Neigh. Eden’s Fresh Horses Brigade is back, and she’s asking; Who the hell are you?
Easy question, right? I am mother, daughter, sister, wife. Friend, teacher, a lover and a fighter. I run, I laugh. I dance, badly.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
But that, that’s what I am. Not who I am. I think. Maybe.
Perhaps I’m indecisive.
I know I am not the same person I was in my twenties. Or my thirties for that matter. I know that while some things stay the same, many more change. Mostly for the better.
I know I am still learning, and, perhaps as a sign of ageing, am sometimes even able to admit when I am wrong. If that’s not learning I don’t know what is.
Is it a wank to say I’m complex? Because I think I am. Perhaps that makes me a complex wanker. Or a wanker with a complex.
I deflect with warped humour.
Sometimes I’m a scaredy-cat who makes her husband phone the mechanic for me. Sometimes I’m a fighter for basic human rights, right here on the outskirts of suburbia.
There are days when I decide I want a modern clean house, with all its shiny, oh so carefully chosen minimalism. Sometimes I want to pack it all in; get full sleeve tatts, live in a flat in the dodgy part of the city and hangout in cafes. Or be a self sufficient farmer, eat the chooks I raise by hand and name after Brontë and Austin characters. Sometimes I want to change the world one injustice at a time.
I always carry change incase I’m asked for a spare dollar.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always want to see the good, be the glass half full kind of person. But sometimes I forget. I say spiteful things, I laugh at the joke I know I shouldn’t. I make generalisations. I am human after all. Even us pollyannas have bad days.
I have enough guilt for all of us. I carry it around like a big heavy lump. All the things I did I wish I hadn’t. All the times I said what I shouldn’t have. The times I said nothing when I know speaking up was right and just.
When I laugh it sounds like a snort. Sometimes wee comes out.
My kids are amazing. Not because of anything they do, or say. Just because they are mine. Because I made them. Carried them. Birthed them. Because they made me cry more than I ever thought I could. Because I know if I can be as sleep deprived as they made me, I can do just about anything. Because I have love for them that can not be written into words.
I believe in true love. But that doesn’t make it easy.
When I was young, I thought shouting the loudest, protesting the most, arguing the point was always the best way. Now I know it’s actions. Be the change don’t just shout about it.
I swear. A lot. My kids have always heard me. I believe there are worse things in the world than for a child the hear their mum say fuck.
I don’t like seafood. It tastes all fishy and yuck. I like pork. But not if it’s porky tasting. I eat vegemite by dipping my finger in the jar.
I believe butter is better.
As I get older, I cry more. My emotions are right there, under the surface all the time. I like to think it’s because I am too tired for the bullshit anymore and get straight to the point if it. Whatever it is.
Music speaks to my soul.
I think too much. I over think. I think myself in circles. Between that and my heart on my sleeve, it’s a messy, over thought out place in my head. It’s also a place full of song lyrics and inappropriate jokes. But mostly, it’s the place I go to when things get real. It’s my retreat from the world. Where only I can be.
Some days I know exactly who I am. Others, I haven’t got a clue. But that’s alright, its just the way I like it.
And yes, I know I’ve already posted this song, but when I started writing it came into that messy space that is my over thinking mind and stayed there. So here it is again.