For as long as I can remember, friends and family have essentially been able to sum up my being with the statement, “She’s a mess.”
Sure, being labeled as a mess plays perfectly to my inner Penny Lane, free-spirited, barefoot, wild-haired and scattered self. Some may even find my “messy” personality to be charming. But loving the messy people of the world—like myself—doesn’t come without its fair share of challenges.
To be honest, it is going to be incredibly frustrating from time to time.
But, speaking on behalf of myself and all of my soul brothers and sisters, loving a mess will be the most rewarding and exciting kind of love when the messy soul finds the right being to connect with.
At 21 years old, I have found myself experiencing many of life’s roles:
I have been a student, wife, worker, lover, friend, divorcee, writer, hopeless romantic, helpless cynic, the heartbreaker, the heartbroken, the avid adventurer, an extrovert and the recluse.
I’ve been a carefree and happy being, and a burdened and miserable soul.
I’ve been the life of the party and I’ve been the person in the corner wishing I would have stayed home and wallowed in self-pity.
I have made enough stupid mistakes to cover the next three generations of my bloodline.
I have had times in my life that I absolutely loathed the way I am, and I have had times that I have fallen so deeply in love with my unpredictable and complicated ways.
But, the important part of this blog is what I am about to say.
Do not let anyone ever make you feel like you are too messy or too much to handle. Ever.
At nineteen years old, I found myself in a relationship that drained my intense love for life from every ounce of my being.
This is not to say that he was a bad person; he wasn’t. He has many traits that will make some woman very happy someday, but not a woman like myself. I finally learned that he is not one of the souls that is equipped to love one of us messy beings. Because, after much soul-searching, I have learned that it takes a special kind of person to love a woman like me.
I’m wild and spontaneous.
I’m sarcastic and can be a bit of an a*shole.
I’m moody and difficult.
I’m painfully stubborn and independent to a fault.
I’m tender-hearted and rough around the edges.
I speak my mind and hate being judged.
I can be incredibly forgetful and annoyingly flaky.
I remember every detail of the least important things in life, but forget what time I am supposed to be at work.
I run my gas gauge as low as it can possibly go and am always in search of the last item that I misplaced.
Like everyone has always said, I’m a Mess.
I tried for three years to mold myself into a less messy kind of woman.
The beautiful and amazing kind of women who make plans and lead an organized and orderly life.
The women who refrain from using sentence enhancers and are present in the pew every time the church doors open.
The kind of woman who doesn’t question or challenge the people in her life for fear of pissing someone off or starting an argument.
The kind of woman who nods and smiles instead of debating and understanding others’ opinions.
The kind of woman who follows a schedule and leaves herself sticky notes of important things to remember.
I completely lost myself. I quit exploring. I lost my sense of adventure.
I lost my freedom, my independence.
I tried to conceal my quirks and be more politically correct.
It was like trying to fit a unicorn shaped cookie through a Christmas tree cookie cutter.
And then I finally realized I deserve someone who appreciates a mess like me.
I come with many challenges and sh*t tons of baggage.
But I know there’s someone out there that will help me unpack, and if there’s not I am completely content with unpacking by myself.
Like everything else in my life, unpacking is going to create a bigger mess than it should. But, like my sweet momma has repeated time and time again throughout the course of my rollercoaster-esque life, “At least things with you are never boring.”
And as the great Marilyn Monroe once said, “It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”
Author: Emily Cutshaw
Editor: Caitlin Oriel
Image: Mallory Johndrow/Unsplash