My main goal, the only true goal I've ever had in my life, is to become a published author.
I've accomplished what other people might see as goals, achievements, mind.
I have a job. A job I like very much in spite of its frustrations, a job which does something for the small part of the world in which I take up space. A job that I possibly do not want to do for the rest of my life, but for now I am happy.
I have a somewhat advanced education without the aid of the pomp and circumstance of college (primary source: a mother who spent more years in college than I've been alive (22 years thus far at the time of this writing) and who was so overqualified for everything (even teaching positions) that the only job that would take her was one answering phones at a battered women's shelter - which would have had to let her go if she hadn't retired before hand). Suddenly I realize I'm more like my hero than ever I could have thought, or perhaps I am crazy and this is all in my head.
I have a canvas of skin I will paint with beauty.
Eventually, though I've never felt hardwired for it, I will find love.
That thought, the one of love, terrifies me even more than not being a writer (because not being a writer is not an option). It's not so much the notion of dying alone, but of letting someone in.
I drift. I enter someone's life and then I leave with the night. It's not something I do with any conscious intent, it's not something I do with the aim to inflict pain or anger - it's just something I do.
As a little girl, I never dreamt of a wedding - maybe because I knew, even then, that I would not be allowed to marry whatever gender took my heart. I never fantasized about a house with a white picket fence. I never wanted children or a car or dog or even a house plant.
I wanted to write. Always, I have wanted to write. But as my hero learned too late, happiness is only real when shared.
Yet I freeze. I'm either blind to the adoration of others, others I could indeed have pictured myself with, or am rendered dumb by my emotions. My heart soars and my soul aches and I want nothing more to speak. Speak, goddammit, but I cannot. I stand there with my mouth open, willing myself to expel this congealed mass of feeling in me, and instead I only stare with a pained longing at something I want so badly but am terrified of.
I am terrified because they will leave.
My father died of cancer. My "step-father" drank himself to death. My mother abandoned the former to carouse with the latter - abandoned me as well, left me to deal with the hard and empty promise of life.
I was taken away from what I recall so fondly as my true friends, the band of three I never seemed to have gotten enough of, and found myself with people whose motives I have given up trying to understand - people who instilled in me a constant suspicion of everyone. But then I made a move. I left those people, those "friends" I had, and I never looked back. I was alone. Finally, I was left alone.
Now, however, I jump between bouts of independent happiness and great unease.
I like being alone, I prefer it, and then I feel my stomach churn with dread.
What is success if I am alone? What is an absolute existence if I have no one's arms, in my state of accomplishment, to run into?
So I guess that settles it then.
Despite what fear it may cause or the awkwardness and embarrassment it might breed, I will make my confession to Dropkick Murphy even if it kills me. If it doesn't work? I've felt heartbreak before, profoundly - paralyzingly - and so it won't be the end of the world. I'll simply pick up the needle and thread and move along.
Holy Till's false phallus, Batman - I wasted an entire entry on that? Two when everything is all said and done?
(Part II - though Part II really doesn't have a thing to do with Part I)
I've accomplished what other people might see as goals, achievements, mind.
I have a job. A job I like very much in spite of its frustrations, a job which does something for the small part of the world in which I take up space. A job that I possibly do not want to do for the rest of my life, but for now I am happy.
I have a somewhat advanced education without the aid of the pomp and circumstance of college (primary source: a mother who spent more years in college than I've been alive (22 years thus far at the time of this writing) and who was so overqualified for everything (even teaching positions) that the only job that would take her was one answering phones at a battered women's shelter - which would have had to let her go if she hadn't retired before hand). Suddenly I realize I'm more like my hero than ever I could have thought, or perhaps I am crazy and this is all in my head.
I have a canvas of skin I will paint with beauty.
Eventually, though I've never felt hardwired for it, I will find love.
That thought, the one of love, terrifies me even more than not being a writer (because not being a writer is not an option). It's not so much the notion of dying alone, but of letting someone in.
I drift. I enter someone's life and then I leave with the night. It's not something I do with any conscious intent, it's not something I do with the aim to inflict pain or anger - it's just something I do.
As a little girl, I never dreamt of a wedding - maybe because I knew, even then, that I would not be allowed to marry whatever gender took my heart. I never fantasized about a house with a white picket fence. I never wanted children or a car or dog or even a house plant.
I wanted to write. Always, I have wanted to write. But as my hero learned too late, happiness is only real when shared.
Yet I freeze. I'm either blind to the adoration of others, others I could indeed have pictured myself with, or am rendered dumb by my emotions. My heart soars and my soul aches and I want nothing more to speak. Speak, goddammit, but I cannot. I stand there with my mouth open, willing myself to expel this congealed mass of feeling in me, and instead I only stare with a pained longing at something I want so badly but am terrified of.
I am terrified because they will leave.
My father died of cancer. My "step-father" drank himself to death. My mother abandoned the former to carouse with the latter - abandoned me as well, left me to deal with the hard and empty promise of life.
I was taken away from what I recall so fondly as my true friends, the band of three I never seemed to have gotten enough of, and found myself with people whose motives I have given up trying to understand - people who instilled in me a constant suspicion of everyone. But then I made a move. I left those people, those "friends" I had, and I never looked back. I was alone. Finally, I was left alone.
Now, however, I jump between bouts of independent happiness and great unease.
I like being alone, I prefer it, and then I feel my stomach churn with dread.
What is success if I am alone? What is an absolute existence if I have no one's arms, in my state of accomplishment, to run into?
So I guess that settles it then.
Despite what fear it may cause or the awkwardness and embarrassment it might breed, I will make my confession to Dropkick Murphy even if it kills me. If it doesn't work? I've felt heartbreak before, profoundly - paralyzingly - and so it won't be the end of the world. I'll simply pick up the needle and thread and move along.
Holy Till's false phallus, Batman - I wasted an entire entry on that? Two when everything is all said and done?
(Part II - though Part II really doesn't have a thing to do with Part I)
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