Listen to this video. It is an excerpt from a speech given by Charlie Kaufman. Watch it also, if you'd like. But listen to it first. Really listen. That's what I've been doing for the last few days. I lost track of the number of times I listened to it, actually.
I've been staring at this computer screen on and off for two weeks trying to write my annual New Year note. Trying to make lists and tie things up in summation with a pretty little bow. And I couldn't. Because it all felt fake. I felt fake. And then I watched this video.
I am here and you are here and I am done hiding. This is my wound. It is wide and dark and vast and deep. It is comprised of many different chasms that have run together and sometimes, they consume.So you are here, and I am here, spending our time as we must. I am trying not to spend this time, as I spend most of my time, trying to get you to like me; trying to control your thoughts, to use my voodoo at the speed of light, the speed of sound, the speed of thought.It is an ancient pattern of time usage for me, and I’m trying to move deeper, hoping to be helpful. This pattern of time usage paints over an ancient wound, and paints it with bright colors. It’s a sleight of hand, a distraction, so to attempt to change the pattern, let me expose the wound. I do know that it is old. I do know that it is a hole in my being. I do know it is tender. I do believe that it is unknowable, or at least inarticulable.I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that is tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won’t be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live.
To say that I am in a rut is an understatement. I am in valley. A hole. The bottom of the sea. But I am choosing to be honest. I am imperfect. An imperfect daughter, an imperfect sister, an imperfect friend. An imperfect person. I make mistakes. They do not define me, but they are there; always reminding me that I have fallen short. There are days when I somehow convince myself that I am bold and brave. I say what I think, even if it isn't how I feel, and I am perhaps not scared for a moment. Other times, I make myself small. Quiet. I blend myself into the wallpaper. And other times still, I allow other people to do that for me...or to me. I let myself be painted over. I become whatever is needed: Confidant. Enabler. Scapegoat. Drinking Buddy. Sympathizer. Punching bag. A would-be self sacrificing lamb. But I am not a martyr. It is simply easier to be what is needed for you, than to be what I need for me. I don't reach out, I don't ask for help, I don't admit that I am sad. I push the ugliness into a corner and I ignore it's screaming until it is all that I can hear. Until it grows big enough to grab my heart and threaten to squeeze. Because its what I'm conditioned to do. Darkness is scary and ugly and should be hidden away and never talked about. For almost 4 years, I thought I had beaten this into submission. There were days that I would still wrestle with my demons, but it felt for a while as though it was their last hurrah. Their final stand. For the past few months, I have come to realize I was wrong. I struggle with depression. Not past tense, struggled. I have since middle school. I do believe that medication does help some people. I do not believe I am one of them. On medication, I don't feel anxiety or sadness. But I don't feel anything else either. I become a zombie. And I decided long ago that I would rather feel everything, the whole spectrum, than nothing at all.
Sharing this with the world is not easy for me. It goes against everything that is in my nature. But after a recent conversation with a few very dear friends (whose struggles I can so deeply relate too), I decided that perhaps this isn't my secret to keep. Perhaps it is as Charlie Kaufman says: specific to me, and common to everyone. We all have things we hide that we believe make us ugly and inhuman and vulnerable. They make us feel alone, and lesser, and unlovable. But here is the secret: We are none of those things. We are all a part of this whirling universe of stars, connected in unknowable and tenuous ways. Jamie Tworkowski once referenced Donald Miller and wrote "we are called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding...we were made to be lovers; bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we are called home." This is me unwrapping my hands from myself and holding them out to you. I am going to start being honest and offering up sincerity in the hopes that maybe it will let you know that you are not alone. In your pain, in your happiness, in this life. I think that through being genuine with one another, we can help cure the disease of loneliness. By being real, we can bring light to the dark.
My name is Monica and what I have to offer is me. I am an incurable romantic. Tina Fey, Lena Dunham, and Chelsea Handler have a direct line to my funny bone. I'm the clumsiest person you will ever meet. I'm sarcastic, I believe all cats hate me, and I can't walk in heels to save my life. I like sushi, and dancing in my kitchen, and I think I can communicate with my dog via telepathy. My nephews are my favorite people in the world and I think elephants are my spirit animal. Sometimes, I wear the same sweat pants for 2 days and don't wash my hair for a week straight. I own too many nail polishes and I probably judge you based on your taste in music. I suffer from depression. But I believe I am getting better day by day. And I think you can too. I am a walking contradiction and I am ever changing. But this is me, today.
