Might have had a tiny breakthrough this week.
It’s all fun and games to sing Taylor Swift songs, and identify with her particular brand of love-sick psychosis. We’re all out here online, varying degrees of Swifties, twirling about in our technicolor jackets of romanticism and paranoia.
But just because someone rich and famous gave melody and rhyme to your issues, doesn’t make them better.
They’re not suddenly a shiny badge of honor, something to boast and brag about. It just means you share a similar brand of crazy; except hers pays her rent, while yours spins you in circles, repeating useless patterns as you bounce back and forth inside of a rubbery emotional purgatory because you never learned how to stop being the problem.
You never learned how to address the problem (yourself) from a level place. You never learned to knock it off. You just kept giving into your own noise and now it’s your whole identity, innit? Cute.
Sometimes it’s more than a catchy Top-40 hit. Sometimes the problem can actually be me. I can get so stubborn expecting some specific criteria to magically make everything feel better, to make me magically feel secure. Except you know, and I know, nothing ever will just magically make me feel anything.
Sometimes I feel magical.
Of course. Sometimes I meet someone and I hear music playing far off across the meadows of mind, flowing over the field of flowers where all my wishes reside, swirling through my neurons, dialing atop my eardrums, and ringing the bells of my heart. Sure. It doesn’t happen all the time, but it happens.
That’s the most magical part. Right at the start. When the sparks go off, and the assumed and assured familiarity barrels in smoking hot.
But after that? After real life and everyone’s personal circumstances, and communication styles join the conversation then there is no magical fix for my reactionary behaviors.
Oh no, the only magic would be if I were suddenly an emotionally mature adult who knew how to immediately balance myself in the moment. If I could maintain equilibrium and detachment throughout all 24 hours, and shift in and out of debilitating desire and blind passion at will instead of being yanked from reason by the demanding undercurrent of my mental insecurities and biological yearnings.
Bitch, I’m in these waters fighting for my life.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. But it really feels like that. Because I love to be in love. There’s no secret there. My website is called loveruthnineke.com. I’m obsessed. I love giving into my passion. I love putting my mouth on my lover. I love touching and being touched. I want to be inside of my lover’s cells. I want to be bound to them at a subatomic level.
Where is the confusion?
Only in my fears and doubts. Only in my insanity. Only in my past experiences. Only in my defense mechanisms. Only in my pervasive need for control, explanation, predictability, romance, happily-ever-after-right-this-second. Like I could die from how hard my head spins and how loudly the voices hurl themselves against my skull. Again, exaggerating. But only slightly right.
Our insecurities are wild animals, rebelling against confinement inside the zoo of our minds.
I will never magically tame them. I can only try a little bit everyday to tell myself new stories that subdue them. Everything – my insanity, my insecurities, my desire, my passion, my genuine, pure affection, my ability to understand others – will get better on its own, over time. As I recognize and accept (*sigh*) that all I can do is try to tap in, and commit mainly to myself – to showing up consistently with grace for myself first, and then for others – that’s where I’ll find the magic.
In consciously trying my best to resemble something graceful? In attempting to be the change I want to see in my own reality. In taking deep breaths before the top starts spinning, in breathing through it while it spins anyway.
Tell me what you think before we both die