Dusting for Fingerprints.

It's a funny thing; our Life Experiences.
They're like fingerprints, really - each one totally unique, totally different. Each moment, each relationship, each friendship has its own unique identity - and each relationship leaves its own unique & special imprint on you. Every person you've ever loved, or has loved you, leaves you touched by them; everyone leaves their imprint on you in some way. Unfortunately, same goes for the bad; for those who didn't love you, for those people in your life that hurt you. 

Indelible.

My mother constantly thinks I am mad at her; I am not. Not Ever. (Now hopefully, because this is in writing, she will believe me.) To make a point, I once asked her if anything I had said to her meanly when I was a teenager had stuck with her. If she remembered the cruel words of her fourteen year old first born. Her reply? Yes. I then asked her if she specifically remembered anything the kinder, gentler fourteen year old had said. Her reply was basically No. Not to say I never said anything sweet to her, but the fingerprints that fourteen year old me had left on my mom were... kind of grubby. We often only remember the negative and sometimes, these grubby fingerprints are covered in glue - they become what we allow to stick to our  own personal sense of identity. Like my mother, thinking that I am mad at her now because 14 year old me would've been.
So, as I was just finally getting my bearings as a whole person post-breakup, I started writing the kind things people said to me down on a Word document in my computer.
Those are the words I am - these days - choosing to imprint on my sense of self.
I demand that those are the words, regardless of the source, are what make up the imprints what make me of who I am today.

I was then His & no longer My Own.

When I met my Ex, my own identity went out the window. The stories that I told about my life & my experiences were cast aside, in favor of his stories. His stories - I can now recall them verbatim. And to be honest, when I was 23, when I met my Ex, that is exactly what I wanted. Although my life in Los Angeles was pretty magical in the couple years before I met the Ex, they were also pretty rough. I'd had a rough go of it in my early twenties, and was more than willing to kind of push my own stories out of my head; to adopt a new identity. And at that point, I had been left with some pretty grubby glue streaked fingerprints on me, so I was more than willing to push them all out of my head, out of my personal sense of self.

So, I took on his family, his life and really rarely ever talked about my own after that.

Leaving behind some really valuable parts of who I am.

Aaaaand I am an Odd One.
With Pretty Damn Good Stories.

But the parts of me that my Ex didn't value - like my silly imagination, or my wit, or even my story telling skills - the fingerprints I tried to wash away, they were still there - however invisible their imprints may have seemed. He and I never talked about our past relationships, and the stories of my magical days driving my old Mercedes through the Hollywood Hills, or my little red Suburu through the vineyards of wine country - they were rarely mentioned. Whats worse, is the people that went along with those stories were pushed aside as well. Gone was the non sequitor Me, the witty Me, the story telling Me, the tell it like it is Me, the creative, the funny, the charismatic ME.
Those parts of me - and the parts of me that I do believe leave my fingerprints on those I love - the parts of me I now value most. His childhood stories set in idyllic suburbia - his basketball glory, his surf trips, his All American youth became our identity. My definition of 'Me' then began at the party where I first met him.  Which is why I believe I was so lost when I finally ended up in my little beachside studio apartment, alone. Because I didn't know who I was without him, because my own fingerprints were no where to be found on my own life. And when we got back together for that short amount of time, I was almost unrecognizable to him, because I was slowly regaining that sense of  Me. Putting Me back together; identifying the imprints of those old fingerprints, the grubby and the beautiful ones alike.

The neighbors wiiiiillllll think,
"Oh there goes Kat Moss...
Aaannnd she forgot her pants again.'

What made me think of all this?
Well, for one - my college roommate came to visit for a night this weekend. And we spent most of the evening going through old pictures of us in college - and reminiscing about those days, with my neighbor there, listening as well laughed at our adventures. Adventures I hadn't re-visited - other than in a few anecdotes that I tell - in years. Apt F listened intently, and told me later that he really liked looking at the photos of us from those days. This visit lead to a funny conversation with Goldi about her confusion when I said my old college roommate was coming to stay. She had never heard of her. Which then led to other stories about other college roommates, whole years in my life that have gone unmentioned for years. Years and experiences and relationships imprinted upon me, however long-ignored.
Secondly, my relationship with Apt F has had me telling personal stories, giving up the anecdotes that make up both the beautiful fingerprints and the grubby glue covered ones. In this relationship - and in our friendship - I truly have been the most honest about Me and what makes me who I am than ever before. Without the guise of the written word, without insecurities & without judgement. He has me telling long forgotten stories, and he allows me to be myself without the fear of shattering this delicate image he already has of me - because, unlike my Ex & his 'what will the neighbors think' mentality - Apt F and I started out not caring, quite literally, what The Neighbor would think. With both of us upfront about our flailing and failing; upfront about who we are and our collection of fingerprints.
I remember once with the Dutchman, Bijou and I were out to brunch, and I went to say something - and, I have had this problem in most relationships (self-doubt, fear of sounding stupid) - and I stopped myself. Something I would never had done if it was just me and the girls, but with the addition of the Dutchman I found myself reverting back to that doubtful &  insecure me. So I stopped what I was saying, midsentence and instead finished it with a "Aaah, nevermind." And Bijou pounced on me - in a good way, as friend - asking why I was stopping myself from speaking.

Have a little confidence, she said shrilly. Why are you being like this?

Because thats how I was with the Ex, the Aussie & the Dutchman. But with Apt F, I am not. And he thinks I am brilliant for it. He loves how smart I am (he says this often) which gives me more confidence. Confidence in his feelings for me, confidence in my own thoughts. My own non sequitor wit. My ability to articulate stories, to make him laugh, to correct his mistakes. He loves this about me.

I know he does because he tells me he does.

Um, I think this is Brilliant.
And Beautiful.

I have a man who tells me I am brilliant.  Who tells me I am beautiful. Who is - Idobelieve - falling in love with me. (And, I should mention too - that since our little issue on Thanksgiving, has reigned himself in & has been taking the necessary steps back towards adulthood.)
But, not only does he tell me these things, he makes me feel beautiful & brilliant as well.
Last night, I overheard him say to a friend,

She gets me. She can keep up with me. She is perfect for me.

Apt F is falling for Me, the girl in Apt C - imprints, fingerprints and all.