I Feel

Something from my old high-school journal. I was 15.

By M Pink Christofalo

Diminished.
That’s how I feel today. I swear that I won’t feel this way tomorrow.
Amidst this pain which you have caused, I won’t wallow in my sorrow.

Hurt.
If that’s what you wanted. I know you feel it, I saw it in your eyes.
Say you can’t and don’t love me. Your heart says your mouth lies.

Pity.
Tomorrow, this will pass for me. But your life will be your charade.
Try to show the world yourself. Only then will you be saved.

Love.
You’ll always be in my heart. That warmth is within me till the end.
But I want what you cannot be. Please do not claim my love again.

Free.
And so you have let me go. I know it’s painful to say you don’t care.
I feel the sadness in your future. When you’re afraid, I’ll be there.

Happy.
For what you gave me. It was your all in your own way.
With strength you’ll lose conformity.

Come see me on that day.

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I was a teen-aged poet

I saw a friend from high-school… He has an old sketchbook/journal of mine. Yes, I was one of those teens that just didn’t like her own artwork, writing, etc. Anything I did that had a creative vein going through it, well, went in the garbage soon after it came to life.

Anyhow, this in particular stood out, as I met someone recently who is incredibly gifted, but she minimizes it like I once did (and sometimes still do).

I am Music

By M Pink Christofalo

This rhythm of mine, I need you to feel.
My joy may be simple but my music is real.
This dance is over, now I know who I am.
I am writer and singer, I am woman and man.
And I can’t turn me off. I’m keeping me on!
I’ve been one you’ve wanted me to be for so long.
You only know what I’ve let you see.
You’re wrong if you think that’s all I can be.
Please say you’re with me or I’ll leave you behind.
You have heard my music, has it opened your mind?
There’s music inside you, I hear it so soft.
I have faith in you now, you’re much better off.
Live with the rhythm. I’m certain you’ll shine.
The music, it feeds us, our dance is the wine.
They’ll say, “Turn it down!” “Turn it off completely.”
But you turn it up ever so discreetly.
And I promise you, they’ll know what we feel.
Our joy may be simple. . .
But our music is real.

Hey Mr. DJ

Okay, so I’ve mentioned to you guys that I got dumped and it was my own fault. There have been some pretty awful things welling up inside me for a while now. I lied and have been feeling like the scum of the earth.

Being back in LA hasn’t made that sentiment magically disappear. Getting back to my life and repairing the internal damage has become a much more difficult task than I originally imagined. This past week actually proved to be emotionally trying in such a way I thought I would just, well, snap.

Aside from life in general, there’s the icing on the cake. Yes, you know what they say, “When it rains, it pours an El Niño level 5 perfect storm!”

No? That’s not how it goes?

Well, that’s what my heart says.

Since I started this blog, I have been censored three times. It’s a funny thing, but for those of you that don’t know me, the fact that there was compliance means I am most definitely not myself right now. I would never have succumbed to pressure of any kind from anyone. But sure enough, I have become a quivering little shadow of my once confident self, so yeah, delete away I did.

Mind you, I left the studio system long ago because of the censorship.

Maybe that’s why I called Effie (not from the Hunger Games). Efrain is an old Cuban friend from the money to burn days. He worked for me a while and together we stood united against the tyranny of the studio red pencil.

“I’m in Boy’s Town”, he said, excitedly answering the phone. “Shu better get here now”.

Two things:

1) Effie is my most flamboyant gay friend. It’s going on a 20-year friendship. We can go for ages without talking or seeing each one another, but when we come together, it’s as though no time has passed.

2) Despite what you may have heard about West Hollywood being an all-encompassing LGBT mecca, it is not. It is Boys’ Town. For every one woman walking around, there are 500 men (not official stats).

Normally, with the way my heart has been, I wouldn’t have gone out. Yet, something sparked when I heard that thick Cuban accent. Visions of my 13-year old self crept into my head. The double life: Shedding my Catholic school uniform with joy, sneaking into clubs, having my first Cosmo, dancing to Oingo Boingo at Axis.

Yeah, fond memories of WeHo.

The following text went to a few single folks who might be going out:“Hey all, Boys’ Town after 10. Y? N? Hit me ↑”

Heels, leopard-print jeans, a fashionably-torn up Suicidal Tendencies t-shirt, and gold jewelry. “Hmmm”, I thought to myself. This is where the Greek-Italian in me makes her case: “It’s not really dressing up until you put on some gold”.

Okay. Begrudgingly I gave in and off I went.

As the club- bars started coming into view, I considered turning around. Really, this was no mood for fun. I still felt like I didn’t deserve it. Like some dysfunctional relationship PTSD.

My phone glared at me with a message from Effie: “Donde estas?”

I sighed, responded with a quick “OMWy” pushing through the self-doubt.

Minutes later, walking toward the club, a bass’ thump-thumping made its way through my body with my face surrendered an involuntary grin. Immediately after, I heard a familiar voice ahead.

“Mijita, I love jour shirt!”, then that warm hug.

I studied his flawless ensemble: Tortoise-framed Matsudas, Red vest, black AX hooded T, cherry Campus Adidas with gold laces (there was some jealousy here).

Strangely enough, he had already found the guys I texted, having waved them over like childhood friends to a campfire.

We did some quick catching up as the group drifted into the club.

Now, I know people who say, “I hate pop music”, and you can say whatever you like about it, but let me tell you, there is something electrifying when you walk into a club, full of people dancing to that pop song everyone knows the lyrics to.

In this case, the DJ extended the intro. It was slow, consequently the energy sank. Then Calvin Harris’ isolated voice blared in his singular timbre, “When I met you in the summer”. The club came to life, everyone cheered in unison, “To my heartbeat’s sound!”

There was no fighting it. Effie took my hand, I shook off the vestiges of my broken heart, following him to the dance floor.

I joined in the singing, “We fell in love, as the leaves turned brown!”

Moments later, the beat dropped into a euphoric instrumental dance break. The dancers chanted, “SUMMER!”

And I let go.

As every song ended I told myself, “That was good, I’m done”, but the DJ wasn’t having it. He kept playing the pop songs, the dance songs, those ones we can’t seem to get out of our head.

I danced all night long.

Until closing time.

Dripping sweat from nose to toes, I walked outside getting a smack of California winter air. My lungs quickly sucked in the crisp oxygen providing me with the elusive “natural high”. I smiled. Big. Ear to ear.

That’s when I noticed Effie and the other boys looking at me. “How ju feeling now?”

“Better”, I admitted. “Nowhere near one-hundred percent, I still feel awful thinking about what I did, but yeah, I’m less, um broken”, I muttered.

“Mijita”, Effie consoled, “Ju learned a hard lesson. Now ju gotta be better. I know jur gonna be”.

My eyes welled up.

I wondered, “Will I be better? Can I be better?”

One of the other guys ran up to me, flailing a little with intoxication. “Girl, you were tearing it up in there. We need to do this every week!”

Everyone laughed, coming together in a sloppy communal hug.

I’m certainly going to keep trying to be better, do better.

Oh! While definitely taking some nights along the road for singing along to overplayed pop music and dancing my cares away.

For a few hours I was vibrant, confident, hopeful. I felt true to myself.

Music brought me back.

Thanks Mr. DJ

The Pains of being Simply Happy

That’s right, I am so tired of everyone and their mood swings! I am exhausted by the constant complaints I am hearing around me. Life is tough for everyone! Some more than most. You guys getting frustrated at work or the weather, snapping at folks cutting you off in traffic, or huffing and puffing about when you can’t find that parking spot close enough to the mall. You are seriously making things difficult for the rest of us.

Now, I know, you’re upset. You might be running late. Maybe you stepped in dog poop on the way to the car this morning. It’s possible you just got fired. You dyed your hair at home and that particular shade of green isn’t what you had in mind.

(sigh)

Unfortunately, that’s most of you out there. You have that moment when you snap, when you curse, when you complain about something or someone truly meaningless in a global way.

And it freaks me out. It always has.

So, I started to pretend that I was like you. Angry and short-fused and sad. Because if I’m happy, you spoil it for me. You don’t let me smile all day long without wondering what the heck is wrong with me. You don’t let me be easy going. You don’t let me be simple. Or silly. Because of you, I have to contain my true nature and it is killing me every day more and more.

Don’t think this is a new discovery. This didn’t come with age. I was three the first time someone’s mood changed on me. I remember it with uncomfortable clarity. But, truthfully, when I was ten, I learned to lie about being happy. “Oh I hate these gloomy June days!”, a teacher remarked. Fellow students chimed in with varied levels of agreement. “I don’t know, I like it gray, because it makes the sunny days seem brighter when they finally come”, I opined.

“You’re weird”, said a classmate.

“You’re a funny kid”, said my teacher.

Bad things have happened to me. Worse than some, better than others. But let’s not compare. I know you’re tempted, it’s just human nature. Pain is something very relative. A child who lost a toy for the first time may hurt as much as you when your car was stolen. It might seem like no one understands what you are going through, but they do. Truth is: They just don’t care. And every time you complain about how life would be so much better “if only”, you’re just coming off as a whiner.

I have a friend with two sons. They are both in their teens now, both good students, both well-mannered. So I asked him about that. He said that once when they were toddlers he had a moment of frustration then snapped. Almost immediately after they began reacting in a similar, if not worse, way. When he talked to his wife about it, she said, “That’s what you do. When you get upset or you’re just in one of your moods, that’s what you do”. My friend changed in that instant. He became a better father and a better husband. In fact, I’d say he’s a better man all around.

I have a lot of friends whose children have picked up their flaws more than their qualities. This is cause for concern (and another post).

Do you guys realize how much your bad mood affects those around you?

Maybe I had a rough day too. Chances are high that we all did. So, how is it that I can have a smile on my face just because? When we meet up all you do is talk poorly about the people around us, critique the food, unload your “miserable” life all over me.

I realize that this is a complaint about the complainers. Try to understand.

If I’m in the car with you then someone does something you deem “just plain wrong! That bitch could have killed us”. How about chilling out? Why does it even affect you to that level? She didn’t “kill” us. We’re alive.

Do you notice when I drive and the same thing happens, I shrug it off with a “Whew, that was a close one”? And a smile? A real genuine smile because I’m happy that we’re still going to make it to our destination.

If you snap at something so insignificant, how will you react when I have to tell you something important that I know you won’t like?

I suppose I won’t tell you at all. That’s why I feel lonely around you. That’s why I don’t talk about the deep dark hurtful things. Because I don’t really need one more person huffing and puffing at me.

I just need a hug.

Maybe throw in an “it’s gonna be okay”.

How much do you charge?

You know, I realized this a long time ago, but I suppose I had forgotten it: People charge for everything. It’s so sad the first time one encounters this reality. It’s heartbreaking. It has happened to every single person I know.

For example, a friend says she’s going to cook for you, just being nice. You go over to her place, enjoy a great meal, compliment “the chef”, then go home with a smile to a warm bed with a full belly.

Two weeks later, you get a phone call from said “friend” saying you owe her for the dinner. How do you feel? Like maybe she never liked you? Like she was never your friend?

Here’s another: You’re in a relationship. You’re in love. The other person says they’re in love also. And everything you two do comes from a place of love.

Then, something goes wrong. Typically, one of you screws up and the love you thought was unconditional… Had some fine print you neglected to read while you were in Cupid’s daze.

Relationships need unconditional love in order for them to last. That means hard work. It means being flexible. It means being able to look past the other person’s faults and looking into their hearts. Then, there’s what you do, what you don’t do, and what you give up for the other person.

It happens with everyone. Sometimes more so with one person than the other in a relationship. Yet, it always happens.

Now, when that something goes wrong, you have two choices really. You can focus on the love or focus on the work. Unfortunately, the latter wins out most times and instead of overcoming the obstacle, there is a split.

And that is when the bill comes.

Things start getting thrown in your face. How much was sacrificed for you. How you got all the attention. How you reaped the benefits of the paycheck. You hear things like, “Do you know what I gave up for you?” “Do you know what I’ve done?”

It’s then that your heart breaks.

Now, I’m going to be as candid about myself in a way I probably shouldn’t.

Aside from avoiding an OCD diagnosis I mentioned in another post, there is something that has held me back for as long as I can remember. I am terrified of being hurt. Mostly because when I was very young, someone told me that I would never be loved unconditionally. That in itself hurt me and I firmly believe I’ve never fully recovered.

With every new time I get hurt, I probably never will. Truth is, it makes me close up more.

I’m not the kind of person who tosses you the check at the end of the evening. I don’t charge for services rendered. Whether with friends or family or in relationships, that’s just not who I am.

I confess, I tried it once. At least, I started to as a backlash to someone who was throwing the past in my face. I heard myself saying those awful words, “I changed for you, I stopped doing -“. The person I was talking to didn’t notice that was all I said. As the words were spilling off my tongue, I was already disgusted that I was uttering something I had always found so reprehensible.

You know the world’s oldest profession? At the end of an evening with a prostitute money exchanges hands. Why? Because it was agreed upon. No one said, “I’m doing this for love”. So, if someone said that to you, but later started throwing it in your face or started “charging”, would you believe anything was done for love? Would you believe you were ever loved in the first place?

How about if someone just volunteers to do something? You get a gift or a favor. Can they throw that in your face later?

When I do something out of kindness do I have the right to charge later?

You’ll say no. Because then it wasn’t really an act of kindness.

If I do something for you, I hope you recognize that it came from the heart. That’s why I do things for people. If you don’t, what’s the point of me highlighting it? Can I call myself a good person if I keep rubbing it in your face? After you do “something nice” for me, should I wait a few weeks, months, or even years, for you to collect?

Tell me something… If people say what they did was out of love, why do I keep getting it thrown in my face? Why do I seem so surprised when it hurts?

Even still, why can’t I do the same?

Me, Love, and Suicide

Today I heard the voice of someone I love. Someone I am still completely in love with. Yes, an ex.

You know that old breakup cliché people say, “It’s not you, it’s me”? I got the “it’s you, it’s all your fault”. It is all my fault, though. Both of us needed to bend. Neither was willing to be the first one to do it. It should have been me.

This is not easy for me to write. It certainly isn’t easy to share with the world. But I’m hoping if I put it out there, maybe it’ll stay out of me. Out of my broken heart.

I promised myself that when I started this blog, I would be honest or I wouldn’t write.

So here I am, for all to see. Or rather, to read.

Up until a short while ago, I had two major regrets in my life: 1) I didn’t tell my grandfather I loved him back the last time he said it to me. 2) I allowed a job to change my life.

There is a new, greater, third regret I’m adding to the list: I lost my soul-mate out of fear and stupidity.

Everybody is writing about Robin Williams’ recent passing. Suicide. I’m certainly not adding my two cents to the mix here. However, I’m going to share something with you that only one other person on this earth knows: I tried to kill myself once.

Once was enough.

People who know me would never think it’s something I could do. I’m Buddhist. I love life. I’m a fairly positive person.

When I was finally alone today, I got to thinking about how I screwed up my relationship. How I got screwed up. How I let that job change me.

It’s my grandfather’s fault!

That’s the simple answer.

See, my grandfather and I didn’t get to see each other a lot. We spoke often (not nearly as often as I wish we had). He was funny and kind. He was handsome and incredibly bright. And he loved me. He was the only person in my life to ever love me unconditionally. To make me feel loved unconditionally.

Because we didn’t get to see each other frequently, when we did, he made up for the distance the only way he knew how. By showing me love.

He was a tough guy too, don’t get me wrong. But I valued the discipline (and needed it).

He had the best hugs. No matter what I had done. Especially if I misbehaved… He gave me a hug. He would make it a point to say my behavior was bad but I wasn’t a bad person. In fact, he would say I was a good kid with a good heart, just making normal, human mistakes.

My grandfather always knew I was a tactile person by nature. With my work, with my home, in my art and hobbies. Still today, I’m a DIYer who loves getting her hands dirty. I kiss cheeks, I give tight hugs, I sleep better when sharing a bed.

I was a smart kid who got into a lot of trouble. Mostly, for what I got caught doing. Sometimes, I was punished as a suspect (it wasn’t unjust). But when I got away with things, there was one person I told: My grandfather.

He would express his disappointment. He would try his best at explaining why I was wrong. He taught me to look at situations from different perspectives. Then he would hug me. He would tell me he loved me. He would never (NEVER) let go first. He would kiss my forehead then say, “I couldn’t wish for a better granddaughter”. (And no, I’m not the only granddaughter.)

You know what?

He was the only person in my life I ever felt safe with. The only person I never felt judged by. I never felt silly. I never felt like a nerd. I never felt alone.

When I cried around my grandfather, he would reach out to cup my cheek with his hand. He would swipe the tip of his thumb on my tears. He would say things were going to get better. He would let me fall asleep in his arms. And knowing I was/am a light sleeper, he wouldn’t move a muscle (paying no mind to his tingling limbs).

I was not a quiet teen. I made a lot of “mistakes”. Trust me.

I knew I was different in first grade. Circuitry was fun. Math was a hobby. And a good book was my favorite dessert.

My grandfather was my best friend. He is the only person I’ve ever known that didn’t frighten me. By this, I mean, I never had my guard up with him. He never snapped at me. He didn’t have mood swings. I could tell him jokes. I could act out a scene from Macbeth. I could just be quiet and sketch. I could always tell him that thing I ended up getting away with. I was one hundred percent me. Flaws and all, I still got the hugs, the bacci mille bacci, the unconditional love.

If you’re reading this, then you are getting to know more about me then anyone.

When it comes to love, I’ve had my wear. I’ve been in a handful of relationships. I’ve never let my guard down in any of them. I’ve never cheated on anyone, but I have been cheated on. That’s not why I haven’t brought down the wall. I’ve never trusted anyone not to hurt me. Sure enough, I always get hurt anyway.

A bad breakup isn’t the reason I tried taking my own life. It was a trigger, that once. I was alone. I felt alone. I thought of the people in my life. I wasn’t going to really be missed. The world would go on without me. All would be well.

When I opened my eyes and realized I failed in my attempt, I wept.

I wept like I am weeping as I write this now.

Because I love in a way few understand. Because I am still afraid of trusting someone with my secrets. Because sometimes I wish I had never been loved, so I would have no comparison.

I weep because the only person to ever love me unconditionally was my grandfather. That makes me feel like a loser in a major way.

There is an impressive beauty in the simplest of things. The spectacular elements in our world make me love being alive in a way most folks can’t fathom. They look at me strangely when I point out the futility of it all. The ones I love look at me perplexed, “Oh come on, fluctuating moods are normal”. “Cursing angrily in one moment then shaking it off in the next, is normal”. “Being distant physically, not showing affection even though I say I love you, is normal”. “You are weird, you are too sensitive, you are not normal”.

I weep today because I’m opening myself up here in a way I never have.

It truly hurts. I have never been so focused on work as I am now. I am still utterly heartbroken. And no matter how much I try to distract myself with that drive…

I still feel alone and just as unloved as the day I lost my grandfather.

Are you a Gatsby? (part 2) Or “Then there are spies”

So, when I was seven, I was told I was a romantic because of the way I read, rather, interpreted The Great Gatsby. First impression: A horribly sad love story. All I understood was that one man changed his life for the love of a woman.

Of course, it was all for naught. She turns out to be superficial, selfish, and, in denial throughout the story. A bland nouveau riche zombie shuffling around from party to party. Although, Daisy was old-money, she still acted like someone who just won the Powerball.

Some time ago, I knew a woman who worked for the government (no, not the post-office). She was recruited right out of high-school. A bit of a computer prodigy and incredibly handy. In fact, at the farm they referred to her as the female McGyver. For the sake of this blog, let’s call her Karen. After being approached about the job, she didn’t hesitate. Love of country was more than enough to make the decision. Television and movies glamorize the life, but it’s actually not glamorous at all. It’s lonely: Keeping secrets, maintaining covers, manufacturing lies. Sure, it’s a lot like acting. But if you don’t succeed in making the role believable, you lose your life!

When I think of Gatsby, I think of her. So maybe Gatsby wasn’t a spy! But he lied for love. And more than that, he kept people’s secrets. No matter the sacrifice.

Karen doesn’t work for Uncle Sam anymore. She’s tried to use some of what she learned to live a less stormy life as a civilian. No tell-all book, no movie-of-the-week, no selling secrets. And much like Gatsby, it’s hard to let go of who you had to be for so long. Like men and women who have been incarcerated for extensive periods, one becomes “institutionalized”. That’s why there are so many repeat offenders. Changing back to “life on the outside” can be overwhelmingly difficult. Though many of those men and women never find a way out, some do. And I have hope for them.

Even though he doesn’t make it in the end, Gatsby goes out loyal, protecting the guilty he loved unconditionally. Dying because of love itself.

As a romantic then, I hope life can give Karen a chance at love. Everyone deserves a chance at that true, unconditional love.

I believe everyone deserves a love like Gatby’s.