Not to be placed on a mantle and too busy collecting them to simply be trophies

I'm not raising decorative girls.

Girls who chase boys and bat eyelashes.

I'm teaching warriors.  Lionesses.  Freaking goddesses.

Book reading, race winning, mind blowing girls.

Are they beautiful?  Hell yes, do you even have eyes?!, but that's the least of it.

They are strong enough to choose which games they want to play.  And skilled enough to beat you at each of them.  They are witty enough to out talk anyone, but selective enough to avoid the drama of idiocy.

Yes, their eyes are beautiful.  Wide open and dark, but absolutely never half closed in a flutter.

Extraordinary beauty, and power beyond my wildest dreams - but absolutely never voiceless in struggle.

Flexible yet unwavering girls.  

Wise and thoughtful girls.

World altering yet mostly humble girls.

Proud and confident girls.

These girls will be women that change you.  Those women will be the kind you marvel at from your perch outside of their wingspan.

So, for now, hold your breath and count my blessings. 

Because, while they have the kind of beauty usually reserved for sunsets and myths, I am not raising decorative pieces.

These girls, my girls, are now and will only grow to be more supremely compelling.

All we can do is hold on and applaud as they go by.

"You think you're good, bitch"

There were signs.

Warnings.

We tried dating, and it didn't work.  He was too suffocating from the beginning.  Wouldn't let me leave when I was ready.  Always wanted one more minute, one more try, one more reason.

When I broke it off, he kept up the barrage of attention regardless of how hard I ignored him.  So I tried the "nice" approach - responding to every tenth text, gently telling him it was too much.

Eventually, I told him I was seeing someone else - thinking it would get him to move on.  After a few days, he was back.  So, I thought we could try being friends.

There was no reason not to be nice.  He wasn't a bad person, we just weren't good together.

I tried to encourage him to try with other women.  Building his ego from the sideline was, I thought, the way a friend would treat him.

Still he always wanted to see me, take me to dinner, just hang out.  Anything.  

Finally, after months of asking, I decided I was just being silly and made plans for a friendly dinner.  Still very clear that this was not a date, I agreed to hang out for a little while.

I immediately knew, in my gut, that it was bad.  He was drunk and couldn't keep his hands to himself.  Still, I thought, be nice and stop taking it so seriously.  As calmly as I could, because this wasn't my first tango with too much liquor and not enough control, I kept moving further away and reminding him to stop petting me.

After awhile, the subtlety stopped.  On both sides.  And, it got ugly fast.

But there were signs that we were heading down the wrong road.  I could've derailed the problem dozens of times before I was shoved against the wall.  I had so many chances to deflect before the bruises shadowed my perspective.  It was in my hands to stop long before I was in his.

And that's why I can't keep quiet this time, though I desperately want to hide.  That's why, despite knowing I have let these things happen too many times before, this one has to be different.  

It isn't always a husband or a parent or a boyfriend or a stranger.  Sometimes, it's a friend you're trying to pacify.  Sometimes, it's faster than a long road.

And, in those times, being nice isn't defense enough.

I don't want to write this, and I really don't want to relive it, but everyone knows the darkness starts somewhere.  That place is different every time.  

And, this time, it started months before I was pressed face-first into the side of a parking garage.  

Control is not something someone should want to take from you.  And, when it happens in small doses, big ones are coming.  Even from someone as harmless as a "friend".

Being nice, especially in cases when no mountain of nice is enough, isn't the only option.  

No is an answer.

I thought of three things before it was finally over:

This concrete is cold.

I wasn't supposed to be here tonight.

I wish I could say that being called a bitch was the worst part of this evening.

And, I can think of only one now:

If it can happen to someone that has learned from experience how to fight back, that person has to speak up for anyone who can't.

Not all art is pretty

No one ever said I was easy.

I am not.

All those other things I've been called?  Yes, whether I applaud your nerve or shake my head at your ignorance, most of those labels fit just fine.

I am a mouth full of seemingly unfiltered thoughts.  I am eyes that have seen straight through masks.  I am fists clenched in anger and feet ready to run.

I know I am hard, and I have very little use for those who want me to pretend otherwise.

I am full of edges carved by hands not skilled in careful or beauty or love.

Venturing into me isn't for the weak minded or those just looking for a challenge.  Honestly, there are very few times I'm not holding my own breath when trying to climb inside my thoughts.  Those who have been here before left behind cliffs not safe for diving and walls not made for climbing.

The few who have ever tried to navigate my danger have all turned back.  It's not worth it.  The fight seems endless, the reward less than glorious.

No, I am not easy.  And, yes, even "hard" seems light handed.

But, my God, I care.  Immeasurably.  Unendingly.  Silently.

When I love, it's without boundary marked in time or pain.  When I feel, it has no bottom.  When I hand over my words, know that I have no other gift.

The edges protect me and the darkness comforts me.  These are not choices I made, and I would absolutely prefer the cream filled center of a teddy bear heart.  

But I can't pretend to be blind when the brush of a hand is sensory overload.  

I am not easy and probably not worth the effort.  These things are true, yet I love anyway.

Because no one promised it would be easy.  Because the center may not be soft, but it is safe.  Because I want there to be a reward if ever I become worth it.  And because, while it is not pretty, all of these edges have to be protecting something.

Grasping for control

Earth shattering fact about me (in italics in case you can't sense the sarcasm):

When things spin out of control, I like to hop on a less-than-merry go round heading in the opposite direction. You know, to realign my world.

I like to control the madness in the only way I understand...

Pile on the bad decisions.

Want to buy me another drink?

Make it a double.

Skip meals for days to ensure the girls get to gorge on their favorites?

No doubt.

Ghost of Questionable Judgement Past comes back?

Round 6 *ding ding ding*

As Oliver said, "please, sir, may I have some more?".  But, you know, less with the vital nourishment and more on the nine toes off the edge of a bridge side.

Can self destruction be classified a quirk?  Can you slap a cute name tag on the self-imposed scars and call it normal?  I hope so because otherwise:

"Hello!  My name is Surrender."  

"Unsalvageable"

"Derailed".

In every sense, I'd rather own certain disaster than put money down on an iffy castle in the clouds.  I will not wager one more losing bet on the risk of a warmth I don't recognize.  So, when everything is wrong, I see that and raise it a hundred.  I'm all in.  Checkmate.  Touchdown...or whatever, I thought I needed one more piece of gaming jargon to round out the random gambling reference.

I'd like to say I'm doing the best I can.  I'd like to say I see the light and am barreling through the tunnel.  I'd like to write on my nametag "Hello!  My name is Managing just fine, thanks".

Instead, in my lifelong goal to be honest at all costs, I've saddled up my pink horse and am determined to stay on this ride until the world outside stops tilting the wrong way.