Yellowing in an old family album, it shows a very young me. Wearing a button down shirt tucked into white jeans, it’s clear my mother was still picking my clothes (even as a kid, I wouldn’t have put that outfit together), and that was my natural (as in before I ever dabbled in Sun-In, Manic Panic, or other flavors of hair dye), and like a good Italian-American, even in childhood, I have the beginning of the dreaded unibrow. I’m maybe about eight years old in this picture, which was taken in the living room of the house I grew up in. And this has been your #throwbackthursday.
“I’d like to teach you,” he said, “though you already know”.
“So make like I don’t already know,” I smiled.
“Teach me,” I said, “you want to and I’d rather it have been you than the one who actually did.”
…about the worst kind of love, about loving someone for whom you are a thing to be taken off the shelf and used when they want, and then left on the shelf to collect dust while they play with other things.
on first listen, it’s easy to mistake the song “Stranger” by the Rasmus as a song about a one-night stand. With lyrics like “I don’t care if it’s only for tonight”, it SOUNDS like a song about a casual encounter. But if you listen a little closer, it’s really not about spending one night with a stranger.
It’s about being the stranger in your own life, being always on the periphery/the outside, looking in, but never actually being a real participant in the action that is your own life. It’s a feeling I remember well from when I struggled with (but wasn’t in treatment for) depression…being the outsider in my own life, never being a part of the action. Being a stranger (in so many ways) to those around me and to myself. But at the same time feeling like I OUGHT TO know myself after living in my body for all the years I had been. But I didn’t really know myself until I tore down all those walls I had let depression build inside my head.
And Buona Pasqua to my fellow Italian speakers. We’re officially late to my sister’s in-laws (having been invited for 2:00). I’m dressed and ready to go (because my mother rushed me around; my youngest sister just finished doing laundry (it’s not her in-laws we’re going to) and is showering; my father showered but won’t get dressed (he’s watching TV); my mother is showering and when she’s done she gets to wrestle my father into an outfit (hey, she married him, she can shut his TV and yell until he gets it together). If we’re lucky we’ll leave by 3:00-3:30. We never get anywhere on time.
New York, Paris, Brussels. The planes hit, the bombs go off…we pick the pieces of our lives out of the rubble and they (they being the talking heads on the TV) tell us to just go on about our day.
I just don’t know about Michael. He seeks me out every other Friday night at the comedy show when he sees me. But when I message him after the show to say “It was good to see you,” he doesn’t message back. Is it an out of sight, out of mind thing…is it a game for him, does he like reeling me in and then spitting me out? I’m so tired of the bullshit.