I'm in the midst of a Process (capital P).

It's largely a Process of cracking my little heart open and doing nothing. Just giving it freedom to breathe, change, remain the same, or otherwise be heartfelt.

I've been rather fond of labels. I wield my arrogance and credentials to dub this one "Sir Simpleton" and that one "Lady of Lunacy." I carve the same labels into my skin like scars; I affix them to my identity like sticky notes.

Labels are useful to describe certain things, like grocery items, poison chemicals, street names, and laboratory urine specimens. When slapped onto a human being's forehead with a smear of Gorilla Glue, however, they become less useful. Instead, they're downright pesky.

I expect that there are a few labels that are beyond my power to eliminate or that are a fair estimation of some inborn quality used to distinguish me from other animals. But the other labels I wear around have become tiresome. I don't want to discard classification entirely-- I shall still claim the ones I like: Daughter. Sister. Friend. Creative. Artistic. Funny. Geek. Mind Ninja. Platonic Soulmate... I could go on, but, well, I've exhausted the list of labels I intend to keep.

Hear this.
This is my year to care more about others' minds and less about what those minds think of my ideas, words, appearance, beliefs, and behaviors. It's my year of discarding the stigmas I've carried regarding being "different." My year to claim weirdness, non-conformity, quirks, and balls of odd. And any other kind of balls I choose.

This is my year to care more about myself and judge less. To celebrate rather than evaluate, to sympathize rather than criticize. To create more and edit less.

No more disclaimers. No more explanations. I will not apologize for me any more. Or at least I'll do my best. I SAID it was a Process.

(Note: This Process was inspired in part by this book: Born to Freak: A Salty Primer for Irrepressible Humans Read it immediately, if you know what's good for you.)

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