9.2
August 29, 2020

A Warning to my Future Husband.

 

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*Warning: salty language ahead! 

 

I will never be that kind of woman.

I won’t let passive-aggressiveness go unaddressed. I’ve done my time with that shit, and it’s not something I value. 

I won’t play word games; I won’t referee word games. 

Yes, I am still refining my edges, but I am no longer shaving them all off.

That just isn’t me, and I don’t want it to be me. 

I am a woman who asks hard questions. (And don’t worry, I require myself to answer those same pesky stumpers.) I want to know the root of things. I want to get to the raw, meaty stuff behind the fuckery.

It’s okay to fall short, and it’s okay to react from a place of trauma, heartbreak, insecurity, desperate needs for attention, or whatever the hell it is, but I won’t pretend that shit isn’t happening. Let’s address the parts that are unhealthy and wounded and start cleaning that shit out. 

I don’t want your niceties. Yes, I want kindness, passion, and love, but I don’t want the fluff. It’s the same as when you go to a fine dining restaurant; they bring out exquisite plates that are too pretty to eat (and too damn tiny).

No, I don’t want to be small and “pretty.” I want to be real and larger-than-life. And I want to be full. 

I want my belly, my heart, and my soul to overflow with things that ache and things of spicy-sweet authenticity—even if it’s hard. I don’t want to be a delicately piped, thumb-sized cake detailed with cotton candy farts and sugarcane whispers. No. 

I will never be that kind of woman. 

I’m probably going to bother you over the years. I will apologize when I cross lines, when I am harsh, and when my tongue truly forgets its place, but no, I will not apologize for standing firmly in my roots. I won’t apologize for pushing you (for pushing myself).

I want us to cauterize our bullshit—sear it away. 

I know this sounds like I am detached, but listen, it is quite the opposite. I want to sit in the wreckage with you. That is the connection I offer. I am not going to be a run-of-the-mill, skate-through-mindlessly kind of love. No. 

I want to sit in the fire and kiss away our terrors; I want to burn with you. I will not sit and watch from beside the flames, lukewarm, and eat our unsaid words.

I will not pretend. 

I will never be that kind of woman.

I am difficult and frustrating, like a damn splinter.

But, I will also be like the earth—the ground on which we both break free and grow out of our fears and disconnectedness. 

There will be harsh rains, cold winters, and summers that melt and scorch, but I will be there.

I am that kind of woman.

This is an old journal entry that I wrote before I met my husband. I giggled to myself when I found it, and then wished I’d found it sooner (so I could’ve printed this sucker out and warned him).

But that thought made me realize that our “person,” partner, friend, lover, or husband will already recognize and love these things about us. He knows I’m a salty dog rather than a pink tea cake. 

You won’t be everyone’s favorite flavor, but your person will think every inch of you is divine.

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