acceptance

acceptance.

simple acceptance.

that's all. maybe i'm naive, but i still believe in it.

in fact, it's kinda my thing. you can do all kinds of shit, be a bastard to me, you can be someone i would never understand, but still, i'd accept you.

is that crazy?

approval is something different. i don't ask for approval from most people, just a select few on an even more select few things, and i certainly don't expect it. i might not necessarily approve of other's, what they do, how they live, any of that. but it isn't my place to have to approve of their lives. the only person who has to live your life is you, and as long as you aren't hurting anyone else, i may not approve, but i accept it.

now, herein lies the problem. i seem to be hard to accept as i am. i mean, i'm not a bad person, i try to do good things, i help people when i can, and i don't take advantage. i pitch in on the check, i over tip. i feed my dog the good food. i pick up dying birds and carry them to safe places to die. i don't club seals or babies. i don't have an extra head, i don't claim to be christ. what i have are scars. my scars. not yours. scars from bad times gone past. scars that come from open wounds, both physical and emotional. scars that are new and old. scars that I have to live with, not you. scars that are a map of my life, a totem. scars that might be unpleasant to look at, but are even more unpleasant when they are the root of losing acceptance. and guess what? i don't regret them. i don't regret anything. these allow me insights into and empathy for people who walk around misunderstood and straining for compassion. these scars allow me access that others will never have. for example, I am the ONLY person at work (aside from my boss) who the clients trust. I am the one they are comfortable coming to with their secret concerns and pained thoughts. I am the one they know who won't judge them. maybe they have seen the scars, maybe a hint of them, or maybe not. but it's the shared experience of horrific pain that these women can sense. and that shared experience makes me safe for them. i wouldn't trade that for all the free cosmetic surgery in the world.

i feel like i dwell on this more often than i should have to. i mean, every first date is an exercise in cautious dressing, risked exposure, determining how much information to give and the possibility of rejection. every first sexual encounter i worry not only about my size, my level of bloat, whether or not i shaved, but also about the look of abject horror or revulsion that slips into their eyes and won't leave. and not for who i am, but for lines on my body. every interview is the same. in fact, i have been passed over on jobs because of them, can't risk the exposure. they don't think i'm weak, they know i'm not. but they know "how it might look". i've been judged, and not on the basis of me as a person, but how my skin looks. i'm the victim of a new racism, but i don't have the support of a common racial group.

do they bother you because they force you to examine your own mortality? is that it? some call me selfish or foolish. they say that i don't realize how much it pains others to see them. honey, that pain and disappointment i see in other's faces... that's what leads to the second cut.

i'm beginning to get tired of having to explain myself. of having to cover myself. of having to take care of everyone else. i don't judge you for why you drink to unconsciousness, why you cover your body in tattoos, why you spend more hours high than sober, why you speed and take turns too fast, why you indiscriminately engage in unprotected sex, why you base your life and decisions on beliefs in unseen heavenly powers of damnation and reward. i may ask if you're okay, if there's anything i can do, anything you need, and if you want to talk about it, but your explanations are secondary to who you are.

and guess what?

i accept you.