We like to blame. It’s true; we all do it. If we can’t understand something painful, we, as a collective, tend to place blame. Lord knows that’s a lot easier than looking in the mirror. It’s easy to blame our co-workers or family members or the monster under (sometimes even in) our bed. But, something I’ve learned? That pain is almost always legitimate, and we are usually the monster in question.
If the past 37 years have taught me anything, it’s that mean people are hurt people. That and, most things happen for a reason. It’s hard to stay focused and tell yourself that said people are insecure and in pain, thus acting out—much like I did in the 4th grade when I threw a metal lock at my little brother’s head and busted it wide open. I was hurting because it was his fault we were punished and unable to go to the Gamber Fire House’s annual carnival. But, who knows? Maybe if we had gone, I would have fallen off the Gravitron or thrown up on the swings.
CRUCIAL SIDE NOTE: I recently watched a documentary about people who fall in love with inanimate objects (something known as Objectum sexuality).
One such woman fell in love with a roller coaster, and now she spends her days traveling thousands of miles to ride her “husband” with a string of spare nuts and bolts dangling from her neck.
Perhaps if we went to the carnival that day, I would have developed feelings for a shiny red bumper car. These things happen, and I am not making fun. But, maybe my brother saved me from a lifetime of countless TLC reality shows about the difficulties of making love to movable metal objects. You never know.
That leads me to my next point. When you meet someone, you never really know how they’re going to affect you over your lifetime. Sometimes you don’t even know the person. Perhaps she’s a casino worker or maybe a Lyft driver or even a DC socialite. Somehow, I can never say that term without laughing that real hard guttural laugh that comes from a healthy place deep within. That would be like renaming myself using a faux prefix like Sir Kristina Harman, followed by a prepositional description like “the collector of ex-girlfriends”. The only difference here being, the latter is true. I love my ex-girlfriends no matter what conspired between us because life is fucking short, and hateful, childish banter is harmful to one person and one person only: said socialite. If people are harming you, walk away. But, remember, no one can hurt you unless you give them permission. And, I don’t give anyone permission to hurt me. Why should you?
If people can fall in love with inanimate objects, I think it’s safe to make the following analogy: ending a relationship is like selling a car. You don’t hate the old car because it broke down or the visor fell off or the emissions were too high. And, you certainly don’t hate the next asshole who takes that car for a test drive. If she buys it, great! If not, perhaps you simply forgot to change the oil too often or never had the tires rotated. Or, perhaps it requires extensive repairs. Either way, the new owner doesn’t criticize you for selling, nor does she start a Trumpian smear campaign to make herself feel better after she, too, decides to sell the car. Unless said owner is a DC socialite, in which case, kudos to you for giving me something amazing to laugh about. Afterall, we’re all different, with different regrets and different life stories. We all know how it feels to have a monster under—and sometimes even in—our bed. Which is why if it ever came down to the Mother of Monster’s verses the Mother of Dragons, I’d pick the latter every time. I may not breath—or even brave—[fire], but I’m one bad ass bitch, and I will burn that ego straight to the ground.
Egos are overrated. In fact, egos are kind of like drugs. They fill a void we can’t fully understand. To quote the great Marilyn Manson, “I don’t like the drugs, but the drugs like me”. Although, if I’m being totally honest here, the drugs are pretty great in a this-feels-awesome-right-now-but-will-eventually-destroy- my-life kind of way. One thing I can say is that I’m not embarrassed by who I am or what I’ve been through. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
I know I’ve talked openly about my addiction over the years. In recovery, I am proud of who I am. Addicts are a special breed: they’re generally sensitive and caring, intelligent and charismatic—all while living with a disease that kills millions of people. It could easily take the last breath from me if I give in to the compulsion to use. So, having been successful in life and not dying or going to jail (yet) is something I celebrate daily. I do not want God to remove my addiction. I want Him to continue showing me how to live life in recovery. Going from a painful disease to a happy life is not an easy task. To have done that, for the most part, is a huge feat, and something I am very proud to accomplish one day at a time. Wasn’t it the Mother of Monster’s herself who said, “I want your ugly, I want your disease”?
It’s not that hard to love others despite their ugly. In fact, it’s a whole fucking lot easier than hating them for it. I also think it’s important to note that adding emojis to a string of insults doesn’t offset the off-putting nature of your words. But hey, if you want to be a bully, who am I to stop you? That’s your ugly, and you are free to live out all your insecurities.
So, to anyone out there suffering from a bruised ego or a bout of depression over a failed relationship, keep calm and remember: no one stole your car. But, someone will most certainly buy it! Because it’s in great condition with low mileage, a digital wireless backup camera, and a truly fantastic audio and on-dash display system.
Let’s just collectively hope she doesn’t do drugs, unless of course it’s while cruising down Rodeo drive and blasting anything—and I do mean anything—besides Lady Gaga.