wipes shit. I also explained why I bought Scott and the ‘logic’ behind it and it clicked. It helped that he had explanations also but it clicked.
His ass deserved better. His ass meaning my ass with the Daddy tattoo. It’s okay to treat yourself, it’s okay to live well.
I understood that I was holding onto the mindset of 2014-2020 Nicole and that little bold 8 year old who said fuck your chores. I was seeing things that Bonnie or MM would say were there without also seeing the reality that neither of them saw who I was, they saw what they wanted to see because I was not the child/person they were trying to create, I was someone different.
I remembered that neither of those mothers defined me. That their anger at me was more about them that it was about me, and I wasn’t required to carry their baggage.
While I can do other things better, what I am doing is enough. If he and I and the little one are comfortable and happy here those historic voices of negativity and anger have no place here. I am going to continue to fill this home with love, and hope, and laughter. I am going to let go of who they told me I was and be who I am.
My closing proclamation: