The ones who wrapped me up in a snuggy (one of those as-seen-on-TV blankets with sleeves) pushed a cup of tea into my hand and sat me down on their sofa before putting on Four Weddings and A Funeral, pointedly ignoring the fact that the parts I cried at weren't the sad ones.
The ones who kept up with me as I stormed across town, cursing and swearing, sometimes at myself, sometimes at someone else, sometimes at the world in general.
The one who sent me home at 2 am when I would have happily stayed.
The one who said he didn't regret it, didn't regret me.
The one who assured me I was a beauty, chips or no chips.
The one who said, "You look great. You stop eating again?"
The one who said "Well, can you blame me?"
The one who thought I was out of his league.
The one who paid for my taxi so I didn't have to walk.
The one who's going to hold my hand while I get my first tattoo.
The one who told me I was too good for that guy, even when I didn't believe it.
The one who handed me earplugs.
The one who asked all the right questions when nobody else would even listen to me.
The one who I never believed.
The one I always believed.
Everybody whose moment I'm forgetting at this particular juncture. Everybody who did good things for me. Everybody I forget about on the bad days. Just like how on the good days I forget about the bad things and bad people, it's even easier to forget all the good on the bad days.
Everybody who's still listening.
Everybody who's still dreaming.
Daydream Believer
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
For Now
I'm trying to write this as quickly as possible before the feeling fades again. It's fleeting, that feeling of freedom. Joan Jett half singing half screaming through the speakers, the wicked smile twisting my mouth as I tear out of the parking lot past the beer-league hockey players loitering around minivan tailgates. Waiting for the light to change and release me from my icy prison, zipping down a deserted road, nothing behind me but the past, everything else before me, there for the taking. Life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone, according to John Cougar Mellencamp, and I laugh at his foolishness. Turning the stereo up to be heard over the rush of air as the on-ramp disappears behind me and I get up to speed. The thoughts from my quiet, brightly lit prison fading slowly, their highlights still marking moments. Space, mountains, tropical islands, pictures and words from the bright glossy pages reminding me how much there is left to see. Grinning as a little red sports car overtakes me on the left, in contrast with the daytime frustrations of the person in too big a hurry the night finds kindred spirits, someone who can push their limits just a little more than me tonight, and I wish them well for it. The damp, cool air which only hours before had made the day unbearably muggy after midnight blasting through the windows, the four-by-sixty doing its glorious work even though really it's a little more like four-by-one hundred twenty, (shh don't tell anyone). The artificial wind whipping around my head, tugging and teasing my hair out of the severe ponytail reserved for those days when I can't quite be bothered to wash my hair, even though it's looking a little stringy. My left foot tapping out rhythms with the music, my right motionless on the gas pedal. No time for brakes tonight.
I have spent a lot of time sad lately. It has been a long time since I did not want to live, but even recently, the wanting to live was for later, for sometime in the future, after the responsibilities are sorted out, after there's more money, after I'm independent, after, after, after. Tonight, though, it's for right now. It's for the gas gauge dipping towards empty, for the ponytail my hair is sliding out of, for Joan Jett and to prove Mellencamp wrong, for the fall I can already taste on the air, for the stars I can hardly see any of because of the cloud cover. It's for me. For now.
I have spent a lot of time sad lately. It has been a long time since I did not want to live, but even recently, the wanting to live was for later, for sometime in the future, after the responsibilities are sorted out, after there's more money, after I'm independent, after, after, after. Tonight, though, it's for right now. It's for the gas gauge dipping towards empty, for the ponytail my hair is sliding out of, for Joan Jett and to prove Mellencamp wrong, for the fall I can already taste on the air, for the stars I can hardly see any of because of the cloud cover. It's for me. For now.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
More Confessions
These are things I know. Things a part of me has likely always known. Things I've thought, and hinted. Some things I've said implicitly. Some things I refused to.
Given the choice, I'd rather be a Brick House than a Playboy Bunny. I want to be strong, solid.
Fuck. The second makes me angry. It shouldn't, I should be happy for everyone, but I'm not. I'm pissed off on my own behalf. I know more and more people who are doing it. Doing the thing that they love to do and makes them feel happy, fulfilled, and worthwhile. Some of them are even paid to do it, or will be once people start buying. The most attentive of my observers (that's anyone I talk to repeatedly about myself... so a fair number of people) might say, "But DDB, you don't know what will make you happy, fulfilled, and worthwhile. If you don't know what does it for you, how can you do it?" That, while a very good question, doesn't make me feel any better. I know professional musicians, professional actors, people volunteering building schools, wells, etc. in impoverished African villages. People who have decided what their walk is going to be, and are walking it. I don't know what my walk is, and until I find out, I can't walk it. Which brings me to #3.
I'm fucking bored! I'm stuck in limbo and feel like I have been since puberty. I'm not a kid, I'm not a grown up. I'm not a tomboy. I'm not overly feminine in a high-maintenance kind of way. I'm not a gifted athlete, artist, or academic, my path isn't clear to me. I'm free, but stuck. I can't move forward and I don't want to move back. What I'm left with is side-wiggling. Things I try to adjust, my relationships, my appearance (finally lost 5 pounds, which it has taken me nearly 3 years to drop, FYI. Maybe this is the first step) my behaviours in the short term. As though if I can figure out what kind of image I want to project, who I want to represent myself as, that will help me figure out who I am.
I want romance. Some part of me still wants to be swept off my feet. In spite of all logic and all the things that through conditioning and deduction I have established that I want and that I am, I want to hear someone tell me I'm unlike anyone they've ever met before, I'm different, I'm somehow perfect. That it was me they were always looking for, whether they knew it or not.
I don't have substance addictions, but I firmly believe it's only because I've never found one that's good enough to me to make me need it. I'm that way with people, not pills.
I hate to be caged. I hate to be trapped. The men and boys I've been in relationships with have always tried to cage me in one way or another. I don't like it, I can't handle it. It may be a velvet rope, but to me it's still a chain, a leash, a tether. I'm at my best cut loose. Ironically, I sleep most comfortably when cocooned, twisted up in a tangle of sheets, limbs, or both, so that every time I turn over in my sleep, which I do frequently, I'm further restrained, further tucked in, wrapped up cozy and safe, as though a handful of blankets can save me from the world.
I'm sometimes a speed demon. I'm sometimes a control freak. I'm sometimes a neat freak. I'm more often a bit of a slob, in the method in the madness kind of way. I know where everything is, even if it looks like a tornado just hit my room.
I want to go out with a bang. Every now and then when I'm driving, I think to myself "You know, if I swung the steering wheel to the left right now I could probably get square in front of that transport truck before it had time to stop. What a bang that would make." I'm not convinced this counts as a thought of suicide, though a psychiatrist might tell me differently.
I'm petrified that I'm crazy. I know that's not the politically correct term for the broad spectrum of things that might be wrong with me, but I prefer it. It's concise and there's no bones about it. I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid that something's wrong or that nothing is. I'm afraid that there's something wrong that could progress or change, or upon closer inspection might be discovered to be something along the lines of "You need to be locked up, it's remarkable that you've been functional up until this point". Whether something's wrong or not, I need to continue to be high-functioning. I can't spend any more time being bored. I have dreams, things I want to see, do, and accomplish, and I can't do any of those things if I'm stuck in a sanitarium. If nothing's wrong, I want to know why it feels like something is. Because the more I think about it, the more I think that something is wrong.
I'm bored, I'm lonely, and those are the two things I most desperately want not to be. At the moment I'm profoundly unhappy, disturbed, angry, depressed, afraid, paranoid, panicked, and probably several other kinds of upset, but I don't know it on the good days, and you wouldn't either if I didn't tell you. Unfortunately the bad days aren't easy to predict, and although so far I've kept them out of work and other responsibilities, I don't know how long I can keep that up. The tiniest things set me off, make me feel like nothing in the world could ever be right ever again. And that's petrifying on its own.
I have a thing for musicians. This time, it's a bass player. The undercurrents of the drummer and the last few guitarists are still in my blood like booze, even though it's been some time since my last sip. But I'm thirsty. I don't know for sure why it is that I'm so attracted to musicians, or whether in fact the correlation has anything to do with the attraction. Yes, I'm attracted to a lot of musicians, but is that why I'm attracted to them. Who knows.
I'm pining. On the surface, it's for the bass player and what he could have been and now, will not be. Dig a little deeper and it's for the place I met him. Deeper still, and it's not about him, nor is it about the place, it's about me. I miss the me that I was when I was with him in that place. I miss the independent, a little reckless, more confident, less angry, not bored, not stuck, grabbing life by the balls woman that I had worked so hard to become. I don't know if I can continue to be her. It's possible that I'll snap back once I'm on my own again. That these few months haven't been enough to stifle me for good.
What do all these songs have in common: Remedy, Telephone, Bad Romance, Tik Tok, Le Disko, Dangerous, Lollipop, Heartbreaker, Down With The Sickness, Disturbia, Jerk It Out.
The answer: While this is by no means an exhaustive list, these are songs that I crave when I'm in a certain mood, songs that have, at one time or another been "my song" the one that I feel something in me clicks with. Sometimes it's because it reminds me of a certain feeling or person, often both, a person and how they make me feel. Sometimes it's because I need to shake my hair, twist and writhe and fling my limbs until something, whatever it is, clears itself up, and that was the song that happened to be on at the time. Nobody can keep up with me on the dance floor. Well, nobody but Bluten. But it's been a long time since then. And I've mostly given up on heels since then, so I stay on the floor even longer now. Most importantly, these songs remind me of times when I felt the way Bluten said I looked, "some glowing, gorgeous, extraordinary figurehead of what it was to be young and powerful; something dark, delicious, alive". She sees me as what I crave being seen as. So how do I convince everyone else to see me like that too? I have this hunch that it comes down to seeing myself that way. And I completely and entirely don't know how to do that.
So I'm really fucked up. Right now, I'm talking to the last guy I slept with about the guy I'd like to be sleeping with. Who's not calling me for some unknown reason, and is doing the same thing to me again. That thing guys do where they kiss me and then decide I'm not a good idea. This is not good for me. The feeling that this is giving me is not good for me.
I forget to eat. Well, not exactly, more like I think "I should eat" and even though I know I should be hungry, I'm nauseous when I actually look at food. Depends on the food. Popcorn and ice cream produce no reaction. Silly.
And there's a Plymouth-shaped hole inside me that no amount of sunshine can fill. As melodramatic as that sounds, it's quite accurate.
Keep Dreaming
Given the choice, I'd rather be a Brick House than a Playboy Bunny. I want to be strong, solid.
Fuck. The second makes me angry. It shouldn't, I should be happy for everyone, but I'm not. I'm pissed off on my own behalf. I know more and more people who are doing it. Doing the thing that they love to do and makes them feel happy, fulfilled, and worthwhile. Some of them are even paid to do it, or will be once people start buying. The most attentive of my observers (that's anyone I talk to repeatedly about myself... so a fair number of people) might say, "But DDB, you don't know what will make you happy, fulfilled, and worthwhile. If you don't know what does it for you, how can you do it?" That, while a very good question, doesn't make me feel any better. I know professional musicians, professional actors, people volunteering building schools, wells, etc. in impoverished African villages. People who have decided what their walk is going to be, and are walking it. I don't know what my walk is, and until I find out, I can't walk it. Which brings me to #3.
I'm fucking bored! I'm stuck in limbo and feel like I have been since puberty. I'm not a kid, I'm not a grown up. I'm not a tomboy. I'm not overly feminine in a high-maintenance kind of way. I'm not a gifted athlete, artist, or academic, my path isn't clear to me. I'm free, but stuck. I can't move forward and I don't want to move back. What I'm left with is side-wiggling. Things I try to adjust, my relationships, my appearance (finally lost 5 pounds, which it has taken me nearly 3 years to drop, FYI. Maybe this is the first step) my behaviours in the short term. As though if I can figure out what kind of image I want to project, who I want to represent myself as, that will help me figure out who I am.
I want romance. Some part of me still wants to be swept off my feet. In spite of all logic and all the things that through conditioning and deduction I have established that I want and that I am, I want to hear someone tell me I'm unlike anyone they've ever met before, I'm different, I'm somehow perfect. That it was me they were always looking for, whether they knew it or not.
I don't have substance addictions, but I firmly believe it's only because I've never found one that's good enough to me to make me need it. I'm that way with people, not pills.
I hate to be caged. I hate to be trapped. The men and boys I've been in relationships with have always tried to cage me in one way or another. I don't like it, I can't handle it. It may be a velvet rope, but to me it's still a chain, a leash, a tether. I'm at my best cut loose. Ironically, I sleep most comfortably when cocooned, twisted up in a tangle of sheets, limbs, or both, so that every time I turn over in my sleep, which I do frequently, I'm further restrained, further tucked in, wrapped up cozy and safe, as though a handful of blankets can save me from the world.
I'm sometimes a speed demon. I'm sometimes a control freak. I'm sometimes a neat freak. I'm more often a bit of a slob, in the method in the madness kind of way. I know where everything is, even if it looks like a tornado just hit my room.
I want to go out with a bang. Every now and then when I'm driving, I think to myself "You know, if I swung the steering wheel to the left right now I could probably get square in front of that transport truck before it had time to stop. What a bang that would make." I'm not convinced this counts as a thought of suicide, though a psychiatrist might tell me differently.
I'm petrified that I'm crazy. I know that's not the politically correct term for the broad spectrum of things that might be wrong with me, but I prefer it. It's concise and there's no bones about it. I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid that something's wrong or that nothing is. I'm afraid that there's something wrong that could progress or change, or upon closer inspection might be discovered to be something along the lines of "You need to be locked up, it's remarkable that you've been functional up until this point". Whether something's wrong or not, I need to continue to be high-functioning. I can't spend any more time being bored. I have dreams, things I want to see, do, and accomplish, and I can't do any of those things if I'm stuck in a sanitarium. If nothing's wrong, I want to know why it feels like something is. Because the more I think about it, the more I think that something is wrong.
I'm bored, I'm lonely, and those are the two things I most desperately want not to be. At the moment I'm profoundly unhappy, disturbed, angry, depressed, afraid, paranoid, panicked, and probably several other kinds of upset, but I don't know it on the good days, and you wouldn't either if I didn't tell you. Unfortunately the bad days aren't easy to predict, and although so far I've kept them out of work and other responsibilities, I don't know how long I can keep that up. The tiniest things set me off, make me feel like nothing in the world could ever be right ever again. And that's petrifying on its own.
I have a thing for musicians. This time, it's a bass player. The undercurrents of the drummer and the last few guitarists are still in my blood like booze, even though it's been some time since my last sip. But I'm thirsty. I don't know for sure why it is that I'm so attracted to musicians, or whether in fact the correlation has anything to do with the attraction. Yes, I'm attracted to a lot of musicians, but is that why I'm attracted to them. Who knows.
I'm pining. On the surface, it's for the bass player and what he could have been and now, will not be. Dig a little deeper and it's for the place I met him. Deeper still, and it's not about him, nor is it about the place, it's about me. I miss the me that I was when I was with him in that place. I miss the independent, a little reckless, more confident, less angry, not bored, not stuck, grabbing life by the balls woman that I had worked so hard to become. I don't know if I can continue to be her. It's possible that I'll snap back once I'm on my own again. That these few months haven't been enough to stifle me for good.
What do all these songs have in common: Remedy, Telephone, Bad Romance, Tik Tok, Le Disko, Dangerous, Lollipop, Heartbreaker, Down With The Sickness, Disturbia, Jerk It Out.
The answer: While this is by no means an exhaustive list, these are songs that I crave when I'm in a certain mood, songs that have, at one time or another been "my song" the one that I feel something in me clicks with. Sometimes it's because it reminds me of a certain feeling or person, often both, a person and how they make me feel. Sometimes it's because I need to shake my hair, twist and writhe and fling my limbs until something, whatever it is, clears itself up, and that was the song that happened to be on at the time. Nobody can keep up with me on the dance floor. Well, nobody but Bluten. But it's been a long time since then. And I've mostly given up on heels since then, so I stay on the floor even longer now. Most importantly, these songs remind me of times when I felt the way Bluten said I looked, "some glowing, gorgeous, extraordinary figurehead of what it was to be young and powerful; something dark, delicious, alive". She sees me as what I crave being seen as. So how do I convince everyone else to see me like that too? I have this hunch that it comes down to seeing myself that way. And I completely and entirely don't know how to do that.
So I'm really fucked up. Right now, I'm talking to the last guy I slept with about the guy I'd like to be sleeping with. Who's not calling me for some unknown reason, and is doing the same thing to me again. That thing guys do where they kiss me and then decide I'm not a good idea. This is not good for me. The feeling that this is giving me is not good for me.
I forget to eat. Well, not exactly, more like I think "I should eat" and even though I know I should be hungry, I'm nauseous when I actually look at food. Depends on the food. Popcorn and ice cream produce no reaction. Silly.
And there's a Plymouth-shaped hole inside me that no amount of sunshine can fill. As melodramatic as that sounds, it's quite accurate.
Keep Dreaming
Boredom-Fuelled Agitation
I'm bored. Yep, that's right. Somehow working twice a week and seeing my friends once in a blue moon just isn't enough for me anymore. Shucks. I guess I'll have to get a hobby, having already nearly exhausted my mother's collection of 1 hour TV dramas on DVD, bookmarked more recipes I can't wait to try than I'll get through in a month of Sundays, begun crocheting an afghan (which is a blanket, for anyone who doesn't know, and it will be fabulous once it's done) taken up learning Japanese again, and created an ever-increasing list of books, blogs, news articles, and serial web comics to read and/or catch up on. I'm still bored.
I don't suffer from a lack of tasks, to-do list items to cross off, things to occupy my hands, mind, or eyes. I suffer from a lack of social interaction, which is caused by a variety of things. One, my job (cleaning bathrooms, if you weren't aware) isn't exactly the most social of professions, particularly since I spend the bulk of my day inside women's washrooms and change rooms, where my coworkers (generally all make except me) can't go. Two, being a cosmopolitan and worldly global citizen, having lived and studied in a number of cities across three countries and two continents, where I am and where my friends are don't tend to coincide. I'm all for Skype, MSN, Yahoo, e-mail, cell phones, blackberries, portable internet, netbooks, which are all supposed to make it easier to connect with the people around you, or perhaps more accurately, not around you. There's only so much it can do though, really. I can log in and wait for the friend I haven't seen in ages to do the same, but there's always the outside possibility of them actually having a life, an occupation, friends in a similar locality that they might be hanging out with outside the vicinity of their computer. And I'm still stuck sitting here waiting.
Keep Dreaming
I don't suffer from a lack of tasks, to-do list items to cross off, things to occupy my hands, mind, or eyes. I suffer from a lack of social interaction, which is caused by a variety of things. One, my job (cleaning bathrooms, if you weren't aware) isn't exactly the most social of professions, particularly since I spend the bulk of my day inside women's washrooms and change rooms, where my coworkers (generally all make except me) can't go. Two, being a cosmopolitan and worldly global citizen, having lived and studied in a number of cities across three countries and two continents, where I am and where my friends are don't tend to coincide. I'm all for Skype, MSN, Yahoo, e-mail, cell phones, blackberries, portable internet, netbooks, which are all supposed to make it easier to connect with the people around you, or perhaps more accurately, not around you. There's only so much it can do though, really. I can log in and wait for the friend I haven't seen in ages to do the same, but there's always the outside possibility of them actually having a life, an occupation, friends in a similar locality that they might be hanging out with outside the vicinity of their computer. And I'm still stuck sitting here waiting.
Keep Dreaming
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