I See You

I am not in the business of putting people on pedestals.  There is too much effort and disappointment involved in crafting and sculpting—gingerly making sure each piece fits properly to create a sturdy foundation—only to have it all topple before your eyes.  The illusion shatters before you even have a chance to admire your own handiwork.  

I have fallen from far too many pedestals myself.  Placed gently upon the top, only to retain glory for a fraction of time before teetering and losing balance, falling slowly to the ground until my body crumples, broken and ashamed.  Feeling regret that I was unable to live up to the person another saw in me, my ideal who is beautiful and selfless and untouchable.  The slight aftertaste of self-loathing soon follows, chased away by a hefty dose of resentment as I see the disappointment in the eyes that once held me in such high regard.

There is much more beauty to be had in reality.  Our perceptions are shallow and unsustainable, cruel and impossible to attain.  We often view all the good in a person under a microscope, not allowing room for any negative particles.  This stunts growth and acceptance, creating a reality that is built on dishonesty and expectation.  We inadvertently abort future emotional education, denying ourselves the beauty of discovering the hidden nooks and crannies of those we surround ourselves with.

We are all vulnerable.  We fear exposing ourselves and facing blatant rejection of our weakest parts.  Yet we often do not extend the same acceptance and gentility we crave to those around us.  

So, I just wanted you to know I see you.  Feet planted firmly on the ground with the rest of us, flaws shining and tangible.  You are beautiful in your imperfection, reachable in a way that allows me to glorify in my own brokenness, unashamed.  You are a mirror image; your cracks differ from mine but there is comfort in seeing our asymmetrical similarities.  

I relish in your dark corners, cobwebs and dust collecting in the spaces that rarely see the light.  The cubby holes and forgotten drawers that house your fears and regrets, nestled atop a bed of insecurity and mistakes.  I cherish the glimpses because they make your light so much brighter.  They make you real and fallible; human, just like me.  I can see the limitlessness of your worth, intuit the vastness of your spirit and delight in accepting that to know you fully would take more than a lifetime.

I see you in the ways I wish to be seen, honestly and without judgment.  I see you, complex and lovely and crippled in the ways we all are.  I see you.

Please return in like-new condition

We traverse life giving out pieces of ourselves with the hope that they are well-tended while on loan.  When we are young, these pieces are handed out freely, carelessly, as we begin to test the often shaky line of trust we bestow upon others.  We have much to give: love, faith, generosity, and friendship flow from us in abundance, supple fruit ready to be picked or given enthusiastically to anyone who shows interest.  

We experience the human need to connect, the desire to deter loneliness and apathy.  The wish for someone to share in secrets and pain.  The longing to look at someone and see ourselves reflected back, more beautiful and inspiring than the reality.  So we continue to hand out our pieces, willing others to treat them with care and kindness.  Not losing faith when they are tossed back at us with a hasty "dysfunctional, please return to sender," but bolstering our determination to find them a safe and happy home. 

As we grow, the healthy pieces lessen in quantity.  Some are returned scuffed up and unrecognizable, others lost to us forever.  The few that remain become precious; rarities that we hold onto just a little too tightly.  We start to realize that to give out these pieces is to equip the receiver with the perfect weaponry to damage us further.  Opening up is no longer simply exciting and joyful, it is scary.  It is the largest risk with the most terrifying and beautiful consequences.

Our hearts continue to function like overeager puppies, fluttering about merrily and shouting "open me up! Lay me bare! I want to feel!"  The capacity for caution, for bitterness, does not exist.  Trepidation is reserved for our brains, which wrap our hearts in barbed wire and ward off any potential threats. 

The same desires remain, but they are often tinged with bitterness and cynicism.  There are only so many times we can play with fire before the burn scares us away from enjoying the warmth.  The skin heals over, but the memory of pain remains to remind us to use caution, to stand far enough away that the sparks cannot reach us.


With the new knowledge of the potential danger that exists when exposing ourselves also comes the realization that in fortifying our protective barriers we also deny ourselves the beautiful experience of having the pieces we share treated with respect and love.  We cannot ignore those who recognize the value and responsibility in not just accepting, but exchanging and trusting.  

Connection is alluring.  It is frightening and exhilarating at the same time.  It is a whirlwind of anticipation and tentativeness, fear and exaltation.  A beautiful drug that fires our synapses and retards our senses.  It can be overwhelming, in both the best and worst possible way.  

And so we freeze.  Our emotions seize up. We back away slowly, tails between our legs, fear dancing in our eyes.  We don't say the words that emanate from our hearts and batter the insides of our lips looking for release.  We cower from the idea of rejection. We refuse to invite that new friend over. To offer our lips to a potential lover. To open up to a long lost relative. 

Like caged birds, we are protected from harm, but cannot experience the ultimate release of stretching our wings and feeling that delicious tension as we press against the wind. We keep ourselves safe, though unfulfilled. 

And by we, I guess I really just mean me. 

I'm not who you think I am

I laugh and dance and play and effervesce all over my own little world.  My giggles run rampant and unrestrained, fueled by the delight I take in the world around me.  I pull funny faces and sing off key, skate across the floor in mismatched socks, and skip carefree and breathless down the street.  I'm awkward and clumsy, but don't take myself seriously enough to mind.  

I snort when I laugh and drive around town with Yoda and Yoshi as my passengers.  I go geek over a well-turned phrase or newly acquired addition to my personal vocabulary.  I nuzzle my friends and milk the elbows of the people I care about.  I'm a good friend.  One who always listens, offering advice when needed and hugs always.  I lend my shoulder for tears and my laugh for distraction.  I enjoy making you smile, making sure you feel special and loved as everyone should.  

But I also think and feel and hurt with a depth you don't give me credit for.  Sometimes my smile is strained.  Sometimes it spreads across my cheeks because the familiar upward lift of muscles is easier than giving in and breaking down.  Other times it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep it in place so I don't shake the foundation of the image you've built of me.  I can be selfish and cruel, jealous and vindictive.  I cry.  Sometimes it all rushes out in a wave that leaves me breathless and hiccuping, exhausted emotionally and physically by the sheer force of emotion, my face raw and ravaged by the physical manifestation of pain and frustration.

I've loved, hated, lusted, and obsessed.  Despite my best intentions, I've hurt others.  I've given too much of myself and had the pieces returned to me mangled and unrecognizable; and I've come out of it more jaded and cynical than I will ever let on.   

I'm human.  I'm complex, unpredictable, and driven by needs and desires that can never be fully understood or articulated.  I don't expect everyone to fully grasp the totality of my personality, but sometimes the juxtaposition between what you see and what I am is exhausting.  In the course of my life, I've managed to dichotomize myself to the point of personal tension.  When my smile slips, I feel your expectations pulsing against my being.  They pelt me erratically as I struggle to retain the Jessica you know.  The one you rely on to make you feel better; to be a little silly, a little weird.  

As I battle the resentment that rises in my throat when you look at me like I've let you down because my sunshine is a bit dimmer than normal, I suddenly feel lonely.  In a room full of people, surrounded by sound and motion, I am alienated.  Detached.  Unanchored.  To know so many, but be known by so few.  

As much as I want to, I can't blame you: the masks I wear are my own creation.  They've been carefully constructed over the years, molded perfectly to my being, keeping me hidden and safe and untouchable.  When the day is over and I can peel them away, those interested in sharing my space lessen.  The few that remain accept and love me, naked and raw as I am without my protective barriers.

The truth is, I'm just as beautiful and fucked up as everyone else.

A writer writes about writing (AKA: Holy Meta, Batman!)

I have once again fallen into the trap of completely neglecting my blog.  I will admit that this is partially due to the fact that I receive great personal pleasure out of having my most recent post comprised of gratuitous swearing.  There is something inherently sad about burying that mountain of fucks and shits under a comparatively tame post, but, alas, insomnia has taken hold of me and my default into random writing kicked in.

Why Swearing is FUN!

If you are reading this, chances are you are my friend or, at the very least, my acquaintance.  I’m sure you are well aware of the fact that I have a little sailor who lives inside my mouth, shouting out filthy words and phrases and laughing gleefully.  In my life, I have encountered many people who equate swearing with a lack of classiness or eloquence.  Bullshit, I say.  Words are words: they are empty sounds until we project meaning and connotation upon them.  I am not ashamed to admit that I harshly judge the “oh fudge,” “fiddlesticks,” and “heck” mutterers of the world.  By denying yourself the use of one word, only to replace it with a similarly sounding word that holds the exact same meaning and intent, is ludicrous.  If you have a problem with me saying “fuck,” you are implying that you take issue with the meaning behind it.  If I say “fudge” in its place, the meaning has not changed.  The intent remains the same despite the switch of letters.

The argument is much more complex than this, I’m aware.  We have been socially conditioned to recognize certain words as bad and improper, taught that these words are inappropriate in certain social settings, and berated for using them at unacceptable times.  I just want to know why these particular words are the ones that are the most satisfying to use. 

The book-lover's struggle

I struggle with myself over many things on a daily basis.  The dirt-loving, toad-petting side of me goes head to head with the nail polish and eyeliner-wearing side; the animal-lover in me hurls accusations when I tear into a steak; and the grammar-Nazi inside cries bitter tears over my frequent use of run-on sentences across the Internet (don't even get me started on the self-loathing I endure when I happen to indulge in txt-spk.)  For the past couple years, however, my most ardent internal battle has been waged between the book-loving purist and the gadget-toting tech nerd.  

So far, physical books have been winning out by a large margin.  I'm a literature graduate who loves the solid weight of ink and paper in her hand, smelling the musky book scent, and the satisfaction felt whenever I glance at my overflowing bookshelves.  Each book has a story, whether it be the marked up copy of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English or the guilty-pleasure summer read that sits hidden behind more impressive titles.  When I hold my used books, I think of how many hands have touched them, how they were loved by previous owners.  My new books hold my own memories: the first crack of the stiff spine, the joy I felt devouring the words, the escape they might have offered during hard times.  I have books signed by authors and--even more dear to me--books signed by hands I know and love.  So, basically, my books turn me into sentimental mush.  I just happen to like this brand of sentimentality.  

Loudly and often I have adamantly claimed that I will never own an e-book device.  Even when late night urges turned me to the internet to sneakily purchase e-books to read on my laptop, I stuck to my guns.  Even when, over the course of only two years, my e-book purchases totaled roughly $500 (on top of my physical book purchases: a total I cannot even think about without my wallet crying in pain), I continued to live on in denial.  No piece of spiffy plastic can replace my books.

It's a losing battle.  I love technology.  I love instant gratification.  I love nerding out over various gadgets.  And so it began: my inner nerd started a revolt.  Niggling doubts entered my brain as I passed the shiny Nooks at Barnes and Noble.  When I first fondled a Kindle, the e-ink screen surprised and delighted me.  I went giddy over access to thousands of free classics.  The urge to possess such a gadget grew and grew.  

Until this last week, I held on to my book-purist ideals.  I talked myself out of a Kindle purchase time and time again with money-related excuses and longing looks at my battered books.  I knew the battle was lost when I spent an entire Saturday converting my MS Reader books into usable formats.  My warring sides have come together in peace, content for the time being to compromise and allow me a shiny new toy.  With my paycheck next week comes my very own e-reading device.   I won't even begin to describe how the part of me that wants to own a bookstore one day feels about that.

Incidents in the Life of a Dumbass

Do you ever look back on a situation or series of events and wonder what the hell is wrong with you?  Well, I do.  I'm incredibly clumsy, often irrational, and prone to extreme dramatics, which means there is usually at least one event every day where I have to shake my head at myself.  Some days, like yesterday, my entire day consists of a series of unfortunate events.  Last night, over the span of three hours, I did myself bodily harm, was attacked by an invasion of demonic crickets, and was woken up by the sounds of a chicken massacre.