I'm the Damned Newbie to Myself

So, here's the thing. I’m the damn newbie to myself.

And since I have no idea how to do this blogging thing properly, y’all get to ride the roller coaster with me. Buckle up.

I’ll apologize now—for all the typos, grammar, and profanity—so I don’t have to do it again.

I live in this BFE, 2ft-by-2ft square of a town. No joke. I used to think it was a cult. Like, 6:59 PM you might see people outside smoking, walking, chatting. Then poof! 7:00 hits and they vanish like it’s a scene out of The Stepford Wives. Creepy. But we’ll save that little gem for another post.

How I ended up here? Also important. But again—another post. (Yeah, I know. I’m awful. Deal.)

That being said… If I hadn’t ended up here, I probably wouldn’t be alive.

This odd little town has saved me.

And more than that—it’s teaching me who I am.

Crazy, right? That I’m just now learning this? But think about it. I come from a questionable upbringing, was a ward of the state by age 12, a mom at 18 (babies having babies, ugh), and I spent years trying to please everyone but myself.

So how the hell would I know who I am?

Let’s talk about the house.

It was a burned-out wreck when I got it. Fire-damaged, filthy, and filled with rubble. I shoveled that mess into a dumpster (an industrial one, thank you)—filled it in two days. Yeah, I had some help. That’s a whole other story. You’ll want popcorn for that one.

I’ve done a lot of work on this place.

Not enough.

Some help showed up, most didn’t stay.

I’ve cried. I’ve bled. I’ve sweat (like, really sweat—not the dainty “glow” women talk about). I’ve cursed. I’ve outmuscled grown-ass men—at 5’1” and 98 lbs, no less.

I’ve had some great teachers. And some jackasses.

And yes—some help left when they realized I don’t keep a jar of blow jobs in my back pocket. (Sorry not sorry. That’s the vibe.)

Still… some of ‘em? You can’t help but love ‘em anyway. You’ll see.

But here’s the part that got me:

In my last “self-help” session (read: yelling at myself like Dr. Phil), I realized something.

I haven’t finished a lot of these projects.

And maybe that’s because once I do…

This place? It becomes my home. Mine.

Not my kids’ home.

Not some boyfriend’s.

Not the place I just landed in.

Mine.

And that’s terrifying.

Because it means I live here. Alone. In this quiet-ass town.

With no Thai food.

No partner in crime to run errands with, make dumb Target runs, or chill in silence on the porch.

No “Hey, let’s go grab a coffee” just because.

Just… me.

But today…

I finished a project.

And for the first time in my life—this is my home.

Weird. Beautiful. Mine.

Photo Courtesy of Allison Leedham on Pexels