The tiny midnight caravan...

I'm totally getting my mope on right now, which amuses me. My humor leaks into everything, no matter how poorly I feel. And I sit here and know that I'm moping, and I know that it is due to a combination of things, the primary of which being that I'm tired, followed up by accidentally coming across Bradley's (the suicide) myspace last night, stacked with the thing with GV8, which "ended" well, for all intents and purposes, but it still makes me feel like screaming.

Not an angry scream.

Not at him, anyhow.

Not that I ever, ever scream or raise my voice.

Because I'm mellow.

It really is a blow, even though it shouldn't be. I expected it.

You'd think that if I hooked up with someone like him (and I'm not going to go into detail out of some odd respect for his wish to leave his past behind him), he would have understood. Somehow. That disconnect.

He made me feel like such a child. A little girl with issues.

I suppose I am.

I suddenly was sixteen again, with the poor fashion sense, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex with near strangers who I don't really remember anymore, shouting at the world how no one understands me, no one will ever understand me, I'm just so bloody different. Teenage angst.

And now what? Mid-twenties angst?

It only left me when I was with Rick.

And now I'm looking at The Bassist. He's three years younger than I am. That's not my style. I rarely can tolerate people my own age.

He's so young. He's fun and happy and wonderful to be around. He reads. He actually reads. And he has dreams and motivations and he's amazing to watch on stage, wonderful performer. So I'm looking at him going, "I'm too damaged for you. You see me as nothing more than a friend because I don't attract guys that don't have some wild damage about them, unless they're trying to save me from my own head." And part of me is hoping that he's got some hidden issue, some damage, some scar. That he hasn't gone through life untouched, that we will be able to relate to each other as more than just friends, more than just lovers.

He's healthier than I am, it seems. And more mature. And more responsible.

What a joke.

But every so often I'll catch these glimpses, and I'll wonder if he's hiding some part of himself.

He's a nice guy, a good guy, but not... in a bad way.

I wish the man in my head was real. I wish I had that understanding in another person, that true understanding that is only available via one's own mental construct. I wish I had someone I could talk to, really talk to. That I did not have to mentally divide up myself among social groups.

In some, I can be nothing other than the sex beast. I have to live up to my name, I can show no weakness. I'm a trophy, one that I let so few of them have. Stories about me circulate, even when I disappear for a year or two.

In some, I'm the teacher and confidant. I do not get to let go of my burdens. I must listen, I must advise. I feel as though if I do not, all the experiences I've had are useless, that I'm doing them a disservice. That I'm being horribly selfish. I feel that if I bring up my own problems, I'm suddenly not someone they can look up to, and then they lose confidence in themselves and me.

In some, I'm a pleaser. I'm an attachment. I'm that girl that so-and-so is fucking. I give great head and have a snarky comeback at all times, but I never outshine my partner unless it pleases him that I do so.

In some, I'm another version of the sex beast. I'm the shark. I get who I want, even if it takes years, I will eventually get him. Girls watch me, admire me, and try to follow my lead. I get masses of nerds and beta males at my heels, trying to play the nice-guy card.

They all want to save me, seeing me as some sort of nice girl in distress, that fell into bad crowds and bad ways, but if they just point out my errors in judgement, correct how my morals have shifted, I'll be a normal, functioning member of society again.

I hate this. It's such disrespect. It's basically someone telling me that:

A. I can't do it on my own.
B. There is only one acceptable way to be healthy.
C. They represent what is healthy.
D. It does not matter if I do not consider them healthy.

I have other crowds where I'm the shy girl, the loner, the brain. Standard stereotypes that are only pieces of me. Ones I feel trapped in, sometimes. But not as much as the others.

In some groups, if I show weakness... yeah, that's not a good scene.
In others, if I show too much of myself, my experiences, my sexuality, my need to play the game, people are frightened and judgemental. I'm a damaged freak, seeking validation, just as GV8 said.

It made me feel so very small. So very young. But, then, he is almost 44. He could be my father, with that age. Not to mention, he's lived enough for five lifetimes.

It's harder, when you look up to someone, and then they call you sick. Unhealthy.

I was just getting used to that as a state of being. I was getting used to that as being okay. That is was okay that my brain is off at this 90 degree angle from everyone else's. That I'm not strange enough to be one of the wild ones, the people that are willing to lose everything so they can pursue their madcap dreams, but I'm not normal enough to fit.

Self-acceptance, will I ever find it?

And I have friends, especially my best friends, who will accept me no matter what, and I know this. Two of them have been there from the self-destructive fall to today, and one of them has seen so much of it, amuses himself by watching me game guys when we go out. I love them, they love me. And there are parts of each of us that sync, and parts that don't. There are pieces of each other that we'll never get. But we accept it.

Now Hardwood Floors is back in town, back from traveling and promoting his work. I do not know if we will hook up again, if he found someone on the road and is now happily contained in a relationship.

I miss him, more than most partners I've had. Which is saying a lot, because I rarely miss lovers for more than a few weeks after we've ended. Out of all of them, Riot of Tattoos and Hardwood Floors are the ones that haunt me. The ones I want again. Riot, because he's an animal in bed. He's the roughest, most visceral man I've ever been with. Hardwood Floors, because he's... him. Because he rivals me in intensity. Because his work is so heart-stopping. He's rough and lovely, a damaged dreamer, with a bone structure that defies reality. And he understands, possibly better than anyone besides Rick.

I feel stupid, for having revealed those vunerabilities to GV8. My aching sense of isolation, that feeling that I will always be alone and outside, that feeling that, compared to everyone else, there will always be something off about me. That people like me, but only parts of me, and if they knew all of me... they wouldn't, not so much.

So then I toss out parts of me, the unfriendly, the unflattering, the damaged, the alien, and they're slapped back like I'm an inexperienced child.

That I will get over this.

You know, when I'm more mature and worldly.

I've been told so often things along the lines of:
-You're always with someone, you've always got company.
-You're never single for long.
-You'll get out of this funk.
-You'll find someone special who will change your mind.
-There's someone for everyone.

I've been told that 95% of American women marry.

I don't even know why that is relevant, since I don't view marriage as a symbol of love, only trust, an an abused one at that. Not to mention what I think of social statistics. Eesh.

Anyhow, I just derailed.

But I'm feeling mildly better now.

God, this blog is getting so damn emo of late.

Really, when I look at it, I can do alone. I prefer alone, most of the time. And, yes, I keep saying that. Because it's usually true, and has been all my life.

Sometimes it grates, when something happens and I realize I have no one I feel that I can truly talk about it to except myself. I don't have a partner with that connect.

So I create shadows in my head. Shadows that have no basis in reality, but soothe me.

It's just this feeling of embarassment that I come back to. Invalidity of feelings, like a spoiled teenager crying because mommy won't buy her a car for her 16th birthday and she's going to go upstairs and listen to Linkin Park (though it was Megadeth for me, but I'm trying to stay current) and rage about the unfairness of it all.

I feel stupid and embarassed for feeling so different and alone.

I feel like a walking stereotype. One in a million people who feels like they're so damn special and no one can understand their pain and I'm going to compose an epic rock ballad about my pain and paint my nails black because my pain is so dark and tragic etc etc etc.

I don't have pain. I have alienation. I have a fractured sense of self. I have a tendency to write so much that I doubt I will have the patience myself to read this all the way through after I post it (humor leaking in again).

I feel like if I just relaxed, I would be okay. That I would just cover it up and not think and analyze like I do.

I feel that GV8 thinks that I'm just like all the young girls he's slept with over the years: dramatic, with an inflated sense of individualism.

That with all my experience, with the demeanor I have, that calm assuredness that fools so many people, with my mellow tones and ability to take on so many points of view, I'm just a child. A teenager. A girl that hasn't grown up and found the love of her life, settled for whatever came my way, and popped out some kids.

I feel like I should be better than this. Healthier than this. That I've failed myself by not leaning on my years of life-education and coming to a better conclusion than, "I'm a weirdo, and it's unlikely that I'll find a matching weirdo."

That out of all the billions of people on this planet, I'm so damned special that I don't have a potential mate out there.

It's juvenile.

I feel like a foreigner in my own home, and I'm punishing myself for it because I think it's retarded, dramatic, and self-absorbed, and if I had half a brain, I would have gotten over it years ago because, really, it's not like I've ever fit in anywhere. So it's no surprise. I'm not raging against the dying of the light or anything.

Nothing is going to change, other than appearances, other than me feeling confident that I can pass myself off as average/standard/typical/any-word-other-than-'normal'-because-I've-used-it-too-much-in-this-post.

Because I can't accept myself, on a social level, as I am.

Because I don't think I'm fooling anyone. And I don't have the knowledge and experience to do so, at least as of now. I don't need to be normal, I just need to be able to fake it as needed. I do it okay, but I want to do it well.

It's my own insecurities, as always.

When I was in junior high and early in high school, even though I did not believe in any sort of god, I used to lie in bed at night and wish and pray that I would be "normal" one day. That I would fit in. Be average. I did not need to be the most popular or pretty girl. Just a standard one with standard grades and a standard boyfriend, standard family, standard drama. Or that I would, at least, fit in the with the "weird" kids, the goths and punks. Just somewhere, you know?

God, I feel like I'm whining. It wasn't so bad when I knew no one was reading this. I could whine to my heart's content. Now I worry that I'm being incredibly annoying.

In my own blog.

Bwah, I continue to amuse myself with my logic.

I turned down a concert tonight because I was feeling so on edge. I still am, but not as badly. Instead, I'm going to curl up with a friend and finish DollHouse, season one. He has a way of making me calm.

The air conditioner helps as well.