I feel speechless but I feel obligated to relate what I have encountered. Let me begin with this premise: I was “bored” which 95% of the time is a synonym for “feeling lonely” and this was no exception. I don’t mean lights off, chocolate stuffing, stuffed animal cuddling lonely. Just a vague sensation of diminishing in importance, a lingering effect from the change in my romantic status, I suppose. It’s this precise semi-loneliness that I become increasingly susceptible to searching the internet for something that provokes me into something; it’s a vain attempt to find a catalyst when my own motivation fails me.
It was in this dusk of emotions that I stumbled on someone’s soul. I feel like lightning cracked and fizzled me into the ground. I have met this person several times but I am not sure he would remember me. I have a sharp appreciation for even sharper wit and it was hard not to notice his, but for all intents and purposes I was a mute. He bleeds into his writing. Not the sort of self-indulgent marshmallow writing that one reads in alternative rock, teenage poetry or from bitter cynics who believe they are intellectual because they debate about God. It was real. The soulful stuff that makes you realize all of the emotions you have been hiding because they can’t be portrayed in a Disney film. Yes, I am a happy person. I love my life. Sometimes I resemble some sort of freaky Anne of Green Gables/Spongebob Squarepants hybrid. But loving one’s life doesn’t mean cramming all of your fear, anger, sadness, and frustration into a hole in the wall that you put a bookcase in front of.
So, Mr. Brilliant Writer Semi-strangerpants, thank you. You’ll probably never read this only because you barely know I exist, so perhaps this thank you is fairly arbitrary. All the same, while I have been doing a lot of laughing and playing around, thanks for reminding me that I can love even better when I figure out my own shadows that slip into my mind between the time the light goes out and dreams begin.
I want to stop carrying some things around. I love lists so here it goes:
1. I want to believe that marriages can not only last in my day and age, but that they can be happy. I want to believe that they don’t “get old” and dull and that by 30 you are so sick of each other you daydream about affairs or at least about a weekend away from your spouse.
2. I want to believe that most men love romance too and that our definitions of romance both involve love.
3. I want to forgive the people who have hurt my family.
4. I want to forgive the people who gave me reason to believe that I was an incompetent artist. I am tired of feeling mediocre and of creating excuses to not show up to an audition or express myself or even just read a play.
5. I want to return to my bold determination to not shy away from the fact that I’m bipolar. I’m functional and happy. If people think I’m going to whip out whiskey and a machete a la Jack Nicholson in The Shining at any moment, they are so willfully ignorant that I couldn’t hold a conversation with them anyway. My feelings are just as real and legitimate as anyone else’s. Unless you are Jack Nicholson in The Shining. (Note: I have mused long and hard on the improbability of the story. I strongly dislike the horror genre, but it’s just an empty hotel, buddy. No need to get your panties in a wad.)
There are other things that I so desperately want to open up about, but they aren’t my shadows, they are someone else’s and when you love someone, you don’t blow their cover. You go around walking a little bit heavier, hoping they are a little bit lighter. But the beautiful thing about a God that is good is that even while you’re walking heavy, he’s distracting you with some pretty fantastic scenery. I don’t talk about God enough because I am so freaking terrified about offending people, but part of world peace stems from not trying to slice each other’s souls in half. I’m not trying to meet some kind of God-conversation quota; it’s just when you meet someone that changes your life, you talk about that person. It’s just strange when there is a hurricane of labels waiting to attack you by saying you are a member of a judgmental, close-minded cult. Or Glenn Beck’s best friend. I’m not sure which is worse.
The whole point of this post is to comment how I loved falling into delicious writing, peeking into what makes me scared, and to thank a very real and personable God for creating a way to forgive people for stupid choices, including myself.