The Help

I did it.

I watched The Help.

I'd been avoiding it because a) I haven't read the book and b) it's popular.  I'm one of those really critical, snotty people who is skeptical of things that are highly popular with the majority of society.

Like leggings.  Twilight.  The Atkins Diet.  And online dating.

But I had a night off.  So I ordered spinach and feta cheese sticks (indulging, I was indulging) and rented The Help from Redbox.  Mostly because I can't listen to Pandora for one more hour without having something else to do.  And I'd already seen Water for Elephants.

I watched the first part of The Help with a friend a few weeks ago.  We fell asleep five minutes into it and I had convinced myself I was right.  Sub par entertainment for the masses.  One of those weird, quiet, disjointed movies I always fall asleep during.

But like so many things, it just wasn't the right time.  And when I tried again, I was enthralled.  When I tried again, it was right this time.

You is kind.  You is smart.  You is important.  

At the risk of repeating the cliche, the sweet quote that has already been worn out, its meaning lost because of overuse -- I am struck today with how much I crave hearing those words.  Seeing those words played out in actions.  Because more often than not in my life, I don't see it.  Not anymore.

There's been a radical shift.  An ever so slight turn of the kaleidoscope and shapes and colors fall into dramatically different patterns.  It feels more like a stained glass window has been shattered and I'm watching the cloudy, vibrant pieces fall to the ground in slow motion.

Sometimes things really just have to be destroyed.  Destroyed and rebuilt.  Let some light in.  Let out some stale air.

I had an epiphany a few weeks ago.  One about my worth.  About my standards.  About the way I allow myself to be treated.  About behavior modification.  And actually... it's kind of working: this epiphany, put into action, has definitely resulted in some change.  Change I didn't expect.  Change I was not prepared for.

I have an ability to read people.  To draw information out of them.  To pay attention and listen closely and learn, just by watching.   I hear things you didn't mean for me to hear.  I see the flinch, I see the flicker in your eyes, I see the way you hide.  I see the light in your eyes, the potential you may not even recognize, and the beauty in yourself you don't acknowledge. I also retain this information.  I am, in fact, almost completely built up with what I know about you.  There are times, so often, when I walk into a room and a barrage of this fills my ears.  (Think, Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty.) That steady drone of prayers, which soon becomes overwhelming, deafening.  I walk into a room and what I know about you, the familiar sound of your voice, the shoes I recognize, the quick eye contact ricochets off the walls.  Like so many blinking lights in a dark room.

Because to me, you are important.  Perhaps I don't find you particularly kind.  And some of the things you do make me think twice about calling you smart.  But you are important to me.  Because I know you.  You are part of my story.  I may have never even wanted you to be.  But you are there, written down.

I think you know this about me.  Maybe not at first.  But I think you find out quickly.  There are a lot of negative character traits in me, a lot of shortcomings, and a lot of flaws.  But I care.  A lack of empathy and compassion is not something I struggle with.  It is so easy, however, to not practice this.  To convince yourself if you are uncared for, unnoticed, disregarded, that the appropriate response is to not care, not to notice, to disregard.  This is so hard for me to do.  But at times I have done it. In a feeble attempt to save myself.  To keep you from having a part of me I can never get back.

But dammit.  I care.  A lot.

I think you are important.

Perhaps it is that I fail to see my own importance.

Which is why I put up with what I put up with.

And maybe the hurt and pain caused by the world has tried to mold and shape and conform me to something that doesn't fit.  Not even a little bit.  Hence, a disparity is caused.  The kind of disparity, which makes me sit on my bed and fight ill-timed tears.  Creating a hopeful, desperate moment of honesty.  The woman I am is battling the woman the world wants me to be, viciously fighting for the woman I am meant to become.

Even though you're important to me, I don't know that you have any place in my story.  Seriously.  I am about to start weeding out by requiring more.  It's already in effect.  And there is some beauty in it.  But also some deepest confusion.

I didn't expect this.