Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Nashville, Now.

I called myself crazy the other day, and my boyfriend tried to convince me I'm not by telling me a story about himself. He told me that when he was a teenager, he always called himself weird. Then his brother-in-law said, Why are you calling yourself weird? You're not weird. Stop saying that. So, my boyfriend stopped calling himself weird and eventually, he stopped feeling weird. In that vein, if I stop calling myself crazy, I won't be crazy anymore. It's an interesting anecdote, full of flaws, but interesting.

I can be myself with my boyfriend but I can't walk all over him, which is a true oxymoron. I always thought that The Taming Of The Shrew was a sexist story; that a woman must yield to a man in order to experience true peace. I suppose that, by modern axioms, submitting to the will of a man is the antithesis of feminism, but I know female activists, full of independence, free from the claws of men, and so many of them are hopped up on antidepressants and drunk most of the time. Sometimes I worry that feminism is the gateway drug to mental illness. I know a lot of house wives are closet alcoholics too, so maybe, life is maddening no matter what brand you follow.

I don't have the answers, so I try to listen to my heart, but it's deaf and dumb, and not very helpful. My boyfriend tells me, I love you, don't worry, everything is going to be great, but I'm so afraid I'm gonna die or he is going to die, or worse, neither one of us is going to be famous. If I'm not successful it's because I wasn't good enough, but if we stay together, and he doesn't make it big, it will be because I weighed him down. These are the thoughts that I think. I don't say them out loud, because that would make me a negative person and no one wants to date a pessimist, except for maybe an optimist, because opposites attract.

I'm viscerally aware that I could be making a terrible decision, throwing away my plans by moving to the south for a guy, yet the longer I'm with him the more I adore him. My heart has trapped me, or my co-dependance, which is the same thing. I spent ten years doing comedy in Canada, working to accomplish enough to move to America, and then I throw it all away so I can watch Family Feud in the arms of man that I met at an open mic. It's foolish, I know. But the idea of being a thirty something actress starting all over in LA, networking, beaching, traffic, woman in comedy, trying so damn hard to be famous, sounds way more depressing. I just wanna live, or so I keep telling myself.

They say you fall in love with what you need, so I needed a recovering alcoholic, Christian from a trailer park. Every room he walks into he shakes peoples hands. It takes him so long to walk through a comedy club, where as I can work an entire weekend with out saying hello to one waitress. If his gas tank fills up before he gets to the amount he paid for, he goes back into the station and gets his money back. When that happens to me, I always just drive off, but he will go in and get that extra ninety cents, every time. It's my money, he says. And I think, you're right. It is you're money.

I was feeling sorry for myself the other day, thinking that my unresolved childhood trauma is the reason I feel unstable. I said to my boyfriend, The accident ruined me. It made me angry. I'm always going to be terrible to deal with because of what happened. And then he said, But didn't you yell at your mom before she got in the car? The accident didn't make you like this, you've always had a temper.  And that should have been the worst thing anyone has ever said to me but because he said it, it was only kind. I'm not a bitch because I'm broken, I'm broken because I'm a bitch. It's an interesting anecdote, full of unfathomable, un-integratable realities, but interesting.

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