Followers

Friday, February 5, 2016

Dear ___, I'm sorry. Notes from the rim of the Bell Jar.

Rejection is G-d's protection. That's what the putrid smelling homeless guy uttered to my disconsolate face as I walked, ever quickening, past him to the theater. Oh fuck you asshole, I say, ignoring the 'pearl clutching' strangers nearby. I don't need your stupid adages. Is G-d protecting you now? I am a jerk.  He grins a toothless grin.  He has a special power most do not. He knows that he is my worst fear.  He has the unfortunate luck of being a universal horrible outcome, and I am shame spiraling down the slide, feet first towards his life.  I throw a dollar at him hoping the wind doesn't carry it off to some undeserving lucky mother fucker. I am so very unemployed.

As soon as Nikia sees me, she jumps with excitement.  She's wearing a fake fur and dozens of shiny dangly chains and bangles. Every little instance of her shakes and jangles as she reaches out for a hug. Nikia tells me that I am a "brilliant girl" as we push past the eye rolling 'beautiful people' couple in the seats next to ours.  Popcorn spills on his skinny jeans, and she plucks the kernels off like a mamma lynx eyeing us the whole time. I stare down the beautiful people for a moment and then I tell Nikia that this is what they all say, right before they tell me that it's not my fault. There is someone else.  Another applicant, another candidate, an ex girlfriend, a better writer... but for some eye gauging reason- they always tell me I am "brilliant." Brilliant is shiny and extraordinary. I feel dulled and mediocre.  I slump down and beg for the lights to go down so that Nikia will stop pep talking me, and I can pretend for a moment in the dark that we are all the same.

And then by the time the night is over I am drunk.  Whiskey, neat.  Me- explaining once again what has been a perpetual nightmare of falling short of what I need and bending into the awkward position of being pitiable- no one really enjoys that- ever.  I cry as my train gets to my stop. Its ok- there is no-one on the train by the time it gets to Church Ave.  And even if there were- I won't care- I have a right to shed tears on these trains. I have lived here my whole life.  I try to suck it back because now I am walking and I can just imagine the men on the corner assuming the opportunity to "comfort" me. So I pull my hat down, blow my nose and cross the street to take the long way home. My head is a diving bell teetering upside down on my neck holding little trite aphorisms like linguistic fish fighting to stay alive in my poisoned head.

You should keep perspective. You lost someone who didn't give a fuck about you. He lost someone who actually was starting to care about him.  

You probably did not get that job because it would have been bad for you to take on that big of a commitment. Maybe there are places you need to go. 

That volunteer opportunity is the most coveted spot. (BUT I CAN"T EVEN GET A JOB FOR FREE!) You can't work for free now anyway...

On and on and on they go.  Teaching me to ingest that which I can not have.  But with each rejection I start to turn back and pour over my own personal history with a researcher's eye.  Each page filled with nuances and messages that I missed before. Each moment that I could not react to swiftly enough because I was processing. Because I was hurt. Because I was insecure. Because I have never had a boyfriend. Because I have never had a great job. Because I have never been proud. Because even though this is all true - nothing pleases me like the feeling of the keys under my hands, as if magically I can figure this all out like a big mystery. If I could just stop being THAT me- it'll work out.  My memory turns to regret.  Rejection is the inseam of the jacket. Regret is the thread that starts to fray the coat. I begin to revise recent history. I'm bored. So bored. What else can I do but look for the places I messed up.

I dipped into the hometown well for love, something I never do, ever.  I'm from a petulant little island where everyone knows everyone and we are somewhat arrested in development and traumatized on some level, with the exception of those who've gotten far far far away.  I'm just over a bridge.  In any case, it was a harmless failure. On the richter scale of soul crushing- it was a 4 in facts alone.  It ended peaceably enough. But then "the others" spoke up.   I wish you had consulted me before you went down that route, he has the worst possible reputation ever... Oh that guy? Oh yeah that's what he does...he seems like a narcissistic douche bag...Oh yeah - everyone knows- stay clear of that one.  He's on a complicated journey. 

He is. We all are.  And that's not even the worst of it.  Hometown boy was on trial without even knowing it and all of these character witnesses were testifying for the prosecution. I felt awful. Suddenly a curly cue mustache was forming of the memory of his face. He was becoming the arch villain of my boring fairy tale.  I un-followed, I unfriended, I forced myself to go on dates with any harmless idiot who asked.  I blocked him so that I could not look. I felt duped.  How could I have misread someone so horribly.

I hadn't.  No one is a villain. Well maybe Cheney is, but I digress. People just make mistakes. People are on their own journey and they may make the same mistakes over and over and over again, but that doesn't mean they are driving purposely on a course of hurt.   Good people make mistakes. Heartfelt, well intended people make terrible mistakes because they can't even entertain the idea that their precious hearts could ever commit such an oversight.  So they keep repeating the same errors, hearing the same criticism and it all seems so unreal to them.   But emotionally stunted people show you their selves the minute you meet them. Emotionally stunted people can't see past their own discomfort and pain. Emotionally stunted people can't empathize with your position.  Maybe you are their type: you listen, you validate, you're patient, you try to provide insight and support...fuck- you put up with them! But there is another word for this: Therapist. Unless you are getting payed $200 an hour, you are the one who orchestrated this whole set up. You enabled this to turn into a neutered, one sided relationship until eventually it fizzled. So does this mean I am the emotionally stunted one? Perhaps.

I too committed the same mistake that I have been committing for years. He wasn't available AT ALL. He said he was practicing "being alone." He spoke so much about his ex the first night that I felt like I knew more about her than him.  He ran away from me on our second date (literally- freaked out and got his coat on and ran like he had discovered I had a third nipple) I can give you dozens of these examples that would make the hair on your arm stand up in horror over my obvious disregard for my emotional safety. I ran headfirst into another closed door and then scowled at the bruise.
But he made my brain crackle. Not many can. How is it possible that other people can possess so much ownership over who we are? So I became a revisionist historian.  I negated all positive aspects of my recent parable and steeped myself in the onslaught of well meaning friends' hateful commentary.

But YOU write your history. And only you know your own tale. Do I miss him? I miss all of them. I miss little drummer boy's jokes, and cooking and the way he grunted when I touched him.  I miss hummingbird's constant attention and overt positivity.  I miss DJ's unbelievable good taste and how much fun we had seeing shows. I miss Texas's records. I miss Florida's snuggling skills.  I miss Hometown's brain.  Which is to say- I miss their humanity, and I miss the humanity that they brought out in me. They were all so very good at what they did. They were all so very tunneled and focused.  They were all so fucking talented and devoted to their art. They had respect for their goals,  they didn't give a fuck about anything else, including me. They were teachers.  I didn't listen.  I wish I hadn't loaned out my old poloroid camera, or my signed Charles Burns book... or my projector... I wonder if those precious materials serve as faint vestiges of me. I hope so. And I refuse to vilify or dehumanize any of them for disappointing me- heart breaking as it is.  I adored them all.  I hope they remember me well.



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