There are Little Pockets of Old Time, Where Things and Places Stay the Same, Like Bubbles in Amber

From the moment I was born, I'm pretty sure I have been a major fucking bummer. I mask this REALLY well - especially when I have the opportunity to hang out with someone like my big brother, Aaron. His energy is high, he's very all-over-the-place, and he's so much fun. Hanging out with him is like spending time with a butterfly on speed and the energy he puts out is contagious. But when I'm alone, or when I'm with someone I feel comfortable enough to be around when I'm at my lower moments and my energy is bordering around something akin to a sad tortoise gallumping (is that a word?) in the sand, I get the sense that I carry around a lot of sadness. I've often wondered what it would take to make me the "perfect" human. A human like my big brother - one who is filled with positive energy and leaps around the universe spreading joy and laughter at every turn. But I think maybe I inherited more of my father's melancholy demeanor. I think that gene skipped Aaron and went straight into me, and then multiplied. Everything from my sultry stare (which people absolutely mistake for sultry. It's not sultry, it's the look of someone who wants to get out of whatever environment they're in and get back to the comfort of a safe space), to my musical taste, to the movies I enjoy watching, and the clothes I put on my back, everything feels like it comes off sad.

As I've aged, there's been a shift in my thoughts; specifically recently where I realized that I was hiding under a metaphorical weighted blanket in a dark room. Now, to be clear, I think being under a weighted blanket in a dark room is wonderful; it's comfortable, it's safe, it's quiet. But staying there... not leaving the room to eat, to drink, to move, to fuck, to experience life - being paralyzed under the weight of my own safe space and comfort, that's what my dark room is.

I've been blogging with Drea for a week or two and I love our new time together. It's bonding, it's fun, it's safe. I forgot what it was like to connect with the people who love you, and who you love. I have very few people in my life that I feel the undeniable string of connection with - and she's undoubtedly the one I feel connected to most. If ever there was a case for the proof of existence of soul mates, it would be my friendship with Ondrea. It is safe, it is comfortable, I miss her when we don't talk, she's in my brain always - like a twin sister (an undoubtedly braver and cooler one, but a twin none the less), and my relationship with her is something that keeps me in a space of consistently learning new things about the world we live in, and also about myself, about friendship, about life in general, and honestly about a million other things. I could write an epic novel about the importance of our friendship and what it means to me.

One of the things that our time lately has shown me is that I have an actual need for connection that I have been completely ignoring, because hiding in my safe room is easier. Even when I have made an effort to connect with people in the past, there's been a mask over it. I'm not sure what's under the mask - probably the authentic me - but, what's so incredibly weird to me, is that I have NO IDEA who that unmasked person is. It's actually the inspiration for my next tattoo, which I'm making into a half sleeve. It's this gorgeous woodland nymph and she has a mask on, and it looks like she's starting to take the mask off, but she hasn't taken it off fully so you can't see her face. I feel so deeply connected to that image because of the mask. I added it to the post as a title picture because it's awesome and I love it.

I have no idea who I am, what my values are, what my purpose in this life is, or how I feel about certain topics... which makes me a GREAT listener. I can listen to people talk about their views all day - but I rarely have things to add, because I don't know what mine are.

When I first heard the blog prompt for this post, I was not terribly excited. It lacked the sexual energy of some of our most recent writings, which I found to be fun and exciting. I decided to dive deeper into the why behind not being excited - because I've had a lot of repressed sexual energy come pouring out of me recently. And I started to think that maybe a large part of my life has been hiding behind the mask of sexuality. Maybe it feels like it's oozing out of me because it's a defense mechanism. Like a really sexy weighted blanket that feels good, but is slowly crushing me under its weight. It is a shitty thing to say, but even the shittiest truths are still true - being pretty has made my life easy in a way that has ruined me as I've aged.

Am I still pretty? I don't know. I don't think I am. But I didn't think I was pretty when I was younger either. I thought I was odd looking. After Chris Martinez told me I looked like a weird mosquito in 6th grade; I think that's when I stopped feeling pretty.

I am told that I'm pretty by some people, but I don't see it in the same way I used to. I look in the mirror and notice age creeping in. And it's terrifying.

Being pretty isn't necessarily a bad thing - but it is when you use it in the way that I've used it. I've used it to get jobs, I've used it to get out of trouble, I've used it to get the things I want, to get the people I want - but I've also used it as a mask to hide behind. And the older I get, the more I realize that the mask is starting to feel really fucking tight, and I don't feel comfortable anymore. I don't feel safe anymore. Because, at some point in the future, the mask is going to crack; it's going to break, and then what's left underneath is me... and if I don't know who me is, what does that mean? If I'm exposed, and without a mask, how can I be ok with that nakedness if I haven't accepted or even made an attempt to understand the reality of what that nakedness looks like, or what it means?

The blog prompt that we decided on for this post is "do you have to be happy to live a fulfilling life?" I had to really think about the answer, and it's taken me all weekend and part of Monday to figure it out and get this written.

The simple answer is... I don't know.

I don't know because I don't know who I am.

I don't know what a fulfilling life looks like, and I don't know if I know what the type of happiness that would lead to a fulfilling life looks like.

My children make me happy, Ondrea makes me happy, coffee in the morning makes me happy, thunderstorms and super crunchy dill pickles make me happy, New York accents and Marlboro Reds and piercings make me happy, mountains make me happy. So I know I've felt happiness, and I know there are times in my life where I've felt happy.

But is there an underlying sadness? A frozen piece that's under the surface like some weird iceberg?  Yes. Is there a nagging sensation in the back of my mind going "are you happy? How do you know? You don't even know yourself, so how can you know what makes you happy?" Yes.

I think some people can lead a fulfilling life without being happy - people who are selfless and philanthropic. I think there are a lot of unhappy people who care for others - in kitchens where they provide food for the homeless, or in hospice facilities, or in shelters. And those people probably feel fulfilled through their acts of selflessness.

But I don't help other people, at least not in that way. And as selfish as this sounds, I'd rather learn about who I am first, and then help others. Though I guess there's something to finding yourself through helping other people. So maybe, in reality, I'm just selfish. But I wouldn't even know that.

I would love to lead a fulfilling life. I would love to be happy. I'd love to do both. But first, I think I need to know who I am, and what makes me happy, and what would make me feel fulfilled - I think I need to know what the things are that would make me happy and fulfilled, before I can even have a possibility of leading a happy and/or fulfilled life. So I suppose this one remains a mystery until I do more digging.