Four years ago today, my new life began officially.
I got my tattoos, which I still adore to this day. Destiny on one side of my wrist, and a Buddhist chant for blessing and enlightenment on the other side of my wrist.
Oh, and my divorce became final.
I don’t know why this day - this fourth anniversary - is so heavy on my mind.
And I don’t know why this quote from (god help me) “Xanadu” keeps running through my mind: “Well, maybe just one moment. Or forever. I keep getting them mixed up.”
One moment or forever.
That’s what it feels like.
It feels like just yesterday that I sat in our home office and said that I needed some time. Just time to figure things out. Just a moment to look at where I was, where we were. Just a moment.
Or forever.
Just yesterday, I sat in a tattoo parlor in Las Vegas with my best friend, my mom and another friend while this adorable guy tattooed my wrist. Just a moment, such a perfect moment. Beautiful moment.
Or forever.
I never thought we’d divorce. I still don’t believe that it happened. I never meant for it to be like this, like that. I never meant for us to be done. Not for a moment.
Or forever.
And four years have gone by so quickly, so strangely, so remarkably. They have been four years full of productivity, creativity, beautiful friends, tragic loss, heartbreak, and wonder.
Four years where I have done some of -- no, have done the absolute best work of my life.
Four years where I have found some amazing friends, worked with brilliant actors, created incredible memories.
Four years.
Or a moment.
And for four years, I have dragged you around behind me, as a memory, as a lesson, as an excuse. It kept me protected, it kept me captive. It kept me from living the rest of my life. I kept falling for those I couldn’t have because the memory of you kept me from being able to really, truly believe that I could fall for someone who would want me back. It was safe. It was easy to hide behind you and say, no, I’ve been abused, I’m battered and wounded and hurt so I’ll keep myself hidden and locked up. I built huge walls around me so I wouldn’t have to feel, so I wouldn’t have to try again. At least for a moment.
Or forever.
Well, forever starts today.
Today, I leave behind the corpse of us. Or at least, I’ll try. I won’t use you as an excuse anymore. In fact, I’ll try to never mention you again. Because I need to get that power back from you.
I need to take this moment to get to my forever.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Opening weekend
Great opening weekend for "The Jamb".
I love my cast. It helps to work with two of my favorite men on earth - Kerr Seth Lordygan and Brad C. Wilcox. They are not only great men and great friends but amazing actors who bring intelligence, grace and dignity to every part they perform. I wish I could play with them all the time.
And Garrett Liggett and Kenlyn Kanouse are just icing on the very wonderful cake that is my cast.
The play by J. Stephen Brantley is full of amazing words and amazing characters and gave me so very much to work with. It was great that he was able to come out from New York and watch the first two performances of his play.
This is why I make the choices I do, to continue to do work like this. I hope you get a chance to check it out if you're in LA. http://www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org
I love my cast. It helps to work with two of my favorite men on earth - Kerr Seth Lordygan and Brad C. Wilcox. They are not only great men and great friends but amazing actors who bring intelligence, grace and dignity to every part they perform. I wish I could play with them all the time.
And Garrett Liggett and Kenlyn Kanouse are just icing on the very wonderful cake that is my cast.
The play by J. Stephen Brantley is full of amazing words and amazing characters and gave me so very much to work with. It was great that he was able to come out from New York and watch the first two performances of his play.
This is why I make the choices I do, to continue to do work like this. I hope you get a chance to check it out if you're in LA. http://www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org
Friday, January 15, 2010
Another opening...
My new play, the world premiere of "The Jamb" by J. Stephen Brantley, opens today - Friday, January 15 at Eclectic Company Theatre in North Hollywood, CA. Featuring Kenlyn Kanouse, Garrett Liggett, Kerr Seth Lordygan and Brad C. Wilcox. Directed by yours chumly.
Tuffer (Kerr Seth Lordygan) and Roderick (Brad C. Wilcox) are turning forty. Neither wants to face it.
While Tuffer continues to smoke, snort, and screw his way through Manhattan's much younger gay male population, Roderick's gone as straight as possible for activism and martial arts. With the arrival of Tuffer's latest boy toy Brandon (Garrett Liggett), Roderick can take no more. He insists that Tuffer accompany him to sober up at his mother's house in rural New Mexico.
When Roderick's mother Abigail (Kenlyn Kanouse), a formerly successful folk singer, throws the guys a very organic birthday party, twenty years of tension comes to a head. The foursome find themselves in a spiritual exile on the high desert, each on the verge of something, almost somewhere, in the jamb.
The title of the new play, The Jamb, comes from Tuffer's observation: "We grew up between the old shame and the new show. Post-Stonewall, pre-Will & Grace. We weren't exactly stuck in the closet, but we hadn't fully entered the room yet, either. We were in the doorjamb. Of the closet."
Susan Lee directs. Her previous stage directing credits include the recent well-received production of "Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde," "Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You," "Lloyd's Prayer" (L.A. Weekly Pick of the Week), "Keely and Du," "Afterplay," "Juche Rules" (winner of the USC MPW One Act Playwriting Festival) and much more. She produced, wrote and directed a feature film, "Cinderella Drives a Pick-Up." Her production experience includes stints at Simpson/Bruckheimer Productions, The Ladd Company, Cruise/Wagner, and working as assistant to John Kricfalusi at Spumco Animation.
Originally from Texas, playwright J. Stephen Brantley resides in New York. A graduate of the NYU Experimental Theatre Wing, he is a devotee of Kabbalah. His previous plays include Distortion Taco: Analog Hunger in a Digital World (Village Voice Pick of the Year), Break, Struck, Gatos Locos and the Ave Maria, Scoptopia, and Someone You Know Is Starving Tonight.
Get your tickets now at www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org
Please note - adult content. Not suitable for children under 18.
Tickets $18
Monday, January 11, 2010
Blackout
“She laid her heart and soul right in your hands/but you stole her every dream and you crushed her plans…”
Keith Urban on an endless loop tonight. “Stupid Boy”.
I almost let you back in. Almost. This close. Was going to send you an invite to the new show, thinking that maybe I should reach out to you, try to close the gap, try to let you back in, in whatever tiny way I could. Let you share in my life for a second, see what I’ve done, see what I’ve accomplished, who I’ve become.
“She never even knew she had a choice/and that’s what happens when the only voice/she hears is telling her she can’t/Stupid boy.”
Then I remembered why you aren’t in my life anymore. Why I left almost five years ago. Why I chose to live without you.
Because you tried to suck the creative life out of me.
Right after I left you, I found a script I had started when I was with you. It was a script that I knew was good, that I knew could be something special. I wasn’t far into it but I could see it.
You couldn’t.
You didn’t even bother to read it. Just criticized, just tore down, just desecrated it before really reading anything. I was writing it wrong, you would write it this way. On and on and on and on and on until I stopped writing it because I couldn’t hear my characters over your voice. Just stopped.
“You stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”
I forgot I had written those pages. I stumbled on them when I was searching for something else. I thought I had written less than a dozen pages, nothing worthwhile. But I had written 30 very strong, very solid pages. Pages that sat dormant because your voice drown out mine. Because I would never been good enough.
“So what made you think you could take a life/And just push it push it around/I guess you build yourself up so high/You had to take her and break her down.”
Then tonight, I found another. An entire script this time. I don’t even remember writing it. Well, maybe it came back to me a bit as I read it but I really, truly barely recalled putting the words down on the paper. Eight-eight pages. All it needs is the last few pages and it’s done. Sitting dormant.
Because you convinced me I wasn’t good. I wasn’t a writer. You made me doubt every word, every sentence. And when you couldn’t find anything wrong, you simply tore apart all the minutia until I just finally stopped letting you read what I wrote.
“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”
And there’s a script I wrote - with your “help” - that I still can’t read today. In my head, it’s terrible because the number of henchmen in one scene is wrong. I know it doesn’t matter but that’s all I hear in my head when I read it. That the number of henchmen in that scene is going to ruin the entire script.
“Oh, you always had to be right but now you've lost/The only thing that ever made you feel alive.”
How much abuse does it take to block out entire chunks of my life? Works that I have put my heart and soul into that I cannot even remember creating. How much does it take to make me forget and deny and ignore what I did to the point that it didn’t exist in my memory until I actually opened up the document and read the words I had created?
My roommate asked me what you thought was wrong with what I wrote. And I realized what my mistake was.
I am a better writer than you.
And instead of being a partner and a husband and someone who wanted the best for me, you had to tear the life out of my work and leave it empty and pointless and abandoned so that you could somehow be better than me. My ability to create made you so afraid, so terrified that you simply could not allow me to create.
And I believed you.
I believed you when you diminished my talent, my ability.
I believed you when you made me feel like I was stupid and lacking and weak.
I believed you when you told me that you knew everything and that I knew nothing.
I believed you when you screamed in my face that I had to change the number of henchmen because it would ruin my script. Ruin it. Nobody would read it because the number of henchmen was wrong.
I believed you… until I didn’t believe you anymore.
I stopped believing you when you said I was stupid.
I stopped believing you when you said I was lazy.
I stopped believing you when you said I would never succeed.
I stopped believing you when you found fault with every single thing I did, whether it was making dinner or choosing a movie or directing a play.
I stopped believing you when you screamed in my face about all of my shortcomings, occasionally listed either alphabetically or chronologically.
I stopped believing you when you told me that you knew everything and I knew nothing.
I stopped believing you when you said you loved me.
Because you could only love me if I wasn’t equal, if I wasn’t on par with you. You could only love me if I didn’t exist. You could only love me if I cowered in front of you and obeyed your every command, including changing how many henchmen were in my script. You could only love me if you could destroy me.
And you almost did.
Each pill I counted out that one dark night was because of you.
Each pill had a supposed fault, a supposed fragility, a supposed weakness of mine attached to it.
Each pill represented each word that landed like punches on my soul, tearing my heart out and battering me from the inside.
And finding those abandoned words tonight made me realize something.
You don’t get to come back in.
You don’t get to share anything, to be invited to anything.
Because you don’t deserve that chance.
“She laid her heart and soul right in your hands/but you stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”
Because I can’t risk letting you back in, even the tiniest bit. My life is fragile and it’s delicate and it’s precious. And you cannot be a part of it because I can’t afford to black out sections of my life again. I can’t afford to let you steal my words and my ideas and my thoughts and hide them away so you don’t have to be afraid of them.
“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”
Keith Urban on an endless loop tonight. “Stupid Boy”.
I almost let you back in. Almost. This close. Was going to send you an invite to the new show, thinking that maybe I should reach out to you, try to close the gap, try to let you back in, in whatever tiny way I could. Let you share in my life for a second, see what I’ve done, see what I’ve accomplished, who I’ve become.
“She never even knew she had a choice/and that’s what happens when the only voice/she hears is telling her she can’t/Stupid boy.”
Then I remembered why you aren’t in my life anymore. Why I left almost five years ago. Why I chose to live without you.
Because you tried to suck the creative life out of me.
Right after I left you, I found a script I had started when I was with you. It was a script that I knew was good, that I knew could be something special. I wasn’t far into it but I could see it.
You couldn’t.
You didn’t even bother to read it. Just criticized, just tore down, just desecrated it before really reading anything. I was writing it wrong, you would write it this way. On and on and on and on and on until I stopped writing it because I couldn’t hear my characters over your voice. Just stopped.
“You stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”
I forgot I had written those pages. I stumbled on them when I was searching for something else. I thought I had written less than a dozen pages, nothing worthwhile. But I had written 30 very strong, very solid pages. Pages that sat dormant because your voice drown out mine. Because I would never been good enough.
“So what made you think you could take a life/And just push it push it around/I guess you build yourself up so high/You had to take her and break her down.”
Then tonight, I found another. An entire script this time. I don’t even remember writing it. Well, maybe it came back to me a bit as I read it but I really, truly barely recalled putting the words down on the paper. Eight-eight pages. All it needs is the last few pages and it’s done. Sitting dormant.
Because you convinced me I wasn’t good. I wasn’t a writer. You made me doubt every word, every sentence. And when you couldn’t find anything wrong, you simply tore apart all the minutia until I just finally stopped letting you read what I wrote.
“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”
And there’s a script I wrote - with your “help” - that I still can’t read today. In my head, it’s terrible because the number of henchmen in one scene is wrong. I know it doesn’t matter but that’s all I hear in my head when I read it. That the number of henchmen in that scene is going to ruin the entire script.
“Oh, you always had to be right but now you've lost/The only thing that ever made you feel alive.”
How much abuse does it take to block out entire chunks of my life? Works that I have put my heart and soul into that I cannot even remember creating. How much does it take to make me forget and deny and ignore what I did to the point that it didn’t exist in my memory until I actually opened up the document and read the words I had created?
My roommate asked me what you thought was wrong with what I wrote. And I realized what my mistake was.
I am a better writer than you.
And instead of being a partner and a husband and someone who wanted the best for me, you had to tear the life out of my work and leave it empty and pointless and abandoned so that you could somehow be better than me. My ability to create made you so afraid, so terrified that you simply could not allow me to create.
And I believed you.
I believed you when you diminished my talent, my ability.
I believed you when you made me feel like I was stupid and lacking and weak.
I believed you when you told me that you knew everything and that I knew nothing.
I believed you when you screamed in my face that I had to change the number of henchmen because it would ruin my script. Ruin it. Nobody would read it because the number of henchmen was wrong.
I believed you… until I didn’t believe you anymore.
I stopped believing you when you said I was stupid.
I stopped believing you when you said I was lazy.
I stopped believing you when you said I would never succeed.
I stopped believing you when you found fault with every single thing I did, whether it was making dinner or choosing a movie or directing a play.
I stopped believing you when you screamed in my face about all of my shortcomings, occasionally listed either alphabetically or chronologically.
I stopped believing you when you told me that you knew everything and I knew nothing.
I stopped believing you when you said you loved me.
Because you could only love me if I wasn’t equal, if I wasn’t on par with you. You could only love me if I didn’t exist. You could only love me if I cowered in front of you and obeyed your every command, including changing how many henchmen were in my script. You could only love me if you could destroy me.
And you almost did.
Each pill I counted out that one dark night was because of you.
Each pill had a supposed fault, a supposed fragility, a supposed weakness of mine attached to it.
Each pill represented each word that landed like punches on my soul, tearing my heart out and battering me from the inside.
And finding those abandoned words tonight made me realize something.
You don’t get to come back in.
You don’t get to share anything, to be invited to anything.
Because you don’t deserve that chance.
“She laid her heart and soul right in your hands/but you stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”
Because I can’t risk letting you back in, even the tiniest bit. My life is fragile and it’s delicate and it’s precious. And you cannot be a part of it because I can’t afford to black out sections of my life again. I can’t afford to let you steal my words and my ideas and my thoughts and hide them away so you don’t have to be afraid of them.
“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”
Friday, January 01, 2010
Proof
Prove that you love me.
That’s the phrase that kept going through my mind in the dark of last night. “Prove that you love me.” Don’t know where it came from but it crippled me and kept me from really being present in the middle of a great night.
I participated in a 24 hour theater event at Eclectic yesterday (and the night previous). I love doing these things because they keep me sharp as a writer and make me think differently as a director. And I love working at Eclectic because the people there are incredible.
Madame H, Ranger Smith and I wrote an outrageous, Judd Apatow type script (only smarter) and had a blast. We haven’t seen much of Ranger due to his Beautiful Baby so it was so much fun to write with him, however briefly.
Then quick sleep and up at dawn to get my play as a director and work all day. Long, boring stories about a producer who didn’t know what she was doing, crap I ended up doing because she didn’t, exhaustion, frustration, etc., etc. Long, long day. But the performances were quite good, for 24 hours, and I had a good time, all in all.
But suddenly, in the midst of the partying to celebrate the shows and the upcoming new year, I got bitch-slapped by clowns. Again. They’ve been very quiet lately. I think they’ve been plotting in the darkness.
I stepped away to the dressing room to get some quiet time because I had been going like crazy all day and thought I just needed a moment or two of peace to pull myself together. But the longer I sat alone, the more melancholy I became. And suddenly, that phrase leapt out at me.
Prove that you love me.
I wanted someone to come back to the dressing room and find me and beg me to come out and be a part of things. I wanted someone to come back there and tell me they loved me and how wonderful and important I am and all kinds of bullshit like that. I wanted these wonderful friends who are so loving and giving and supportive and amazing to “prove” to me that they loved me by…. I don’t know what.
I don’t know what they have to prove to me. They have proven over and over again how much they love me by just the presence of their friendship. They have cajoled and encouraged and supported and praised me more than any other set of friends I have had. They have been there for me at other dark times and have surrounded me with more love than I have ever had.
But in the dark of last night, I needed proof.
The intellectual part of my brain was trying to be heard over the cackling of the clowns. It was telling me all of this - that these folks love me and demonstrate that quite often and what more could I possibly need to feel loved? But that part was drowned out and finally gave up and faded into the background.
And my beautiful friends did what they could, which should have been enough. ET kept checking on me, poking her head in, asking if I needed anything, not letting me be alone too long. Then Kerr stuck his head in and insisted that I needed to be out on the stage (where the party was) at midnight so I could kiss him at midnight. Okay, he’s gay but I adore him. And he would not take no for an answer. And I’m glad. I went out, greeted the new year, kissed him and a few other friends and started to feel better. I thought I had gotten through the worst of it and the rest of the night would be amazing.
Boy, was I wrong.
I saw the current OOMA with his girlfriend celebrating the new year and that sent me off again. I want THAT. Of course, I want him but I really would like what they have. Someone to wrap me in his arms, kiss me, hold me, make me feel like a million bucks. And I was off to clown-land again.
And again, the refrain - Prove that you love me.
That clown in particular has my mother’s voice. Which is interesting because my mother has never uttered those words. But I think that’s the root of her craziness - prove that you love me. I’ll do outrageous things so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll be crazy and out of hand and obnoxious so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll say terrible things to you to get your attention so that you can prove that you love me.
Life with my mother always seems to be filled with landmines and booby-traps. You never see them coming. They just appear in front of you and explode. And then you’re not quite sure how or why or what actually happened but you’re suddenly missing a leg. And she’s petulant because you didn’t demonstrate how much you love her as your leg got blown off.
And I spent most of my life with people like my mother, who demand that I prove that I love them by sacrificing parts of myself. And that’s probably why I don’t like that there is that part of them in me, the part that screams “prove that you love me” when I’m feeling dark and moody. I feel like I’m lost in a tsunami of emotion, not sure what I feel or what’s going on, and I just want to stand and scream, “someone rescue me, someone prove you love me”. And I hear my mother in that voice and I don’t want that.
I don’t want to be my mother. I don’t want to grow up and be her particular type of crazy. That’s one thing I am definitely learning. I don’t want to be my mother or my sister or my brother, particularly. I’d like to be more like my dad, more zen, more laid back. But even he has his own crazies, as I guess we all do.
Monica gave me some interesting insight tonight that I am hoping will help kill the “prove that you love me” clown. She works with Zadra, my best friend, at a company that deals with gifted children. For the past few years, when I talk about certain things or issues I’m dealing with, Zadra will teasingly giggle, roll her eyes and say “gifted child.” And then help me out with my issue. Monica brought this up tonight. She read me this quote -
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating."
— Pearl S. Buck”
This kind of stopped me in my tracks. I realized that many of the times that I find myself buried in the black is when I’m in a social situation that is big and loud and crazy. What Monica explained is that they find that gifted children cannot handle situations like that because they are overly sensitive to input and stimuli, and therefore, situations like loud parties become intolerable because they’re taking in every single sound and sight and person and things and it becomes intolerable.
That’s exactly what it feels like. I’m almost drowning in a tsunami of input, of stimulus, and I’m not sure what to do with it. It feels emotional but it may start out as just overwhelming input. Then I just can’t function and maybe I need someone to “rescue” me from the overwhelm. That’s maybe where the need to have someone “prove they love me” comes from. I need help. I need rescue. But I can’t ask for it because I’m incapable at that point to ask for help. So it translates weirdly into no one loves me because no one is rescuing me from my own self-imposed exile into blackness.
So, after losing yet another night to unnecessary and inexplicable blackness, I realize that I need to get a handle on this “prove that you love me” thing. I need to lose the idea that someone needs to “prove” that they love me and just accept that I’m loved and help those people who love me find a way to help me out of the blackness. Give them tools to reach out to me when I’m deaf, dumb and blind in those moments to rescue me from the blackness. And maybe with giving them those tools to help me will give me the comfort to know that the people who love me will absolutely rescue me and, thereby in a weird way, “prove” that they love me without my demanding it.
But I did realize today, in the middle of all of this, that I am deeply loved. I was overwhelmed by that and it made me angry with myself that I let the clowns distract me from that love. So I hope to take these tools that I gained today from my awesome roomie and beat the living hell out of this particular clown. And then maybe find more tools to beat the living hell out of his buddies.
That’s the phrase that kept going through my mind in the dark of last night. “Prove that you love me.” Don’t know where it came from but it crippled me and kept me from really being present in the middle of a great night.
I participated in a 24 hour theater event at Eclectic yesterday (and the night previous). I love doing these things because they keep me sharp as a writer and make me think differently as a director. And I love working at Eclectic because the people there are incredible.
Madame H, Ranger Smith and I wrote an outrageous, Judd Apatow type script (only smarter) and had a blast. We haven’t seen much of Ranger due to his Beautiful Baby so it was so much fun to write with him, however briefly.
Then quick sleep and up at dawn to get my play as a director and work all day. Long, boring stories about a producer who didn’t know what she was doing, crap I ended up doing because she didn’t, exhaustion, frustration, etc., etc. Long, long day. But the performances were quite good, for 24 hours, and I had a good time, all in all.
But suddenly, in the midst of the partying to celebrate the shows and the upcoming new year, I got bitch-slapped by clowns. Again. They’ve been very quiet lately. I think they’ve been plotting in the darkness.
I stepped away to the dressing room to get some quiet time because I had been going like crazy all day and thought I just needed a moment or two of peace to pull myself together. But the longer I sat alone, the more melancholy I became. And suddenly, that phrase leapt out at me.
Prove that you love me.
I wanted someone to come back to the dressing room and find me and beg me to come out and be a part of things. I wanted someone to come back there and tell me they loved me and how wonderful and important I am and all kinds of bullshit like that. I wanted these wonderful friends who are so loving and giving and supportive and amazing to “prove” to me that they loved me by…. I don’t know what.
I don’t know what they have to prove to me. They have proven over and over again how much they love me by just the presence of their friendship. They have cajoled and encouraged and supported and praised me more than any other set of friends I have had. They have been there for me at other dark times and have surrounded me with more love than I have ever had.
But in the dark of last night, I needed proof.
The intellectual part of my brain was trying to be heard over the cackling of the clowns. It was telling me all of this - that these folks love me and demonstrate that quite often and what more could I possibly need to feel loved? But that part was drowned out and finally gave up and faded into the background.
And my beautiful friends did what they could, which should have been enough. ET kept checking on me, poking her head in, asking if I needed anything, not letting me be alone too long. Then Kerr stuck his head in and insisted that I needed to be out on the stage (where the party was) at midnight so I could kiss him at midnight. Okay, he’s gay but I adore him. And he would not take no for an answer. And I’m glad. I went out, greeted the new year, kissed him and a few other friends and started to feel better. I thought I had gotten through the worst of it and the rest of the night would be amazing.
Boy, was I wrong.
I saw the current OOMA with his girlfriend celebrating the new year and that sent me off again. I want THAT. Of course, I want him but I really would like what they have. Someone to wrap me in his arms, kiss me, hold me, make me feel like a million bucks. And I was off to clown-land again.
And again, the refrain - Prove that you love me.
That clown in particular has my mother’s voice. Which is interesting because my mother has never uttered those words. But I think that’s the root of her craziness - prove that you love me. I’ll do outrageous things so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll be crazy and out of hand and obnoxious so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll say terrible things to you to get your attention so that you can prove that you love me.
Life with my mother always seems to be filled with landmines and booby-traps. You never see them coming. They just appear in front of you and explode. And then you’re not quite sure how or why or what actually happened but you’re suddenly missing a leg. And she’s petulant because you didn’t demonstrate how much you love her as your leg got blown off.
And I spent most of my life with people like my mother, who demand that I prove that I love them by sacrificing parts of myself. And that’s probably why I don’t like that there is that part of them in me, the part that screams “prove that you love me” when I’m feeling dark and moody. I feel like I’m lost in a tsunami of emotion, not sure what I feel or what’s going on, and I just want to stand and scream, “someone rescue me, someone prove you love me”. And I hear my mother in that voice and I don’t want that.
I don’t want to be my mother. I don’t want to grow up and be her particular type of crazy. That’s one thing I am definitely learning. I don’t want to be my mother or my sister or my brother, particularly. I’d like to be more like my dad, more zen, more laid back. But even he has his own crazies, as I guess we all do.
Monica gave me some interesting insight tonight that I am hoping will help kill the “prove that you love me” clown. She works with Zadra, my best friend, at a company that deals with gifted children. For the past few years, when I talk about certain things or issues I’m dealing with, Zadra will teasingly giggle, roll her eyes and say “gifted child.” And then help me out with my issue. Monica brought this up tonight. She read me this quote -
"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating."
— Pearl S. Buck”
This kind of stopped me in my tracks. I realized that many of the times that I find myself buried in the black is when I’m in a social situation that is big and loud and crazy. What Monica explained is that they find that gifted children cannot handle situations like that because they are overly sensitive to input and stimuli, and therefore, situations like loud parties become intolerable because they’re taking in every single sound and sight and person and things and it becomes intolerable.
That’s exactly what it feels like. I’m almost drowning in a tsunami of input, of stimulus, and I’m not sure what to do with it. It feels emotional but it may start out as just overwhelming input. Then I just can’t function and maybe I need someone to “rescue” me from the overwhelm. That’s maybe where the need to have someone “prove they love me” comes from. I need help. I need rescue. But I can’t ask for it because I’m incapable at that point to ask for help. So it translates weirdly into no one loves me because no one is rescuing me from my own self-imposed exile into blackness.
So, after losing yet another night to unnecessary and inexplicable blackness, I realize that I need to get a handle on this “prove that you love me” thing. I need to lose the idea that someone needs to “prove” that they love me and just accept that I’m loved and help those people who love me find a way to help me out of the blackness. Give them tools to reach out to me when I’m deaf, dumb and blind in those moments to rescue me from the blackness. And maybe with giving them those tools to help me will give me the comfort to know that the people who love me will absolutely rescue me and, thereby in a weird way, “prove” that they love me without my demanding it.
But I did realize today, in the middle of all of this, that I am deeply loved. I was overwhelmed by that and it made me angry with myself that I let the clowns distract me from that love. So I hope to take these tools that I gained today from my awesome roomie and beat the living hell out of this particular clown. And then maybe find more tools to beat the living hell out of his buddies.
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