I am unamusing. You can skip this post.

I think I lost a close friend last week. Not in a sock drawer or to circus. Not to any nefarious creature or mob hit: just lost him. Stubbornness may have been involved.

And temper. I'm sure you're shocked and astounded that my temper would successfully push someone away. I am decidedly not shocked. Nor astounded. But I'm sad.

The loss aches. The list of people who truly know almost everything about me isn't long. The people with whom I feel comfortable being "me" without any pretense or mask...well, I can count that list on my fingers. I've been feeling not-enough for some time now, like I'm a fixer-upper with attic bats and cobwebs who could be a great best friend/love/wife/coworker if I could just be a little...better.

If I could be less of a "girl" and never let my emotions get the best of me. (God that is so unbelievably sexist and idiotic. As though men aren't just as irrationally emotional...hiding it and suppressing it doesn't mean feelings aren't there. Belittling and dismissing women for their emotional connection is just...ridiculous.)

If I could always be the rational one and stay in control. If I could keep myself separated enough to never get hurt again.

And the danger of that is to feel nothing. And in feeling nothing, you begin to care less and less about how those around you feel. And loneliness becomes all-encompassing, and your relationships suffer or fall apart.  And depression weasels in, ready to pull you into the pit.

I've been thinking obsessing some about this for days, mostly because I don't do cut-off-all-communication very well. Finally I finished the argument in an email that will never be sent, because it had to come out somewhere. Sigh. It took a while to put the twisted, convoluted mess of anger, regret and sadness into conscious thought.

I've felt...easy to walk away from, easy to disregard...for a while.

And then a most excellent blogger I follow (This Is How The Apocalypse Starts) posted a link to THIS (another fabulous blogger I now follow). I read it. I re-read it. I cried that unstoppable sobbing, gut-wrenching, snot-producing unpretty cry that leaves you exhausted but emotionally clean afterward. And then I read it again, and shared it everywhere I could.

Because I'm a little broken. I have bouts of depression that leave me watching tearjerker movies and balling for no reason. I randomly giggle until I actually wheeze, unable to breathe. I can be a responsible mid-30's person in one moment, an enchanted 5 year old the next, and a dirty-minded 14 year old the next. I'm overweight and too-often lazy. I'm terrible at saying "no" when it comes to money, energy and time. I have long patience on most things that drive people nuts and absolutely no fuse at ALL between happy and utterly incensed if you push certain triggers. I feel AND I think on a spectrum that varies, and I won't apologize for it. My emotions are an integrated part of my psychological makeup. I live with them day in and day out. They color my dreams. They flare and fade a thousand times a day, and most of the time I don't act upon them.

If that makes me "not enough" well, that's really not my problem, because perfection isn't my goal. Putting on the "right" face to interact with people who are supposed to be close to me isn't my goal.

Authenticity, in all its messy/joyful/miserable/awful/ecstatic glory: that's my goal.