Acceptance — Accept Nothing Less

I warn you in advance, this is ranty. It includes swearing and strong opinions, but only because it’s a topic that I’m wildly passionate about. In fact, this very site was built on the basis of what I’m about to tell you.

Y’see, years ago I started another blog about a similar topic. It fell flat on its arse. Why? Because I tried too hard to be “professional”. I thought nobody would take me seriously unless I wrote in a very stiff, stifled way. I wanted to be perceived as an expert.

But that’s not who I am. That’s not how I write. So I let it die a death and I decided this time around that I was going to stay true to myself and write in a way that feels natural to me. And, so far, it seems to be working.

Recently, someone launched what I perceived to be a personal attack on me. Not purposely, but with the (perhaps misguided) intention of helping me. I don’t take criticism too well at the best of times, so I felt very defeated and deflated afterwards. And then I got angry. Why?

Because it took me a long to time to accept myself, warts an’ all, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some stranger piss on my parade now. Acceptance is a very difficult thing, and I’m not sure it can ever be fully achieved, but you have to try. And then keep trying.

It took me a long time to accept that I’m a socially awkward, Type-A control freak. If you give me your number, you better believe I’m gonna text instead of call. If you ask to meet up, I’m probably going to be very busy washing my hair that day. If you open your crisp packets upside down, I’ll firmly believe you’re the son of Satan sent to dance a merry jig on all that is sacred.

That’s who I am.

I’ve never been bitten by the travel bug; I’m a home bird. I’d rather be reading and writing than almost anything else. Most of the time, I prefer my own company over anyone else’s. Little things make me happy. But they can also make me unhappy.

Things that aren’t symmetrical or that don’t have a consistent pattern bug me. I can’t bear to break the spine of a paperback book (otherwise it’s ruined. RUINED). I like things to be neat and tidy. Things that are out of place or out of alignment make my eyes twitch. In short, I have a touch of the OCD demons. Small things can stress me out.

But y’know what? THAT’S OK. It’s who I am. If it’s who you are, that’s OK too. If you like to jump in muddy puddles and get dirt under your fingernails, do it. If you like to knit booties for your cats, you go right ahead. If you’re fifty years old and you still like to watch cartoons and play video games, fuck yeah. If you like to smell books and magazines… hey, you’re my kinda people.

Be you. (Unless you’re a dickhead who questions other people’s choices. Don’t be that guy.) Heed the advice of those you love, and always try to improve yourself and forge a brighter future. But be you. You’re a superstar, and anyone who disagrees can jog on.

Don’t be afraid of your “faults” and “failings” either. Don’t try to hide them. We all have them. They don’t detract from you; they ARE you.

And don’t be embarrassed about who you are and what you like. People will judge. People are assholes that way. Rather be judged for what you are than what you aren’t. If you’ve accepted yourself, and you’ve found others who accept you, then don’t give a second thought to sad sacks who put effort into mocking you. They’ve mapped out pretty miserable lives for themselves. Good luck to them.

Don’t bother with perceptions.

I used to feel that I needed to be interested in art and the theatre in order to be viewed as a mature adult. Yes, there will be the odd occasion when some element of those will float my boat (I’ve even flown to London specifically to see certain exhibitions) but, on the whole, I will rarely find plays anything but boring, and abstract art will never be anything more than shapes on a page to me.

But now I realise that I don’t need to justify myself to anyone. And neither do you.

If I don’t want to do something, I don’t do it. And I don’t have to explain myself. You can think I’m stupid or immature because I don’t watch the news or read newspapers, and have no interest in politics or economics. You can call me shallow because I prefer shopping to visiting galleries and museums, and have more clothes than the average small store. You can think I’m childish because I love Mickey Mouse and rainbows and sometimes wear my hair in pigtails.

But I’m also a book-lover. And a published writer. In my younger days, I won awards for my stories and poetry. I have an honours Bachelor of Arts in French and philosophy, and a law degree. I’m healthcare trained and spent several years as a pharmacy manager. I’m a young, successful, well-educated, married mother, and I like unicorns.

And anyone who has a problem with that can fuck right off. It doesn’t make me less of a person.

So don’t let anyone tell you how to be you. By all means tweak and twist things to make yourself happier. Learn to live with things that make you uncomfortable. They’ll soon become comfortable. Or at least less stressful.

Adapt. Make compromises for those you truly love. But know that, fundamentally, you are you. Your principles, your soul, your values, your core… These things will never change, even if the peripherals do.

Fuck the begrudgers. Do what you do and accept who you are. Take shit from no-one. If you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, you go right ahead and ride that rodeo all the way to retirement and beyond. Kick up your heels and paint the town whatever colour you damn well please.

Love yourself.

Let everyone else lump it.