This is something that I have wanted to discuss for quite some time but have not felt comfortable approaching the subject. With a little Chopin and the resolve to change my life, I feel like it is something I now would like to talk about.
It’s a certain season and time of day that leads me to have unwholesome thoughts, and it is my car that gives validation to my impulsivity. Alone I fall victim to my thoughts, my only company apart the music – and sometimes not even that. Were it not for practicality doing its best to ground me, I would travel without end and with no destination in mind.
You see, it’s not a consequence of any consideration or planning, but rather an arrow on a brilliant sign set high above a highway on ramp that makes empty promises.
“Pick me – pick me!” screams the silent metal, horrendously loud, ringing in my ears.
Perhaps I have spoken about this topic before – I can’t recall – but I will again. And you can’t stop me. I mean, I suppose you could just click past my post, but then that wouldn’t be very nice now would it, hm?
When I was a child, I always thought I was most beautiful when I cried. I mean, yes, there is nothing like a child’s smile (I can see that now), but there is also something so beautifully compelling about a melancholic femme who so obviously bares the weight of many sorrows. At least to me, that is the sort of person whom I would like to get to know more about, to understand, and to analyze.
There’s nothing intriguing
about a cheerleader;
Now, I’m not insinuating that I had a bad childhood – actually, quite the contrary. The life that I was privy to was marvelous – don’t get me wrong. But inside of me there was always something wrong. I was always different. At a much younger age than my peers I thought about love, about mysterious adventure, about many things that a youngster should not comprehend.
I cannot recall
ever being innocent;
Depression is a funny creature. Just when you think you are in the clear, She sneaks up behind you and pulls you back in.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot
Though I wouldn’t call myself an artist in any professional sense of the word, I am rather left-brained. It would seem that often madness and emotional turmoil go hand in hand with a heightened imagination and deeper need to nurture the soul through creative endeavors.
Growing up, my father always played the Blues.
Throughout my childhood, I suffered silently through feelings of self-hate, paranoia, and the fear of disappointing my family. Although I performed well in school – performed being the operative word – I was never truly happy.
My fear of doing “something wrong” stopped me from truly experiencing the life I was, at the time, blessed to live. My childhood passed me by without any meaningful friendships – or, for that matter, really any friendships at all. At an age where I should have had innocent relationships with my peers in order to understand myself and really blossom into the person I would have become, I studied hard, had manners, and always did the right thing.
But I was fat.
And this was always held above my head as the ultimate failure. My wealthy relatives on my father’s side insisted that my mother had “made me fat” out of spite to embarrass them amongst their friends in high society. My father asked, although out of concern for my health, whether I did not want to sit in a chair without taking up the whole thing. And my mother continued to feed me.