repost time

One of my friends at the gym. Faith, posted this on Facebook....for a group, but she tagged me on it to make sure I saw it.

I do not want my daughter to be nice.


Yeah...her daughter sounds like mine....and I pray to god that I have never told Vivi to "just be nice."

This has been my pattern my whole life, in every significant relationship I have had and frankly it is partly at fault for the destruction of a relationship. I have been so busy "being nice" "walking on eggshells" "apologizing for my existence" that I lost myself, my voice a long time ago.  Over the last few years I have been scratching and crawling and frankly lifting and throwing to figure out how to "stop being nice" to the point of never getting what I need, much less what I want.  

My being nice hurts the people who care for me too....they really don't want to see a fake smile and hear, "it's ok, fuck me over again." I think they miss me almost as much as I missed myself over these long years.


~She is a beautiful kid, but she is also sure and determined in a way that is not exactly pretty. Which is fine, because God help me if that girl ends up smiling through her entire life as if she is waitressing or pole-dancing or apologizing for some vague but enormous infraction, like the very fact of her own existence.
I picture her at the prom in stripy cotton pajamas, eating potato chips with both hands. I picture her slapping a patriarch-damning sticker on her jacket. I picture her running the country, saving the world, being exactly the kind of good bad girl that she knows herself to be. And I think: You go. I think: Fly! I think: Take me with you.~


Yeah...take me with you~