Cussing for Kindness

Hot, soapy water dripped down my naked back, and I stood there blankly staring at the fogged up shower doors. I hesitated, but then I whispered “shit.”

Nobody could hear me. Nobody needed to. I just needed to say it.

Shit.

The word floated out of my mouth as innocently as a bubble popping; I said it, but then my tongue hit the back of my teeth and just like that, the word ended.

I tried it again. This time with a little more power. Air escaped the gap between my top and bottom teeth making the “sh” sound. I closed the gap allowing the word to end with a solid “tuh.” It sounded rather monotone, but the word was out. And louder.

I felt dangerous — in a good way. I lathered my hair and smiled. I turned the faucet off, grabbed the towel, and looked in the mirror.

I said it one more time. Shit.

Let me be clear: I am not calling myself shit or the shit. Every time I said the word, I was breaking the shackles chaining my mind; I was freeing myself from anxiety.

My anxiety forced me to shut down explicit language. Sometimes cuss words came into my thoughts, but my feelings of guilt cut them out as swiftly as a slap to the face.

Every once in awhile, I wondered why swearing was so bad. Who designated that the English language have words that were to be looked down upon by society? Why did I feel the need to restrain myself from the language? Silence responded to my questions, and I let those answers suffice.

Meanwhile, my friends and mentors let the words fly out of their mouth without any guilt or shame. I loved them for that. I loved the way each of them laughed after speaking their mind and envied how carefree the words came out of their mouth. My memories of them wouldn’t be of them without their swearing — without their freedom of expression.

At some point, I started to swear. I couldn’t tell you why I started. Maybe because I was jealous of how carefree my peers could be while speaking, or because the energy used to restrain the language became too much to bare. So, I practiced swearing, cussed in public, and never stopped.

During the end of my high school career, my friends joked that I had to “get all of my fucks out.” I became addicted. Every sentence ended with profanity. And I fuckin’ loved it.

I transformed too. I became more vocal, stood up for myself, challenged my role in society, and fought like hell for everything and everyone I cared about. I would be lying if I said the only reason I changed was because I decided to throw vulgar language into my vocabulary. However, I’d also be lying if I said swearing had no impact on my life.

Cussing taught me to let go. I learned to let go of impossible expectations and stop restricting myself from who I could be. I was taught to express my inner thoughts and learned those thoughts have value; I have value.

Breaking the shackles that chained my mind was the first step I completed to learn to love myself. I could not love who I am/was if I restricted my true identity.

So, yeah, I am a girl who loves to fuckin’ cuss.