A Beautiful Mess

Writing fiction comes easy to me. I love creating a new idea, person or even a whole world from the depths of my own mind. Writing about reality or, even worse, myself is not easy for me. It does not require an over active imagination, instead it requires me to take a sober look inward. Am I the person I portray to others? Am I the person I portray to myself?
Did you ever play “house” as a kid? For anyone unfamiliar, it is where children imagine they are grownups and have houses of their own. They play as moms and dads, children or the family pets and so on. I always loved playing as the pet. I was an odd child, but I regress.
As a thirty something adult, wife and mother of 2, I still feel like my life is a big game of “house” only it’s a game I’m constantly losing. I was expelled from college, injured and discharged from the Marine Corps. I have an extensive list of failed careers. My house is pretty much never clean, unless company is coming over, even then, don’t look in the closets. I constantly worry that I am not good enough for my husband and children, that they will realize it and I will be alone.
It is easier to write fiction. To put little pieces of myself into work. To be able to describe my love for music in flash fiction, my faith in God into a poem, or my fascination with dragons in a short story. I don’t want to share the ugly, messy parts of my life with the world. It’s too raw. It makes me vulnerable.
When I played house, I hated being the mother aka the house wife. I think the idea I hated the most was being my own mother. Don’t get me wrong, my mom is the strongest woman I know. We wanted for nothing growing up because she met our needs and wants above all else. But she was also the unhappiest person I had ever known. I didn’t want the same unfulfilled life I thought she had.
When my own children were born, I was thrown into the world of being the homemaker. I tried to do my best, I really did, but I always fell short. I hated that I was no good at being the ideal, June Cleaver, house wife. My kids were happy, healthy, wanted for nothing. My dishes weren't done and we ate out too much. My marriage was suffering and I was unhappy. Being a homemaker was another thing I was a failure at.
We joined a church. Our marriage improved. We became active members, with purpose, in a community of like-minded people. My kids flourished even more. But I still saw myself as a failure. During our women’s meeting I would ask for help from the ladies in the group. I would tell them of my messy house and short comings as a house wife. I even bought self-help books. It took a kindly, older lady to take me by the hands, look me in the eyes and say, “Ask God to bless your mess.”
Did my house become magically cleaner because I asked God to bless my dust bunnies? No. But slowly I felt less like a failure. Slowly I understood that my mess did not define my life. Slowly I became happy again. I had a revelation, if I sat on the couch and never did another thing, even breath, it would not change how God loved me. No matter how many times I tried and failed and tried again, it would not change how God loved me.
10 years have passed. I still have my moments where I don’t feel good enough. I still try and fail. My life is unfinished, but it is far from unfulfilled. My house is still unclean and my kids are still blissfully wonderful. My marriage is stronger than it has ever been and I am happy. I am loved.
When I feel like I am losing the game I remember to ask God to bless my mess. I am a beautiful mess and that’s OK.
