I’m Grace. Not your usual Grace. No, that’s my other face. This is the place for Grace to free-fall through space. It’s a race of madness. The place for Grace.
Free falling: . Not giving a single fuck and letting it all hang out without cleaning up the little ugly snarled and frayed edges. Thus, this place is likely to be chock full of cry-baby tantrums, philosophical pity party reflections, and excessive use of swearing for none other than the laziness to exercise her brain enough to find more appropriate descriptive words.
Grace is a single mom of two teenaged daughters. Twice divorced, much abused…possibly deranged and decidedly broken. ..but she doesn’t admit this. She’s Grace. She puts on the happy face of optimism. The happy face of Grace
Grace is a survivor of sorts, but she’s not too happy about that and definitely not proud. There’s no ribbon or gold star for what she’s survived. No charitable causes in her honor. She has “survived” physical, mental, and sexual abuse for the majority of her life. Like a never-ending story: abuse begets abuse per se, until the survivor doesn’t know how to be anything else and has no substance to prevent further abuse. So she’s currently in the middle of her life, trying to figure why she’s survived…and even if this is survival at all.
Grace desperately needed a place to let all the pathetic ugly hang out naked and vulnerable; a safe place to put down her brave, happy, accepting face. I suspect she’s merely using this as a last-ditch effort to hold onto some semblance of her grace, when in fact, I happen to know she just wants to let go.
Grace is an ignored little girl with hopes and dreams like most children, a hopelessly romantic teenager suffering, a college student experimenting, a single mother stressing, and most likely at any given moment here, Grace is suffering a bout of acute hypergraphia, desperately needing an outlet. Her legs are most likely unshaven and her breath might be putrid from chain-smoking and skipping the floss. She doesn’t care. She’s not trying to be pretty for you or brave for her children or strong for the masses who’ve endured more… or less ..or anything.
Here, Grace does not wear make-up or smile unless she really feels like it. She refuses to buck up, put on her big girl pants, wipe the snot from her nose and bravely move forward. No. here, she cries whines, rants, swears. Here, she wipes her cry-baby nose on the sleeve of her pink cashmere Banana Republic sweater; she doesn’t twist nervously at the strand of pearls around her neck, hoping you’ll not notice her discomfort, confusion, anger, or hate; NO, she yanks them and laughs while they scatter and roll everywhere. She does not take a deep breath, say a prayer, and tell herself, this too shall pass. She screams, WHAT THE FUCK?
Yeah, here is a glimpse of Grace unraveled like the tiny pick in her grey knit sweater. She’s not tucking that string back in and hiding it away here, she’s grabbing hold and yanking it til the sweater is a pile of used, worthless, nasty, filthy, smelly yarn…and then swinging from her string of self-pity, laughing at the cruel and crazy irony of it all.
Warning: this may be scattered, ridiculous thoughts from all over the board. It’s definitely not for the weak of spirit. It’s the place Grace goes to blow it all up and then piece, paste, and Scotch tape the tiny fragments of her spirit back together. In any way she can. …and only IF she feels like it.