I’m not sure if I could love myself if I didn’t know myself. If experience has taught me anything it’s that I’m the kind of person that you have to learn, to understand, in order to appreciate. Most people I know alternate between hating and adoring me, and I understand because I do too.
I am too unstable for people to be calm around. I relate too much to female characters in Toni Morrison novels, Amy Winehouse spoke my heart so well I’m convinced she was Jesus and her music was the gospel, when Beyonce played Etta James in Cadillac Records, I understood exactly what she meant when she said “Oh honey, you wouldn’t even begin to understand my problems.” I expect myself to end up with a drug habit, it would be shocking if I made it to 25 without the help of a therapist.
I am not shallow. I can be. But it is not in my nature to be. I feel and I think. Sometimes too much, sometimes the wrong things, but I do. I wouldn’t say I’ve earned the right to be referred to as Crazy but come back in 2 years and I’ll be almost there, probably. I’m not Torch-Your-House-Crazy yet because, well, I’m still somewhat logical and hopeful. Hopeful that things work out, and logic tells me I’ll get caught and I’m not trying to have my life disrupted by arson charges over Love, but..As I said, this is now..
I understand things I wish I didn’t and am unable to verbalize things I wish I could. There is a certain loneliness, pain that is heard in music that one would like to feel, but few do. I am feeling it and again, understand why beautifully tragic lives can only exist for so long. I think only a few exceptional artists can package heartbreak, without a catchy beat and make you believe it’s bearable. And I don’t mean relationship wise, although that too, counts.
If I’ve learned anything about great, sad artists, and from my experience, your heart doesn’t break once, it’s not about that one man who left, although sometimes it may be. Your heart breaks every time you remember the tiniest of things, something someone said about why you’re difficult to love, the one who held on and had to go because you were killing him inside, the time your father showed he didn’t care anymore, the time your mother didn’t defend you, and then the facade cracks, because I believe as an artist you can only maintain your facade for so long. We aren’t allowed/able to leave things in the past, especially as a writer, everything is connected and you have to constantly pull up memories and experiences. I think as a musician or painter it’s different because they move one, a musician has to move with the times and a painter can constantly find new inspiration, well, unless they choose to fixate on one thing but, that’s it.
I’m failing at being Young. I’m not youthful in any sense of the word, I can’t even dress like people my age, I have to try. Why? Because I’m simply not here. I realize that when I’m around peers and I’m completely uninterested in their stories, their hour long discussions about why the boy never texted back, when I meet the boys who want to prey on my insecurities and save me from myself, when I meet the men who hope I’m naive enough to use, the family members who don’t think you’re destined for anything but mediocrity, I’m uninterested and most times unaffected. To quote Cali from Power of Pussy, “..Some people are just out here living and I’m fighting for it.” My issues are more along the lines of trying not to be a struggling artist, staying away from alcohol and trying to convince myself suicide isn’t as appealing as it actually is. These are real issues for me that I struggle with all the time and ironically, I want no help with. I’m convinced I’m strong enough to get over it alone although when the sun sets I highly doubt that.
I’ve been telling my best friend that I feel a very lonely existence. The kind that envelops you and explaining it is kind of like explaining what it’s like to breathe through your nose..it’s normal, seems insignificant but is necessary. My other friend said he’d like to create the perfect man for him and I explained, it’s not about a romantic relationship, I merely want someone to relate, to understand why I make mountains out of molehills and some days I’m depressed and inconsolable, why I am as I am, because of what I’ve been. Companionship and intimacy. I tire of meeting people and hearing Amy Winehouse’s “Stronger Than Me” playing in my head.
But consider the age we live in. Intimacy is feared by many because of the idea of vulnerability and knowing you’d have to share yourself with someone else. How many times have we done that and it’s gone wrong? How many times has one had to mend bruised hearts and shattered egos and hide their trust issues? One too many it seems, for all of us. But I often wonder if “Bitches ain’t shit” is strong enough to make you feel right on your worst day when you’re craving genuine affection.
I often say I need stable people around me but to be frank and fair, I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I’m learning the key to every functioning relationship, no matter how small, is understanding. Calm people with average life stories are not for me, I tend to ruin those that I encounter. On the other hand, finding your own Blake Fielder-Civil will mean little to no peace, or a different kind, I don’t know yet.
These thoughts make me feel selfish, because I’ve been blessed with a best friend I consider my Soul-Mate. A man who loves me unconditionally and I often tell people it’s sad because not a lot of people will get to feel what we have for each other in their lifetime. But despite this, despite the fact that I already experience an indescribable love that fulfills almost every part of me, there’s that. Because even he, as much as he loves me, cannot feel what I do as I do. He understands some bits and I may be asking too much to expect/ hope for, what I do. But I understand why it isn’t possible, he is not me and I get that. I’m grateful for his love and support, still.
I think what I’m trying to say is, I want to connect with more people and unfortunately we live in a time when people would rather be anything but honest. About their flaws, their desires, themselves. And for people like me, this leaves one feeling out of place and odd.
To quote @RomanKush on the issue “We’re the last of a dying breed”.
It’s hard to see the beauty in yourself to begin with considering Society. Even harder when we can’t even tell each other we’re worth something. When the only compliments you can count on are from two friends, strangers on the internet and yourself.
I wondered last night if a “You is kind, you is smart, you is important” would matter coming from the same person everyday. I doubted it. As I type this I wonder if I do my part, and I don’t know. I may be too busy observing to do anything.
I’m over having sex and miss making love. Fuck, I miss holding hands. Being able to cry in front of those you consider close to you, and I don’t mean silent tears, ugly cries. I miss passion. The raw passion that terrifies and yet intrigues. I’m sometimes ashamed of the fact that it burns in me because I don’t see it elsewhere.
And to answer Warsan’s question, Yes, I tried to change, and I know you understand why, and I couldn’t because this is how I am. And it’s a constant struggle to remember that I’m like this for a reason. That I have a right to sing the Blues. I have to teach myself to not do what almost every other person I’ve met has done, told me I’m too much or too little of something. And this is where I am now.
And if I ever decide Life’s gotten to be too much, I will forgive myself for the decision I will make, because I will understand. And it will not mean I would have been ungrateful for anything that has happened or anything that I’ve learned.