Thursday, February 14, 2013
February 14, 2013
Saturday, January 12, 2013
An Apologetic For Believing Men Are An Inferior Gender
Monday, July 16, 2012
Ode to Tequila
Thursday, March 22, 2012
March 22, 2012
I want to write but my journal is in the baby’s room and she’s asleep.
I want to write about how I lost my journal (the one that caused me to begin the one I have now) and how it’s either in a landfill somewhere deteriorating more quickly than it should or some Hispanic girl is reading it to her boyfriend, a page a night, before they laugh and have sex, fornicating their way through some middle class middle age white girl’s experiences.
I want to write about back acne. About how it’s appearing on my otherwise milky smooth body. About how my mother blames my father and how I get it from him, but if so, why did I not get it from him until I was 33? Does this have something to do with getting off birth control a year and a half ago? Why in the world did I do that anyway, it has made me a much moodier person who my gynecologist describes as who I really am. But she’s kind of a bitter bitch who hates men, even her own son I think, she speaks of him so disparagingly, and perhaps women too because we continue to want men.
I want to write about how for the past two days I’ve been indulging in art (tv and books) that delve into the two topics I hate the most: mental health disorders and sex.
Yes, I hate sex.
I mean, I love it, but I hate it too. Always have. I cried when my first boyfriend made me give him a hand job so that he could orgasm. As a kid, I refused to eat macaroni and cheese because it reminded me of penises. It’s for reasons like that that my therapist thought I had been abused in adolesence. That and I hate it when older men touch me.
The irony of course is that an older man does touch me, many times a week now. My boyfriend is 53 and thus has 20 years on my modest thirty-something and quite a bit of experience too. He’s so many things that I want, so I hate him. He’s stable and emotionally honest and wants to talk about things and understand me and I hate it. I really do. It’s like some stupid chick flick on TV that I turn off because it reeks of clichés and unrealistic nuances. It makes me sick.
I indulge the conversations because I can’t just go through life dating someone for one to three months and then ending it. It can’t all be bliss and pheromones.
Fuck.
Talk about your mental disorders.
My boyfriend says I’m emotionally inaccessible. That, while I am a great actress, I keep everything bottled up inside. That the walls in my psyche are huge and won’t come down for anyone, anything.
I hate that too.
I’ve spent my whole life as an open book. You wanna talk about depression? Sure. I’ve got it. You wanna talk about boys? Sure, I’ve had them. Religion? Okay, I’m a minister. Politics? No problem, I’m a liberal. It’s ridiculous. There isn’t a soul in the world who has known me longer than a week and not known half of my life story.
I’m an open book and people find that mezmorizing. Especially men. And it’s wonderful and horrible all at once to hold that much power over men only to know that it must be relinquished before anything real can begin. Before a relationship can happen. Because relationships only really exist between real, humbled and broken people. And there’s no sense in idol worship. And no sense in loving unconditionally. While the former happens every day on magazine racks and in the evening news, the latter only happens in stories. Only in loves at first sights. Only to Cathy & Ken and maybe Jane & Bill out of all the couples I’ve ever met in my life.
Fuck.
It’s such a hard balance wanting to be with someone (anyone) who will adore and worship me, but wanting to be with someone who is also capable of putting me in my place.
Write a book everyone says, but why? How? People want to read books with resolution. Books in which love triumphs. Books where you-know-who dies and Ron & Hermione finally get together. In the end of my story, I don’t get the boy, so why not settle for one who’s nice and makes enough money to support my theater habit? Stop being dramatic, you say, but seriously, best sellers don’t end with, and so the young girl learned how to date very well and very wisely.
I’m very tired now. My acupuncturist pointed out several years ago that “tired” is my code word for “depressed.” Most emotionally handicapped people have such words. So there’s mine. And now I’m tired. Tired. Depressed.
And I know I should go back to therapy, but it’s so hard. It’s so much work. And I’m so tired (literally, I think) of working. Life is too long and knowledge and illumination so vast and quite frankly, I’m not a patient person. I love immediate gratification.
Patience is not a virtue I possess.
I can sing, write, dance and act. I can act with the best of them. So perhaps I will put on a sassy outfit and go play my part tonight, the happy actor who quit her real job and is dating a man whose old and rich and emotionally mature. Look at her being such a grown up. Isn’t she marvelous. Just marvelous.
And not a tired bone in her body. She just goes, goes, goes.
And never gets tired.
Nope, I never get tired.