“Bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with my shit anymore,” I self-consciously finished my email to M. It was a response to his unexpected e-note where he informed me (after three months of zero contact) that he has been reading my blog. And knows. Everything. He wonders how it’s possible that I could have discovered LIFE (real, live, life with love and tenderness and reciprocal everything) and am still wounded, bleeding, and needing to ooze publicly about him and his general crapiness.
Well Kum Ba-fucking-yah. One note and he’s successfully silenced my voice, again. For weeks, I’ve been unable to write through the self-consciousness and what feels like a loaded rifle in my gut.
So why the incoherence? Frankly, this bitch has multiple personalities— two, that I can think of in this troubled moment.
One is me ON FIRE. Like President of the United States type (super) human being. This one can change the energetic tone of a room, just by seeing and noticing and intending to up-lift. This one believes in the power of me. And excitedly scribbles her signature on the document that requests One innocent heart + lifelong loyalty + “every last sip of your being” in exchange for a boy who promises to love you long time.
J’aime this part— she wakes up, brilliant, ready for the fight. Jabs her chin proudly skyward, like “‘Sup World.” She drinks the stars, religiously. This part is invincible, looks damn sexy in white lingerie, and could charm the pants of any ol’ professional. Because she dips herself daily in authenticity and integrity and an inspiring set of moral standards.
Then there is part two… me, shriveled and muted. Her voice is quiet, lost, alone. Misses pieces of M. Fears the key that James Dean gave her to his apartment. And the whispers of (shhhhhh…) “honeymoon period” in the deep of her mind and in the hidden crevices of her friends’ chatter. This one can feel her heart in her ears during random (inexplicably frightening) group events. Implodes with the SHOCK of a sudden hurricane of emotions. Hides behind the curtain of logic. Explains away every “feeling” as incidental and manageable and under control. Believes that all people she loves will leave her, eventually. Has accepted that she will never make any real difference in the world, except maybe as a back-up performer.
This part I loathe— she pretends that the disposition of life is mean and non-discriminating. This part wonders why M didn’t fight for her. And if she was actually non-supportive, unable to understand his professional pressure, stifled his growth, and generally deserved to be blended with blades of thoughtlessness.
But you know what? This is me, SHOUTING THROUGH THE MUZZLE. And favoring the GIRL ON FIRE. Hear me from both voices. Double the tenor. Double the richness. And bloody hell. I ain’t got a choice in the matter anyway— this is me. Jodi Dey. Both Princess of the Universe and mole in the dirt. And every damn thing in between.