*I usually don’t do this but there is an addendum at the end of this post clarifying certain details.
Recently a post about the “Too Much” Woman has been making its rounds on social media. It’s gaining popularity because many women relate to it, and many others want to. We’re in the age of feminism and owning our femininity. We’re experiencing a time in which women are screaming in the streets instead of be stifled in the sheets. We will be seen and heard and respected. We’re demanding our right to be validated and important. It’s an amazing thing to witness, to be a part of.
During these times, when women come together to build each other up and support one another and stick it to the man, it’s difficult to remember that we’re not only women. We’re individuals. Fuck being the mother who yells, or the daughter who forgets to call, or the wife who doesn’t cook. Fuck being the “Too Much” woman, because that’s still one category. It’s time we be ourselves.
I am “too much” and “not enough” all at the same time. I’m too hard, too soft, too hot, too cold, too big, too small. I’ll never be enough for Goldilocks, or most of you. I’ll never be “just right” because I am always wrong. I am always wrong for the wrong people and most people are the wrong people, so fuck it. I don’t want to be just right. I don’t want to be not enough, and I don’t want to be too much. Frankly I don’t care what I am to you, because I am simply me. And I’m done trying to find people who accept me. Because they’ll find me.
I am a
walking tripping, talking screaming, breathing gasping contradiction. I do not fit into your mold. I do not fit into any mold, and my insides are burning through your blurred lines and searing scars on the images you hold dear.
Sometimes I get too emotional. Sometimes one word will send me into a tantrum and I’ll bawl and shake and drain every tear from my eyes into a pool you can later spit back at me as “calm down” and “cry baby” and “overreacting” and “psycho.” But it’s not too emotional for me, it’s exactly how emotional I am.
Sometimes I get too numb. Sometimes you’ll cry and beg and plead and I’ll roll my eyes and push you away and take advantage of your eagerness to please, run off into the wasteland and disappear with the ghouls. But it’s not too numb for me, it’s exactly how numb I am.
Everyone’s always worried about how I react but not what I’m reacting to.
I make bad, impulsive, rash, hurtful decisions. I don’t mean to hurt you. But I’m starting to think that if you knew the real me, it wouldn’t hurt in the first place.
When we meet, I put all of my pieces on the table. The whole ones, the broken ones, the pieces with sharp edges and those with fuzzy outsides. And you say it’s okay, you accept me, you’ll help me, you’ll save me, you’ll fix me, you love me. And you lie. And I lie when I agree, because I don’t need to be helped or saved or fixed. I am every woman who’s ever existed, who ever will exist, mashed into one body and I show them piece by piece, woman by woman, one at a time according to the circumstance. And I’m done. I’m ripping myself open to be all of me at once. That, I can agree, is probably too much.
I am the woman who spent all your money on drugs and then saved thousands of dollars to help those in need.
I am the woman who’s slept with all of her friends because we both wanted to get off and what’s consensual sex between two people other than a good time? I am the woman who won’t sleep with the first person to whistle in my direction because they don’t deserve me.
I am the woman who remains friends with her exes, not to have the opportunity to rekindle old romance but because those were some of the strongest connections I’ve ever formed and we’ve been through hell and back together. I remain friends with my exes because the friends I haven’t dated have hurt me far worse than those I have. I remain friends with my exes because they know me on a level you don’t. I remain friends with my exes because everyone dated everyone in my circle of friends. But mostly, I remain friends with my exes because I’m a grown ass woman and I want to.
There’s some more of your mold being singed away.
I buy chickens that look like they’ve been shot up with candle-holders in their butts. I wear inappropriate clothing to school functions and important meetings. I scream “SHIT!” in playgrounds, dog parks, the beach, your family reunion.
I teach my children empathy and compassion and a lust for knowledge and also let them play video games until 2am and watch R-rated movies. I teach them about penises and vaginas and then cuddle them and call them my “wittle beebs.” I let them say “fuck” but not “stupid.”
I correct your grammar and then fuck up my own.
I sulk in bed for days at a time and then disappear.
I am the woman who has no filter, who speaks openly about her sexuality and honestly about her addictions and passionately about her opinions. I won’t hide my lack of religion for your grandmother. I won’t cover up my scars for your father. I won’t pretend to be straight for your cousin. I yell out my history at the worst of times, at the wrong times, because I am so, so wrong.
I am the woman who forgives but is never forgiven.
I can’t make up my mind but know exactly what I want.
I am the woman who tattoos the best (or worst) insults on my skin because I own what you think of me. I own what I am to society. I own that my existence causes your brain to bubble and build up and rage and explode like the orgasms you aren’t having enough.
You might call me bipolar or borderline or any other mental health disorder that seems to fit my mood, but my mood is ever-changing along with myself.
I am not a “too much” woman or a “not enough” woman. I am the “never just right” woman and that’s exactly who I want to be. I want to wander into the night and scare you. I want to lay your head in my lap and soothe you. I want to keep you on your toes and I want you to want me just enough to never falter.
I can be bold and brazen and loyal and faithful and mean and kind and a turbulent kind of love. I can be whoever you want me to be, but I won’t.
I am the woman who tried too hard and then not enough and now I just want to be. Just let me be.
This post wasn’t meant to harm anyone. It was written out of anger, yes, after days of my husband being repeatedly harassed via texts and calls all to tell him how horrible I am. And I got sick of it, because, believe it or not, I don’t want him to hurt and hate seeing the pain in his eyes. But I don’t care what anyone has to say about me, so I said it myself. I’m not hiding anymore. This post is not referring to anyone in particular or any specific incident (except the tattoo I guess). “Goldilocks” is not code, it’s simply what came to mind because everything was “too” for her. I didn’t spend all of my husband’s money on drugs, but I have spent all of other people’s money on drugs in the past. I didn’t go out and sleep with anyone since I’ve been married, but I have slept with most of my friends in the past. This entire piece is simply about me and who I am, not in this moment but in my core. It could have been better. I wrote it hastily and just had to get it out. But I did, and I’m not taking it back. This is me exposing my true self to the world. And I am a writer (whether you enjoy my writing or not, I don’t care) and I have, do, and always will write intimately about my life. I apologize for any trouble or pain caused.