One of the Good Ones

Come look.

I am beautiful and they do not deserve me

None of them so far

According to my friends

Not a one has fit the description

They’ve all somehow crafted of what it is

Exactly

That my one should look like

Since the parking garage used to look

Like a Japanese tea house

Or the guide-light from the building downtown

Used to tell me how I’m feeling

Catholic Knights and condos

I dreamed of green candles that smelled like

Rich white people and I didn’t know better

And now here it’s fifteen years past

And my heart still breaks as

Easily

What growth has come if the same

Weapons still hit the same

Old scars

And the flesh still breaks there

It’s impossible to tell if I’ve grown

When I’m here in this place

Where the mountains just look like

And the ocean just sits there too

Just there but far off

And the walls are not much wider here

Than they were where I hid then

My heart still aches it’s usual ache

And my ears still ring with the same

Old songs

And I crave only the same touches

I wonder if I have felt them

Or if when I do they feel like longing

For this same same

Tell me show me have I grown

Am I closer to being the kind of

Woman who can love and be loved

Or am I a weeping gash

Unwilling to bond together

With its same similar flesh

And scar thick enough to fend off

Weird little pieces

Of a story that isn’t true

Laughter that isn’t listened to

Laughter heard but draped in fur

Carried through familiar mountains

And landscape from the view

Of a driver’s side window

Weird little pieces

Of horn sections and strums

Of a velvet noose

A rapture of hums and a simple tune

Lyrics that don’t match the insides

Of a whale left ashore by its own

Stubbornness to be viewed

Weird little pieces

Of shards of a broken heart

Left unprotected by its owner

Given to any who ask for it

Regardless of their desire to keep it safe

Even from the start

Weeps at how easily it drops

Weird little pieces

Of a day that started well

A list of to-do’s done

Under the weight of need in to do them

Leaves a bitter dry tongue

To pronounce only what it doesn’t have

Let alone what it desires to keep

Weird little pieces

Of evidence of attack

Signs that the right or left is right

Or left in the wings while the next act

Brews conflict yet untold

And the fear comes in waves

Of panic and numbed distaste

Weird little pieces

Of words of wisdom from friends

From people willing to listen

As the pain doubles back

Cycling through hormones and

Terrors of false truths

What use is it all if it cannot be of use

Weird little pieces

Of stories so far unproved

Gnawing silently at the whole of me

Passing glances to

Masked faces and hesitant gestures

Not so close desiring only closeness

I am a human being. I am flawed and I am uncomfortable. I did not receive the rules for how to live when I was born. I did not get a manual that said which adults to trust or how to do things on my own. I try and I fail and I make mistakes. I am a hypocrite about things I don’t fully understand. My perspective is limited to what I have experienced and what I already believe enough to learn from others.

In order for me to learn something, I have to believe that it could be true. Belief can come from prior knowledge, faith, or trust in the person imparting information. In science and research, people gather broad samples of information and read it in order to tell a story, but even the sources and samples must be something they can trust. Trust is cheap currency on social networking sites like Facebook. I know that for every opinion and experience I have had, there is a headline and a stock photo to support it. Thanks to social media and the internet at large, I can create a portrait of the world that suits the narrative I have already created for myself, no experience necessary.

The enemies I believe in exist. The heroes I believe in exist. I get to be the victim of something every day and celebrated for my strength in surviving something else the next. The point is, I get to be the good guy. Always. There will always be someone, or more often a group of strangers, who will completely validate me in the way that I feel and think. They are easy to find. When someone enters my space on a post or a comments section who disagrees, I can block them. I can call someone every heinous insult that comes to mind and be the victim of their bullying. I can share an article written by a nameless algorithm of questionable origin and use it to validate my life experience. I get to self-diagnose myself the victim of an oppression that until today I didn’t know existed. But what would be the point?

The point is that I am on social media because I feel a void within myself and I wish to fill it with connection. I want to connect with people, to be called a friend, to have something sent to me. Reading public posts by people that I know feels personal. It feels like they had me in mind when they shared that they missed all their old friends from back home. When someone shares a photo of their new baby I am quick to respond because I feel connected to them. This is how social networking began and how it worked beautifully. When someone asks a question it feels like they’re asking me and I feel obliged, and delighted, to answer. I feel like I’m helping.

Several years ago when I relocated to Los Angeles, all of my friends were people I met on Facebook. My entire first apartment was furnished by people on Facebook. My clients at my first job found me through a Facebook group. My relationship questions were answered by strangers who seemed to have my best interest in mind. I felt bonded to a secret club and doubted that any harm could come from something that had helped me in so many ways.

Though connection fuels my desire for and my reliance upon social networks, what I get out of it evolves to provide me with what I perpetuate. It has become less acceptable to call a friend on the phone and tell them about my day than to type it out in a paragraph to release to anyone who looks. As I scroll through at night, I find my timeline filled with desperate cries for help. Not the kind that have direction or want advice, but “I can’t do this anymore.” This is a familiar cry because it is something I have done, too. In those dark nights of the soul when everything hurts, I used to turn to alcohol or drugs or one night stands. I would wander into a bar and hope that someone in there would start up a conversation and let me leak my pain to them. I didn’t have an outlet. I didn’t have any help. I battled anxiety and depression without a set of tools to feel my way though it to the other side. Today, I find myself using a new drug: my timeline.

But even worse, those cries are not in a vacuum. They are peppered in among amateur, emotional, and fear riddled judgements of the state of the world. My timeline has flooded with political analyses by the ill and uninformed, social commentary from perspectives made hopeless by offensive and defensive counter arguments from those who believe they know best, and ads catered directly to me based on what I have shared, which is most often expressions of fear, grief, and discontent.  The worse off I feel, the more I share things that mirror my state of mind, the worse it gets.

I noticed this for the first time around the 2016 Presidential Election. The weight of the world was already heavy, but the news of the election results led to a cascade of posts of hopelessness. I found myself compulsively scrolling pages upon pages of non-stop news, op-ed’s, and opinions of friends and strangers.  I would comment and share posts that rang true to me. Over a few days I noticed that each time I opened my Facebook app, my timeline was filled with horror. It was a terror of daily tragedy. It was no longer just bad news about the President, it was my friends posting articles about domestic abuse. It was people wanting to “spread awareness” about a police shooting by sharing a literal snuff film of a dying man shot by his crying wife with his screaming child two feet away.

That’s as dark as this article is going to get.

But do we realize what we’re doing? When my mom (a black woman in her 60’s) posts a quiz asking “what will you look like as an old lady” and her answer is a white woman in her 50’s, she posts the results because it’s funny. I laugh. She does not stop to ask herself what the consequences of sharing her photo or her name or her email address to a strange unnamed game on Facebook would be. She is seeking connection and validation, and while she may not have found it, she at least found something to share.

When a white woman in Cincinnati shares a video of police brutality, she may not know exactly how she feels about it before happening upon a headline that says it for her: “This Must Be Stopped! Please SHARE!” And she does, because it feels like the right thing to do. A Black father in New York sees a stock photo of a white woman in dreadlocks with a caption “The Anti-Blackness of White Privilege and Cultural Appropriation.” He doesn’t need to read the article. He knows that this white woman with locks is his enemy.*

Social media is a tool for validating our identities for the purpose of building connection with others. Our common goal is to be seen for who we really are, and at the core of it, we believe we are doing the right thing.

This is why, when someone posts something that shames or judges someone else, there will often be a roar of debate and arguing in the comments section. I have been one of these commenters. I have posted judgmental opinions of others’ behavior or beliefs. I have been an active participant on both sides of this because I, like everyone else, want to believe that I am right. I am the hero of my own story. I am the underdog, the victim, the survivor, and the hero all at once. I am special and I deserve love. These identities are the fuel behind anything I post on the internet. I am of service to others on the internet because it makes me feel good that others can see the proof that I’m doing the right thing. I follow the rules and do what I’m told by anyone I believe I can trust because I don’t want to be the bad guy. At the core of me, I cannot accept that I might be in the wrong.

This is also how misinformation, fake news, conspiracy theories, and dangerous opinions are spread. We desire a common enemy but do not allow for our bad-guys to have positive traits. We out someone as having said something racist once and we cancel them, not because we believe that there is truly something wrong with them, but that making an example of them proves that we are good. We firmly, and publicly, condemn anyone suggested as having been guilty of one of our agreed-upon cardinal sins. Donald Trump, for those who do not support him, is incapable of doing anything progressive or helpful without it having been in some way manipulative of or detrimental to the American people. Similarly, our heroes become incapable of doing wrong. To the progressive left, it has become a cardinal sin to call out the wrongs of anyone in our agreed-upon oppressed groups. This hard line of what is good and what is bad without the ability to entertain nuanced conversation for the sake of gathering new information, or the compassion to be willing to listen to those who feel opposed without taking personal offense, has created a divide deep within the American heart.

What is it that I then turn to to fill the void of the loss of connection through this divide?

Facebook.

My intention is not to simply reinforce or simply call by name an issue that we all feel brewing but can’t exactly lay our finger on. I do not know the scientific ins and outs of what exact effect Facebook has on our psyche and I will not pretend to have the answers for everyone. What I can share is that it has become imperative to me to call out my own behaviors.

I have been the bad guy. I have been racist, I have been sexist, I have appropriated cultures, I have been ableist. I have judged others behind their backs for their weight or what they wear. I have responded to a high school acquaintance’s Facebook post by telling them that they’re racist and “how dare they” for the purpose of battling my own inner guilt. I have hopped on a comments section to chime in on calling out a white girl for wanting box-braids claiming personal offense when I had none but wanted to be celebrated for my “wokeness.”I have pulled emotional theatrics for attention. I have blocked people for having varying opinions and simply not wanting to admit that they had a decent argument that I couldn’t win. I have been wrong. I have been so wrong. Sometimes I knew what I was doing and sometimes it took time to become aware that I had acted out of fear.

Saying these things does not make me a better person. It makes me a person. When I am capable of being honest enough with myself to admit that I don’t have all the answers or that I am desperate for validation and attention of others, I can instead use my energy to build relationships through my vulnerability. Not just the vulnerability to admit my victimhood, but I get to honor the vulnerability of admitting that sometimes I am the bad guy, and that there’s nothing actually bad about having been wrong. The love and connection that can actually fill the void within me is not that of an anonymous crowd, but the connection I can create between myself an another person when I can listen. When I am willing to forgive and be forgiven. When I can seek to understand rather than to be understood.

I am not perfect and in fact I am often part of the problem, but each day I try to post less, share less, read less, and focus on things that can actually get me to a place where I can be ok in my own skin. No quiz on Facebook can tell me who I really am. Instead, I get to find out for myself by being a human being. Flawed. Messy. And probably not doing it right. 

I am your Facebook friend. I am an empath and all of my exes are narcissists. Here is an article titled “Why Empaths are the Strongest People Alive” and it is SO ME.

My children and I are under constant scrutiny and attack.  Here is a stock photo of an exhausted mother and two crying children with a headline that says “Why being a Mom in 2020 is the Hardest Career in America.” I don’t know anything about the site or the writer but I agree, it definitely IS!

I have opinions on things like what is and isn’t acceptable behavior of others, and I can because everything I do I’m doing with the best of intentions. Here is a very long post I wrote at 11pm calling out everyone I saw today doing things that are completely irresponsible. If you did those things you might as well not call me your friend! Except you, Jill! I love you! No of course I’m not talking about you! Oh my God Linda! Yes, come over tonight after I put the kids to sleep, I’ve got two bottles of wine with OUR name on it!

I do yoga and my neighbor’s brother’s yoga instructor is a holistic healer. I just can’t trust doctors anymore. Here is an article she tagged me in titled “Is Reiki the Future of Medicine?” I didn’t read it but I think it might be. Doctors are only in it for the pharmaceutical money anyway. Speaking of holistic healing, I just started a side business selling Essential Oils! Come to my party and Bring Your Checkbooks! Lol.

The grocery store cashier just gaslit me because they said they couldn’t honor my coupon just because I couldn’t get there before the sale ended on Monday! And the manager had the nerve to call me Ma’am! I haven’t experienced ageism and sexism this bad since my narcissist ex left me for a younger woman in 2002. Then they tried to tone police me when I told them I was triggered and started screaming. Never going back there again! Here’s a link to my Yelp review!

Here’s an article titled “Police Brutality May Be Getting Worse in Another State.” I’m sharing it because it’s so sad. Other people that I see online are racist and I feel responsible to call them out and share videos of people being abused as an act of solidarity because I am a good person and would never be capable of things like that. Let me tag my black friend Tonya, can you BELIEVE someone would DO THIS? Racism is so horrible. Good thing no one would do this in MY neighborhood.

I saw that an actor did something problematic in a 5 second clip without context and I will never watch his movies again because he is now cancelled. How dare he. What a monster. My friend commented with an article titled “Is Harry Stiles a Nazi” with a stock photo of Hitler superimposed on his face and you know what, it might just have a point. I couldn’t open the link because it was mostly ads but who’s to say, you know?

Here are my political beliefs and a quiz I did that tells me when I’m 60 I’ll look like this particular stock photo HOW FUNNY!  

“I can’t take it anymore I don’t want to live 😭😝”

There’s so much negativity on the internet these days and it’s like people don’t even understand how it affects me. I’m an empath so I feel everything that I see and there is so much hate in the world. We need Love and Light! Here’s a stock photo of a sunset with text in Lobster font that says “Be The Change.” Pass it on!

Here is a video of an innocent animal being beaten and tortured. How can people in the world be so Cruel?! Please SHARE!

Did you know that the government is putting chemicals in our water to make us addicted to Candy Crush? I read it on therealnewsbyrealamericans.com

Tonya just unfriended me. People are SO sensitive these days! What ever happened to Freedom of Speech?!

Guns are the number one problem in America today. We need gun control! Here is a video of a mass shooting captured on Facebook Live. Why isn’t the media talking about this at all?! Everyone has been sharing it!

Just got home from date night with the hubs. Saw the new movie “Dead Blood Revenge.” Liam Neeson plays a cop who’s about to retire but gets called in to raid a bunch of black criminals that might be dealing heroin and it turns out they kidnapped his daughter. He does whatever it takes to get her back, even if it means killing all of them and their criminal families. I don’t care what they say he said in that interview. Everything gets taken out of context. He’s such a great actor.

I can’t stand how negative Facebook has gotten. Everyone is sharing fake news. I hate FAKEbook now. I’m deactivating my account forever, except I’ll be back in 2 weeks to tell you just how great the break was. 

As a writer—as an artist—I do not want to be wrong. Being told I’m wrong feels like driving into a dangerous dead end where every sign on the road screams DO NOT ENTER and red lights flash. I instinctively put my foot on the brake in my throat to keep my tongue from uttering the words “I don’t know.” My entire identity hangs in my belief of the way things work and my understanding of the world around me; if I am wrong, my concept of who I am hangs in the crosshairs. However, when I venture into the danger of asking for and taking advice from those who know more than me, I am capable of growing in ways I could never have imagined.

I was never the type of child to raise my hand in class to ask for clarification unless I believed the teacher to be wrong. When asked if I had any questions after a lecture or an instruction on how to complete a task, I would only open my mouth if I believed it would bring me attention or an opportunity to broadcast just how clearly I understood. To this day, I remember nearly all of my mistakes, and the corrections suggested of me, because of the heavy flood of shame that came with being wrong. I know now that this is perfectionism.

The idea of perfectionism is usually associated with someone who needs everything to be done perfectly to the standard of another person. In my case, however, perfectionism meant that the way I do things has to be perfect the first time or I may as well not do it again. For example, I taught myself how to play the piano as a teenager. I played only by ear. I never took a lesson. I quickly began writing my own songs and performing them for whoever would be willing to listen. My songs and my sound were mine alone. My identity as a musician was formed in my ability as an amateur. Though my chords were simple and a few of my fingers hovered in underuse, the sound I created was unique to me, which meant that it was unsusceptible to criticism. When a man told me a few years later that “if I practiced more, I could be good one day,” I promptly quit. It was as if he knew I was a failure and a fraud. The unique sound I believed I was creating had proven, to one man, that I was doing it “wrong,” and therefore I ought to never play again. I was afraid of finding out the truth of how bad I am as a person for not doing it perfectly from the start.

This concept of perfectionism does not exist without self-centered terminal uniqueness. Everyone else takes lessons for years and pays thousands of dollars to earn their stripes as an artist, but I am different. I have a carnal need to be prodigy or an anomaly. I am an artist from my bones whose medium is everything I touch, so that no one can be above or ahead of me. Not being the best at something causes a deep shame within me that threatens my ability to be ok as I am—to be perfect.  The problem is, I keep hitting dead ends. When I believe that my way is best no matter what, I am no longer teachable. Terminal uniqueness is my first line of defense against the shame of being wrong. When I am blazing a new trail by doing something no one else has done or in a way no one else has ever done it, I fend off those who believe they know better than me from teaching me something that could help me to grow.

In reality, admitting being wrong can only lead to gaining knowledge through receiving information from an outside source. Asking questions and asking for help lead to stronger connections with others, sharper skill sets, and refinement of habits that can propel the asker into deeper levels of understanding. Living a life of perfectionism in a cage of terminally unique talents has closed me off from connecting with those eager to see me grow. For much of my life I have relied on the value of talent while ignoring the value of skill. I have wanted to be seen for what I can offer in any given moment rather than my potential to get better. A silk flower is beautiful, but it cannot receive the love of a gardener’s tending, watering, and weeding. It does not change. I have lived my life thus far as a silk flower out of fear of wilting or browning without allowing myself to be nurtured into full bloom.

I have realized that these parts of myself as an artist have become liabilities, but I have the desire to change. My fear of shame has kept me in isolation and it has kept me from reaching my true potential as an artist. Wrapped up safely in the confines of my perfectionism and my need to be unique, my shame has incubated into a power greater than what my own ideas can contend. The only way to change this pattern of thinking—to allow myself to grow—is to admit that at the core of it all I think I’ve been doing it wrong. I need help. Now is the time to start asking for it and to start taking advice.