As I start this blog I’m not sure where to begin. I’m not sure what I want to say, I just feel compelled to get this off my chest…out into cyber space and officially out of my heart and soul.
Maybe my posts don’t do me justice? Maybe I come off as a money hungry bitch? I’ve built this wall around me. The wall is so tall and so thick that even I don’t know who I am anymore. So how do I expect you guys to know who I am?
I tell you I’m crazy…I tell you about my Juicy Couture purses and jammies….I tell you about my Mercedes. Do I tell you I’m someone’s daughter? Someone’s granddaughter? Do I tell you I’m surrounded by people who love me – friends and family – but I’m utterly alone?? I feel alone all the time.
I don’t know what my purpose is on God’s green Earth, but I’m determined to find it. I’m determined to show you that I do have a purpose. I’m not some dumb ex-sorority girl!
My purpose is more than US Weekly and Teen Mom…it’s more than my BFF Giuliana and Bill and my love for Britney Spears….it’s more than a fucking Mercedes Benz and some $20 DKNY panties. It’s more than Juicy Couture purses and Von Maur shopping sprees….
My closet full of Steve Madden heels and Express clothes? You can have it!
My Clinique make-up and OPI nail polish? Take it!
The truth is I hide. I hide behind the make-up and the big fake eye lashes. I hide behind the fashion and accessories.
I’m a phony. I name my blog “If You Think I’m a B*tch So Be It” but the truth of the matter is that I’m so desperate for your approval, for anyone’s approval, that I’m terrified to show ME to anyone out there.
I seized the day this weekend….I drove 5.5 hours to Kentucky. By myself. To attend a writer’s conference. Turns out that writer’s aren’t like me. Or I’m not like most writer’s. Smart and bookish and interested in the goings-on of the world. What do I have to contribute to this conversation? It’s not that I don’t know what’s going on in the world, I do, it’s just that I tend to know more about what is going on in Lindsey Lohan’s life than Egypt. Maybe that’s sad. Maybe I am stupid.
But, I don’t think it’s that I am stupid. I have opinions about the world. I know what’s going on out there, I just choose to distant myself because I don’t like the way the world is becoming. I don’t like the stupid and greedy people…I don’t like how government stays the same time and time again…I don’t like how people have no tolerance for one another and can’t see the gray in situations. People see black or white, right or wrong….I don’t. I see all shades of color. I see all sides.
I actually think that makes me a very bright and empathetic person. And maybe I’m happy to have my own views on the world in my own head? I don’t feel confident enough in myself to get into political battles with people about something that I can’t change.
I’d much rather just discuss what Angelina Jolie wore to the Oscars. Or my Dunkin Donuts stalker.
So I’m at this writer’s conference, and I’m in a room full of people who are supposed to be like me. People who are artistic and open minded and have a way with words….and I stick out like a sore thumb.
I don’t fit. I don’t match. And I don’t mean my clothes because you know my outfit looked damn good. I mean ME. Feeling like I was back in junior high I felt awkward and unsure. I felt scared and vulnerable. I felt completely out of place.
Given the exercise to describe people….description is obviously very important in writing…and I get described as “fashionable.”
What. The. Fuck.
Am I so shallow that after spending hours with me the only word you can think of to describe me is “fashionable?”
Of allllllllllllll the words in the English language and hours of talking to me you come up with “fashionable.”
Wow. What does that say about me? How do people view me? I wanted to cry. I wanted to say, “That’s not me!”
“Don’t you see!”
I wanted to yell, “Don’t you see I have a big heart? And I’m honest and loyal and loving and determined and energetic and kind?”
But no. No, you see the fashion. You see that I carry a purple Juicy Couture bag. You see that I’m wearing torn Express jeans – though you don’t know they’re Express nor do you know they are in fashion – and big gold and black earrings and gold and silver bangles up and down my arms. You see the gray v-neck tee and the lacy black top snug on my breasts. You see the faux fur lined purple plaid vest and my perfectly manicured purple nails. You see my long black hair shiny and straight, perfectly coifed to one side.
But you can’t be bothered to see underneath. My clothes don’t define me. My big brown eyes don’t define me. My straight white teeth don’t define me.
Don’t you see? Don’t you see I’d give it all away? I’d be fat and ugly and poor and mismatched….for 5 minutes of pure happiness.
5 minutes of feeling loved and peaceful and pure and happy.
Maybe the problem isn’t me, but you. Maybe you can’t open your eyes and see anything other than someone’s appearance. Sorry I’m attractive and “fashion conscious.” Sorry I’m not like you. Sorry I thought you were maybe someone more like me, someone who gave a damn about what is underneath.
When I strip off the Ugg Boots and the Calvin Klein bra and the Juicy Couture jammies I’m just a girl.
I’m just me.