Ian and I are tossing back a few beers at Truman’s on Chicago. He looks like a younger version of Rasputin with a graying unkempt beard and lanky frame. I think I’m in a dress but I’m never sure this time of year. Somewhere in between sips, we bring up sweetness. I say,
“I’m confident and careless until I like you-than I become darling. Sometimes even too much.”
He says, “I’m the exact same way.”
In this new age, I’ve been thinking a lot in terms of self-how I see the world vs. how it sees me. Do I interact with it in a way I’m most proud of? Is it seeing me as I feel I am? I feel as though I am polar opposites living more or less harmoniously in the exact same human. That considered, is it even possible to see me as me, or will I always be a little lost in translation?
In my morning meditation I am instructed by a calm, ambiguously American voice to focus on my breathing and feel light as I think about my day. My mind wants none of it. It keeps saying, “I’m up! I’m up! Let’s fucking go!” I start picturing a more fruitful meditation. It’s guided by the voice of Samuel L. Jackson.
“Take a deep breath. Look all around you. Where are you? You’re in a forest-that’s where! You’re surrounded by all this motherfucking science! See that bear off in the distance? That bear is you! You’re a fucking beast! Go high five that bear you badass! You’re going to have a great fucking day!”
I’m not feeling ultra feminine as I put on my makeup and get ready for work, but I feel a fire. I am able to cast away the little annoyances of the day. I am able to get all my work done. I close out the evening completely indulged in my hockey fan hood. I wake up still surly but anxious.
Anxious because of longing, not so much to a person anymore, or to the idea of this person, but to the attachment of the longing itself. I miss him. No I miss something. I think I miss the lie. I miss feeling like I wouldn’t have to start over anytime soon.
I inhale. At the top of my lungs I listen to myself. I say in my soul with the utmost clarity,
“I didn’t move halfway across the country with two suitcase and no job, to have my sense of self security swayed by temporary men. I did not go as far as I’ve come to be told ‘no.’ I am not here for anyone but me. I am self sustaining. I am more than enough.”
I’m done with accepting less of what I need and deserve. I would much rather have all of me than half of someone or something else. You wan’t out? Go. I don’t want you here and I don’t need you here.
This is my battle cry for when things get too much, because silent bravery isn’t my style.