She asks what my Anxiety looks like. What it looks like? I don’t know.
I want to say a Pollock painting; a bunch of chaos carefully placed. That would work if I knew what I was talking about. I do believe I understand Pollock paintings but I’ve chosen go surround myself with people who tell me my tiny little brain couldn’t possibly understand the message he’s trying to convey. Is chosen the right tense? Maybe I meant, I chose to surround myself with…stranger reading this: am I dumb? But that’s not the answer she is looking for.
It’s like, silence. I get silent. Silence I understand. I mean my anxiety looks like silence. I don’t feel I am myself when the anxiety and the chaos take over. Have I been pretending to be someone else? Does my anxiety consume me? I am this silent introvert? Who am I? I watch. I listen. It mostly looks like a pretentious character in that movie about high school, perfect makeup, legs and arms crossed. I don’t look inviting or interesting. I’m closed off, please don’t annoy me with your nonsense or deep lyrics about suicide; that time you were so drunk and met the girl of your dreams. I don’t want to hear it I’m above this. Where is my driver, I have to get out of here, back to my world of luxury.
My anxiety is a bitch, and it’s not who I am. I just want to love you. And hold you. And tell you will be okay; it looks like the girl that just wants a free dinner, the one who keeps you in a friend zone and laughs about how nice you are to me. My anxiety will tell you to leave after I finish. What do you mean, stay the night and cuddle?
I am still the chubby awkward girl. I need new music for my morning commute and I’d like to tell you about the time I feel in love while drunk, of oh my god (what? You don’t believe in god. I do, lets discuss religion, now) I want to tell you, how I already know how I’d commit suicide but I just don’t think I’d ever do it. I am interested in you. Its just this anxiety has me wondering if you’re going to kill me or If I left my last cigarette still lit and my house is on fire.
My anxiety looks like five-hour plane ride from one coast to another. It’s not that everyone on board is anti-social they just want to make it home safe. I care about you. I do. I want to know about the family you’re going home to. The town you grew up in, that book you are reading, or your favorite band but my anxiety is the TSA. Yeah. My anxiety is the fucking Transportation Security Administration. It makes me scared to fly, though it was created to do the opposite. So I’ll stay in my comfortable little city. And I’ll be comfortable. My anxiety is the pretty girl checking out your toiletries, “oh. I’m sorry you cannot bring this twenty dollar moisturizer through.” And you know she is going to take it out of the bin at the end of her shift and keep it for herself. She’s the one you look at and wonder, “Why is she even working here?” I mean she could do anything else! My anxiety is not a man. Men can do anything. My anxiety is a girl trapped in a woman waiting until I eventually burn the house down. Or a friend kills me.
Or I give in to my plan of suicide.
But also it’s patient, and driven, and drips color on this otherwise blank canvas.
As a child,my now fourteen year old niece used to admire me. She’d watch me apply my makeup, as if I was Picasso and her a starving art student. I was oblivious to this until I was applying a friends makeup, who told me how my niece marveled at my work. “She wouldn’t take her eyes off of you. Its so obvious she looks up to you.” Other things I picked up on. How she’d wear fake plastic rim eye-glasses (same as my need to see ones), or draw pictures of me on MSpaint. When school shopping before starting kindergarten she bought a red t-shirt and with great excitement showed it to me-“Aunt Jules! Look! I bought a red shirt for you!” As red is my favorite color, and at the time my hair was red. This moment, thought small, is still something that puts me in a happy place when I’m sad. At least I made a positive impression on someone.
she lived in California, and me in New York, she was still my mini-me. Our baby pictures are almost identical. When I was nineteen and spent the summer with her and my brother in Sacramento,people would ask if she was my daughter, which I would laugh at. “Well that means I would’ve been fourteen when I gave birth to her.” Due to my very Italian and catholic upbringing,death would’ve been more likely.
I graduated high school when she was three. She came to visit me. I’ll never forget the way her little face lit up when she saw the microphone attached to my karaoke machine. She slowly walked toward it, as if she was waiting for me to say its okay to use it. I was happy, I was obsessed and involved in all things performing. To me, it was so nice to finally have someone in my family interested in the same things as me, who cares if she was fourteen years younger? She grabbed the microphone and sang silently to herself. swaying back and forth and lowering her chin to her neck, as if she was a lounge singer in her past life. I told her to sing louder. Nothing to be afraid of, the audience (the imaginary one, that she created) needs to hear you.Later, I overheard her talking to herself. Something about kobe bryant (at the time he was making headlining news for raping a girl. yup, 3 year old stuff) I peeked into the room she was in. She said “what?! I’m on the news!” Ok, kid, play on.
She had such a big personally for as young as she was. I didn’t have that as a kid. In fact, I was awkward, Whiney and introverted until I was a teenager. Then I was just awkward and Whiney. Some things never change. It seemed as though there was no place her imagination didn’t bring her, however it seemed to always revert to her being the popular girl with the cutest boy as her boyfriend, and plenty of gifts.
These days she’s actually consumed by real boys, and fitting in. Her days are spent listening to music, texting, and telling her younger siblings what to do. I miss her. I wonder if there is still any imagination left in her, or if she used it all up. God, I hope there is. I like to think that she spends a lot of time day-dreaming the way I did. I hope she doesn’t make the same mistakes that I did. I know she’s been exposed to them, but I hope she sees them as lessons, as to not what to do. I hope she watched me closely enough to know, if you make a mistake you can tissue it off and apply again, make sure you have the tools you need before starting something but know how to be resourceful and when in doubt, always chose red.
I’m not sure if she still looks up to me. Maybe she’s just too cool to mention it. I do know, she’s not my kid, but she’ll always belong to me, and when she comes around I’ll be here, waiting to hear about where she’s been the past few years, and ask if I can apply her makeup.
Today. August 6th 2013. I am, at twenty-eight, the oldest I’ve ever been. Obviously. Things seem as though, they are the worst they’ve ever been. Of course, I’ve felt this way many, many, many..other times. The problems never really go away, it seems they just get scarier, but somehow, I feel I have learned how to deal with them more gracefully. Thankfully. I am frightened at how calm I am able to remain through all of this.
How am I here again? Sitting in my fourteen year old nieces bottom bunk, with images of her adolescence obsessions scattered around me. I’m sitting comforter designed with colorful hearts.If i look to my left, Justin Bieber is glaring at me. and in front of me is a bright pink wall. Pink. The color of girl. My guitar sits in front of me. untouched unless being moved to its new resting place.What a lonely existence I’ve given it. How did I get here? I am lucky, I have a brother I can live with. I am trying to focus on the positive, but I can’t help but wonder, if thats why I keep end up here? If someone is there to pick up your pieces? Why not be destructive? It will be fixed soon.
I think of my own adolescence What a fucked up time. Everyone will say that. I don’t know one person who had it easy. It seems we were all raised in broken homes. Those days, I never let it get to me. It was, after-all normal to me.This was the life I had. A dad who didn’t care. A mom who cared too much. Lots of fights. Never enough love.I was too busy writing my oscar speech, and working on my autograph to really understand, or accept my situation. I realized, only a week ago, that I never fully dealt with this. I mean, I knew why there was broken glass, but I never realized, how badly It cut me. I am just now, discovering the scars It left. That must be why I’m here again. In, my nieces bedroom.
I look to my left, and see Justin Bieber. I wish, It was Leonardo DiCaprio that like in some sappy coming of age story, I look to my left, and like magic, am returned to my bedroom as a fourteen year old, and all the things I believed in were still there. That, when I’m twenty-eight, I’d have a house in the south of france, where I can hide from the paparazzi for a while. I’d have some super sexy musician boyfriend, and sitting next to Jay Leno as he ask about my latest film. My point is. This is not where I wanted to be. This is not where I thought I’d be when I was a pre-teen, this is not where I thought I’d be five years ago, or even three months ago, yet somehow, I keep ending up here.
Sometimes, It’s not my nieces room. It’s a friends couch, or a spare bedroom with someone I kind of know. It must be something in me. This confusion, and helplessness, hopelessness..it has to be in me, every few months It needs to come back, just to say “Hi! I remember me? Come play with me!” Its the color blue. Not boy blue, but ’I guess thats why they call it the blues’ blue.. At least, its dependable. It’s the one thing I can count on, but I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to be here anymore.
Tomorrow, I’ll still be twenty-eight, but I’ll be a day older, and then, I’ll be the oldest I’ve ever been, because this isn’t some coming of age story. and I’ll wake up in my nieces room. and I’ll try again, I’ll try to follow the trail back, to find out how I got here. I hope to write, Today is…and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. A girl can dream can’t she?
My best friend just bought a brand new car. I still don’t have a license. I was slightly jealous for a minute. I had a “what the fuck am I doing with my life” moment. Our senior year, she’d pick me up for school in her mothers ford Taurus we called, “the tank.” one morning, it was negative 8 degrees out, and she had no heat. Her little brother never said anything (he doesn’t really say much) I’m sure our morning energy drove him crazy. once spring came, we’d skip the last half of the day and go to the beach. We’ve created countless memories in the tank, and when the tank broke down, it was like we lost a friend. The joy it brought me over came my jealously, and I’m so proud of it’s driver for this new car accomplishment. She named it “Cali”
She’s my hero. She’s the only person I know who doesn’t care what you think of her. There was this one time during “a chorus Line” reversal that she asked me for beauty tips because I’m pretty and guys like me. Other than that, she’s the type of person who doesn’t try to impress you. She posses an indifference for approval, and it’s impossible to not be consumed by her energy. She’s living her life for only her, and even with today’s standards, that’s pretty badass.
The thing is, she’ll probably say the same about me. We have an inside joke that if we were to warp into the same person, we’d rule the world. Our name is “julinda.” somehow our flaws would balance out our strengths and all that would be left would be a force of awesomeness in the shape of a woman.
Her new car has reminded me, that I may not be exactly where I am in life, but I’m in California, just like I wanted as a kid. It’s not what I expected, but for the time it’s home. I’m not a famous comedian, but I do comedy when I can and when I want. I have a failed relationship but I loved. If I just keep walking, I’ll get to where I’m going.
It’s hard to sit around and be sad when you know where you’ve been, and are surrounded by people who know what to say when you’d rather not talk. And when I stop and think about all the amazing people I have in my life, i wonder why I waste my time on the negative ones.
Linda bought a new car, and is going on to bigger things, and I have a new found freedom, I know I’m on the right road. My feet will get me wherever I need to go….and when I trip and fall I know I have someone to call to get me right back up.
What’s more important than that?
There are hundreds and hundred thousand quotes about love. The one that always stuck with me was “It’s better to have loved,and lost then never loved at all.”
The reason it sticks out, is because I always thought it was bullshit. My entire life has revolved around loss. When I was young I decided love wasn’t for me. I know, I sound so dramatic (well I guess I am) When I was six, and my grandmother died my Mother told me to say goodbye to my cousin Natalie, because I would never see her again. At the time Natalie was the most important person in my life. We were inseparable. She has lupus, so as kids she was forced to stay in the shade while my brothers and the rest of my cousins were free to roam free during the summers. Instead of leaving her alone, we’d find fun games to play in the shade. This involved a lot of time indoors, playing with snails on the shady part of my aunts front yard, and attempting to catch fire flies at night, when the sun was no longer a threat. As I’m writing this, I realize this is probably the reason I’m not very active and outdoorsy….
Suddenly, she was gone. How do you say goodbye as a six year old? How can do you comprehend why your mother would want to take someone away from you. This also caused a rocky relationship with my mother. She did this. She wanted to hurt me. Now, at twenty-seven. I know she didn’t, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. Natalie and I were never able to fix our relationship and now she’s just another one of my Facebook friends.
Fast forward to thirteen year old me, when my Dad left. I dont even what to finish this. He left. I was sad, and again i was unable to make sense of it. This story is still unclear to me. And wish to not write about it.
I’m a big girl now, so I can’t continue to hold onto these awful memories. I know this, and everyday I try to let go. I can’t let my past dictate me and I have to be tough, and know I am responsible and in control of what I do next.
So last year, I fell in love. Real. Fast. True, undeniable love. Totally unexpected. But it happened. So I decided to let it happen. I told myself I would deal with the consequences. I would take whatever came my way. The good, the bad, i wouldn’t hide from it. I feel that’s what I did. It wasn’t always perfect, but when it was…it was. And that was enough to keep me going.
And now Its over, because of alcohol, violence and another woman’s vagina. And I’m overwhelmed with emotions. I want to hide. I want to sit behind my bedroom door and cry. Like I did as a child, but i know that just as a little girl that didn’t fix anything. It won’t know. So what do I do? Pick myef up, brush myself and move on. Right? The problem is that is so much easier said than do. I’m still in my pajamas. I haven’t brushed my teeth, it’s 12 in the afternoon and I had cigarettes for breakfast.
I want him to love me. I want to believe he did, but as I look back on the relationship it seems less true. I know one day, I’ll wake up and it will suddenly make sense to me. I’ll stop being so naive. I’ll see him the way my friends did, the way my mother now does. This to me is the scariest part.
Despite his flaws, I loved him. There’s a part of me that wants to believe that he’ll come back and be his old self again. That he’ll get sober. He’ll learn to clean his dishes. And mop when Its needed. He’ll take me on a trip like i always asked. He’ll tell me I’m beautiful. He’ll compromise. He’ll apologize and really understand what he’s saying sorry for. He’ll buy me or pick me a bouquet of flowers just because. He’ll actually stop and take a moment to listen. And most importantly, he’ll think about me and what I want.
I know the truth is, I’ll never get this. And goodbyes get easier as you get older. And no matter who he his, who he becomes, I loved him. And that’s all I need to move on.
I woke up drunk at 7:30 am. Walked home from sleeping on a friends couch. I slept for 4 hours. The walk home was awful. I felt stiff. I thought there was a chance I was going to fall over, vomit all over myself and die alone in the heart of oak park California, on a beautiful spring day. But I didnt I survived. My waste of time boyfriend greeted me at home, with his pathetic, half hearted “I’m so sorry for what I did to you(the night before) lines. I ignored him and tried to get sleep. Went to work at 1:30 pm worked until 8 pm at one job, then straight to another. Got called back to work at job number one, from 11:30 pm until 3:30 am.
I worked for 14 hours (I think, bad at math…)
Came home to a locked front door. Woke up lame boyfriend and I’m currently sitting outside, writing this on my shitty iPhone 3GS.
Live is pretty shitty.
But I didn’t die.
Ive been drinking.
and so have you. You’re passed out.
but i’m awake. which makes me think, I’m better than you.
but i am not.
If we had children, well, thats the thing..I don’t want children with you.
because you’re different when you drink. I wouldn’t want a child to be around someone with such an inconsistent behavior. you like me either way, but you show me a different kind of affection when you’ve been drinking. i cant decide who likes me more. You, or drunk you. it’s frustrating.
either you, will not have sex with me. maybe thats why i don’t want your babies. i can’t imagine the act of “creating” with you. so it’s a turn off. you may be a turn off.
but i like you. you make me laugh. and you make me feel sexy.
and maybe that should be all i need. but it isnt. i want someone to be with me. and i mean, not just next to be, but with me. to feel the things i do. to see and hear and know what i know. maybe i want too much. maybe im crazy.
you go somewhere else when you drink. your eyes wander and your face hangs down. you become weak and unattractive. you turn into a little boy, and not the little boy i like in you. that loves to talk to me about silly things, and computers. a boy. a little bratty, spoiled boy. that i would otherwise ignore. youre the little boy who leaves rice all over the floor at the restaurant i work at. just an annoyance.
i want you to come back and be with me, but I don’t know how to find you.
Sometimes being an adult can be scary, like at the end of every month when I’m anxiously counting my tips, and realize I’m $16 short for rent this month. Those days I thank the god I’d otherwise deny, for giving me one more day of work. I get really depressed and tell myself, I will not buy another pair of shoes no matter how perfect they are for me, and I really didn’t need to buy that bottle of wine when I went grocery shopping.
There are days when I wished my mother still dressed me, even though, I can’t remember days like that. My mother stopped dressing me as soon as she realized, I was pretty adamant about being true to my own style. I just wish I had that choice back. Nights, when dinner was already made for me. Even if my mother insisted on me eating meat, when I told her i didn’t want to. I think i would be a lot more productive if I had my father asking me if I got all my schoolwork done. Sometimes, I cry just because i know, I no longer have my brothers to console me.
I love my new found freedom. I love, not being told what i can’t do. All this independence has given me time to think about what I want out of the rest of my life. Luckily, my parents raised me well enough,that i never have to question who i am, no matter how hard things get. I am so fortunate to have a family that loves me, and I know will never let me fall, but sometimes when you’re standing on the edge, all you can see is the bottom, and at that moment, a childhood indulgence like Nutella becomes more than a delicious treat, you realize it’s your life saver.
"I used to think as I looked out on the Hollywood night — there must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me, dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I’m not going to worry about them. I’m dreaming the hardest." -M.Monroe
Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.
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