Breaking-up with my hometown.

Moving away is just like a "break-up." Actually, I think a "break-up" is easier. When my last boyfriend broke up with me, he did it over the phone... like a pussy bitch. I was so mad that he was too pathetic to say it to my face, I went on an anger rampage. I started a "break-up" journal where I outlined all the horrible things about him, and why it was better that we weren't together. I wrote all my feelings down, day by day, week by week, and let myself go through all the emotions, gaining more and more perspective each day. Unfortunately, booze and facebook got the better of me on a few occasions, and I ended up leaving drunken fbook comments on his page, with my rage fingerprints all over the place. I would delete them seconds after I wrote them out, completely unaware that fbook sends out email notifications of said comments, whether or not you delete them moments later... whoops. ANYWAY, long story short, I got over him. I got over him faster than I thought I would, and don't really have any negative feelings left about the whole thing. While going through box that I have yet to fully unpack, I stumbled upon the elusive the "break-up journal," and found myself wishing that moving away was more like breaking-up. I wish I could make a "break-up" journal about where I'm from, and highlight all the things my hometown had done "wrong." I wish I wasn't romanticizing my former surroundings, and could remember the restlessness I was consumed by before I moved.

I got a text message last night from this women whom I used to babysit for. I looked after her 3 children for about 3.5 years while I was going to school in San Francisco. Her text said, "First night with the new sitter... We miss you!!!" I totally started crying when I read this and I have no idea why. Sure, I miss the kids. I spent a lot of time with them, and even though they were heinous little monsters a fair share of that time, I still loved them, and feel partially invested in their lives. I realize that their not MY children, but I THOROUGHLY underestimated how much I would miss them when I moved. 

All the familiar things that were grating on my nerves at home, are things I miss now. Driving through San Anselmo, going over the golden gate bridge, friday nights in the city; I miss all the things that I took for granted, and I'm not really sure what to do about it. Even if I packed up and went home tomorrow, in a few weeks or so, I would be itching to leave again. Crawling in my skin looking for another way out. It isn't about the place I'm in, or where I'm going, it's about me. Something is itching and crawling around inside me, and I can't quite put a finger on what it is. 

I'm realizing more and more that life isn't a series of open and shut, case by case situations. Things ebb and flow, in and out of focus, rarely ending completely, or opening completely. It's as if my entire understanding as to how "things are supposed to be," has blown up in my face, and left a sad little clown, laying on the floor, pointing and laughing at me. Yes I know... Worst.Analogy.Ever. 

Being so far away from everything I've ever known, has bitch-slapped me with the highly unsavory realization that I was hiding in my familiar. I was hiding in the comfort of it all, and I let the fear of venturing beyond my familiar, overtake me. Now that I'm away from this hiding place, it feels like I've been stripped naked, and placed in the middle of a very big and very breezy intersection. My nipples are hard, and if you see me on the street, feel free to drop some change in my cup... that's not a sexual innuendo, although I can see how it could be perceived as one.

I have no where to hide, and for the first time, in a long time, I no longer want to run from myself... besides, I'm a tricky bitch and tragically hard to escape... Trust me, I've been running from myself for YEARS, and I'm always one-step to the right of my shadow; just on the edge of the darkness, desperately trying feel the light.

love you mean it.

What are you hiding?

 
"... what does that mean, know me? To know me? ... nobody ever knows anybody else... ever! You will never know me." - Rules of Attraction

What does it really mean to know somebody? I feel like I know the people closest to me, but maybe I don't. As I type that, I realize, even the friends I hold deep in my heart, don't know a lot about me. They don't know all the things I've done, or how I feel deep down in the pit of my stomach. But the truth is, if given the option between the version they have of me, vs. the reality; they would pick the version they already know. Because we all have dirty little secrets. We all have things that we don't want anyone to know. There are some things you just don't tell the people you love, not because you feel shame for what you've done, but because your decisions affect them, and if those decisions will stain their memories of you, it becomes more considerate to simply keep it to yourself. So we keep our secrets bottled up tight. No one has to know, and no one really wants to know anyway. No one really wants the unedited, directors-cut version of you. We all want the studio release. The one that passed all the focus groups, the one that the critics gave two thumbs up. Commercial, marketable, packaged up in a pretty little box with a fancy bow. This is me, and you, and them, and everybody I know but don't really know.

There is something safe in not knowing the deep dark secrets of those around us. What if they're dirty? What if they're evil? What if they scare us? Would we ever be able to look at these people the same way again? We like the cover up. We like the shroud of seeming "normalcy" that cascade these people we give our hearts and respect to. Friends, lovers, professors, fathers, mothers; we trust them, with a partial blind eye attached to the love.

This isn't a conspiracy theory I'm working on either. These lives we live are full of so many different faucets, how could we ever expect someone to "know" about all of it? How can we expect someone to "understand" everything as well? Without judgment, without losing their respect, or their trust...

Maybe it's just me though. Maybe I'm the one with the secrets. All the compartmentalized sections of my mind, where I live many different lives; each one co-existing with the others. A myriad of different people, all residing together in this chaotic cluster fuck known as my life. Functional schizophrenia; that's what I'll call it. I know what you're thinking though... "Oh Bridgette, look at you being all dramatic." And maybe that's true. Maybe I am a little "dramatic." But more so than my drama induced, self-diagnosed multiple-personality disorder, I'm terribly frightened that it really is, just me. That I'm the only one with the secrets; with the evil and devious thoughts. That I'm the only one with this fear in my belly, of ultimately being "found out," and the picture perfect version of who I am, shattering right before my eyes.

Maybe I'm afraid of myself. The places I've been, the disasters I've created and then run away from. Maybe I'm afraid of what I know I'm capable of. There is an evil inside of me; a small bubble of revenge soaked hate. Right now, it's buried so far down, it seems quite impossible that it could ever surface in the same way it once did; so many years ago. But I can feel it churning around inside me. I can feel it shifting positions, just waiting for someone, something, anything, to pull the trigger. But it wouldn't be some miraculous explosion. It wouldn't come gushing out with puddles of muck encasing my feet. It would be a slow burn, a calculated leak. Bit by bit, piece by piece, moving at a snails pace through my whole body, taking over one cell at a time; until I was entirely consumed in the magnificence of it all.

So dramatic Bridgette!

... and it's true. I am quite dramatic. Jumping from point A to point Z and then back again, in a matter of mere seconds. But the truth behind the dramatic tonnage I so frequently flood my words with, lays a concept I believe most fully in:

We all have deep dark secrets inside of us. Secrets that would destroy us, free us, or simply stain the image those we love have of us. In the end, we're the only ones that have to live with these secrets. We choose whether or not sharing them would do more harm than good. Because even if you don't want to believe it, the truth is, NONE of us really want to know what it is those around us are hiding. NONE of us want the whole story, the full picture, all 50 takes of the same scene. You might think you do, but you don't. Because if you knew what I knew, you wouldn't want to know me anymore. And if you told me that one thing you've never told anybody, I probably wouldn't want to know you either.

And isn't it a little funny? Knowing all the dirty secrets we have, yet still feeling like we can judge those around us who are either, brave enough to let theirs out, or were careless enough to let themselves become exposed. I can't decide if that's ironic, or tragic, or both?

Ultimately, I probably don't want to know your secret, and you most definitely don't want to know mine. But just for the record, I know you have one, or two, or many. And there will come a day, most likely in a post-coital moment of embrace, where your defenses will have fallen to waste-side, and you'll be bleeding vulnerability right into my arms. And I'll ask you a question that, if truthfully answered, would end it all. So quiet your lips. Close your eyes. Take a moment, and ask yourself...

What are you hiding? 

Because we're all hiding something. Some of us better than others, but nonetheless, your secrets are yours and yours alone.

 

Believe it. Learn it. Hold on to it. 

I'm telling you right now... you don't really want to know.

love you mean it.