My daughter, 8, asked me (via written message on a whiteboard, complete with yes/no check boxes) if I am going to marry a specific someone one day. Which she followed up with a note asking me to not be mad at her asking, she was just curious. (No worries, dear reader, I told her in no uncertain terms she can ask me anything any time and I will answer to the best of my ability…and I will not be upset over the asking of questions.) This got me thinking, as the topic of marriage usually does.
I miss music.
I miss music in a way I cannot explain to people who do not appreciate it, to people who do not actually play an instrument. I miss sitting down on the porch with my guitar or bass, legs curled under me, cigarette hanging from my mouth, drink at my side. Not that I miss smoking.. But I miss music. I miss letting all my frustrations, anger, sadness, pain, misery, and any other negative emotion go while I strummed, sang.. or even when I played a piano. I miss letting the feeling of the vibration of the strings enhance my happiness and joy. I miss feeling goosebumps raise on my arms as I play something that resonates my soul.
I miss music.
I miss feeling the keys depress under my fingers. I miss the feel of the strings as they vibrate and pop. I miss feeling my heart beating faster and faster, as I get closer to the breakdowns.
I fucking miss music.
I even miss my fingers hurting after I’ve played too long. I miss looking up to realize a few hours have passed, stretching slowly to pop my back, and rolling my head around to loosen my neck. I miss rubbing the cramps out of arthritis-laden hands and smiling, because the pain was worth the time I got to play. I miss holding my bass. I miss taking a sip of whatever I was drinking after I don’t know how much time, letting it cool my parched throat, because I forgot where I was for a long while, while I played. I miss closing my eyes and lowering my head as I played the sounds over and over in my head, testing different notes to see what I liked best, before beginning to play again. I miss the countless hours I “lost” while playing.
I miss music!
I miss seeing my daughter sit next to me, sometimes for hours, mesmerized by whatever I played. I miss hearing her hum along as she got the rhythm and beat, I miss hearing her make up songs to whatever I played. I miss seeding her eyes light up as I pulled out one of my guitars and began tuning it. I miss her incessant questions about why I did this or that, and how. I miss seeing her eyes light up as I started to play.
I miss music.
I miss the absolute release. I miss how exhausted I would be after playing out my emotions. I miss dragging myself to bed at whatever hour because I gave music all my hurt and I had nothing left. I miss walking back inside with a flounce because I let go of all the hurt and added back to my joy.
I miss playing.
I miss my bass.
I miss being able to play for hours instead of a few minutes before I’m crying form pain, because of a severely damaged wrist.
I miss the release.
I fucking miss music. And listening is never the same.
There are days when I miss having you to talk to like a suffocating person misses air. When I gulp in and drown in memories and “what ifs” and “what might have beens”. There are days when I don’t think about you at all. Today is the former.
There are days when I think I would give an appendage to hear your voice, jokes, laughter, sarcastic assery. To catch you up on all my life has been since we last spoke.
Has it really been 14 years? It feels longer.
My last blog entry was about love. Well, I would like to follow up that entry with an addition.
A few days ago, a Facebook friend posted this screenshot:
This screenshot made me tear up a little, because it is a wonderful example of love in its simplest most pure form. Allow me to explain why, in light of my previous post.
We are flawed, each of us. We are products of our environments, the people around us, how we are raised, how we are treated, the information we learn, the horrors and joys we witness throughout our lives. But mostly, we are a product of our own choices. We CHOOSE to change who we are based on the factors listed above, and more. Who hurt us and how, who we hurt and how, daily nuisances and successes, et cetera. Simply, we are the end result of what we choose to allow to affect us, and how we choose to let it affect us.
(Read more below. It is worth your time, promise..)
Before any of you get all panty-wadded over the titled, just don’t. Fucking don’t.
Now that’s over with, let us continue. I am sure several of you have seen the article comparing John Lennon and Trent Reznor where it waxes poetical about Lennon’s Love Is All You Need and Reznor’s Love Is Not Enough. It goes on to state Lennon was a known abuser of his love and sex interests (so was Reznor, actually) and how he never took time for his family and wife and whatever. Then it goes on to say how Reznor took time off to spend with his family (very admirable) and how he understood love isn’t all you need. For the record; Reznor was a piece of shit to most of his love interests until he fell for his wife. It has been pretty well documented by groupies, staff, other bands. So let’s not try to compare apples and apples and call one an orange, mmmkay? HOWEVER, he DID clean his shit up, and he is correct: love is NOT enough. In case you have not read the post and give a fuck – http://markmanson.net/love
Love is the absolute smallest and most easily obtained building block one needs for a healthy and happy relationship. Love is the one piece of a relationship that comes EASILY. It is also easily lost, if you do not take care of it. But that goes in to other aspects of relationships.
You must have compassion, understanding, trust, loyalty, a deep desire to stay together, a willingness to compromise and work with the other person, genuine joy in their presence, a profound commitment to their happiness, your happiness, your happiness together. Love is NOT enough. You must be willing to take care of one another, defend one another, and kick one another in the ass when necessary (though the manner of the kicking differs greatly for each person and situation). You must BOTH have all of these qualities, and more. You both have to hold your relationship as THE most important relationship, because all your other relationships can be built or destroyed based on that one at the center.
(Read more below.)
So this post will likely not be easy to type. But then none of the recent ones have been. Alright, I will be honest. Precious few of them are easy for me to type, because I am reaching in to a pitted and torn soul and pulling out pieces to share with you. It doesn’t even matter so much that you, anyone, read them so much as I type them and put them out here so they CAN be read. And I can explain it no further than that.
I recently – just a few minutes ago – watched a viral video from YouTube user SupDaily06…I am sure most of you have seen it fly past your FaceBook feed if nothing else. It is the video of a straight man talking about a recent viral video of a teenager coming out to his parents about being gay. First, if you haven’t seen the video, I want you to watch the video before you continue reading.
Now on to why this hits me, a straight (but never narrow) 34 year old woman RIGHT in dem feels… Continue reading
I am going to start this off by telling you I have a rather petite frame. Though I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes, my bone structure is on the smaller size. I have been known to find my jeans in the adolescent section of department stores by mistake, not knowing I was not in the adult section. Which has caused others to feel embarrassed, but it always amuses me. I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes (and usually large in women’s) because my shoulders, for my frame, are rather broad. I have great difficulty finding dresses that fit due to this, or long-sleeve shirts. Do not even get me started on jackets, as I also have incredibly long arms. Yes; I realize I am starting to sound like a lanky circus freak; I am not. Well, I mean, I AM, but not proportionately speaking. It is hard not to be considered somewhat freaky to many people when you have this many tattoos, stretched earlobes and unnaturally-coloured hair. And watches. I cannot buy a watch that fits unless it has a leather band and I cut extra holes in it. My wrists are so petite but attached to them are incredibly large hands, for a woman. I always have to buy large or extra large gloves. And extra large hats, too. My daughter has also informed me I have Vulcan ears. Aren’t kids sweet?
I swear, this has a purpose.
It is never necessary to pass pain to someone else to lessen your own.
To do so only multiplies the pain AND burdens the other person.
Share it; do not spread it.
I have had a lot of time for introspection lately. Too much time, really. Between the wakefulness thanks to nightmares and my own general introspection any way, coupled with this year’s crippling events, I have had more than enough time to delve deeply in to all the things that make me who and what I am. This is rarely a good thing. I cannot say, yet, whether this has been a good thing recently, either. Though I have come to some conclusions.
I recently did something that has, to date, been one of the three hardest things I have ever done. I sat down and wrote all the things I could, at the time, think that I love about someone. It is much harder than it sounds. I have often thought about it before, and when I did, I often found myself snapping back to the present with my mouth agape, eyes unfocused and staring in to memories past, lost in the swirling swarming events I hold close to my heart. I can no more put in to words the emotions these memories evoke than I can adequately explain the emotions of giving birth, swinging from flesh hooks, adopting a child out, being beat by your spouse, escaping death. They are all things that have no words, in any language, to really explain. Though some of those I can explain better than others. Love, fear, loss..these emotions will never be adequately explained, and they are the three that make us do the most fucked up things. They make us stand when we should flee, they make us flee when we should stand. They make us give when we should take, they make us take when we should give. Or in my case, I don’t really feel fear so much, as I have written before. I have found my fear response tends to go in to pure on “fuck you, I survive” mode where I go incredibly cold and calculating or I skip right over fear in to straight up terror. Either way, I don’t run. Ever, so far. I face it. Then I face it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And I keep facing it.
I am the type of person who, if I don’t want to do something, if I “fear” it, I have to do it. Period. Regardless the consequences, I have to do it. Yes, I know the consequences. I know the chances of me being hurt in some cases are pretty fucking ridiculously high, but I have to do it. Sometimes, as I told a friend last night:
I don’t care about much, but I’ve lost nearly all I DO care about this year. Sometimes you gotta throw it all out see what comes back.
I have read so much over the past few days about depression and suicide. It has long disgusted me how we, as a people, will band together over a situation short-term, yet go back to our petty ridiculous squabbles so quickly. I most certainly have my own very strong thoughts about both depression and suicide, as I have survived depression so long, and have known so fucking many people who have killed themselves.
I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed as bipolar, which used to be known as manic depression, which used to be known as blah blah what the fuck ever. A lot of people have it. So what? Every person on this planet goes through periods of depression. It is a part of life to have high and low points. Some of us are lucky/blessed/whatever to have more highs than lows, some of us are unlucky/cursed/whatever enough to have more lows than highs. Some of us are intelligent enough to realize our perspective changes the situation for our own good, regardless what happens. I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed because, as with most things in my life, I simply do not remember. Head wounds, what wonderful things.