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On Being Put Together All Wrong

June 29, 2016

It’s been what, 10 days?

It’s been a strange 10 days.

I went out with FastCar and smacked him in the ass with a plastic fish. Then I got confused when we said goodbye. I hugged him in his car, and when I leaned in to do so, he kissed me on the cheek. When we pulled away from the hug, I thought he was going to kiss me For Real, so I planted one on his lips. He pecked back. It was incredibly awkward. Then he kissed my forehead. And then, because I thought I had misread things, I scrambled away in a hurry.

Then I went on that date later that night (because I’m being weird and going on multiple dates in a single day) with the couple. There was Nutella involved. I need not say more.

I’ve talked to a few other people on the dating site, some more interesting than others, but honestly, no one has utterly fascinated me. I had dinner plans that got canceled, but have potentially been rescheduled, so we’ll see how that goes. Honestly, I’m not really interested.

And I’m still trying to work through things with FastCar. I’ve flipped out on him twice in the past week since the awkward goodbye… mostly as a result of the awkward goodbye. But, he tells me, that he thinks things are going well, that he needs to figure things out, but I still don’t know what exactly that means. I still need to figure ME out, and why I’m fighting so hard for FastCar in the first place.

Where the hell has badass Twig gone? At some point, I turned 30. And then 30 again. And again. And again. And again. And each time, I lost a little more of myself instead of building on what I had already become in my 20s when I finally shed my shy exterior and learned to tell shitty people to Kindly Get Fucked.

I quit reading. I quit listening to music. I quit working out. I quit writing poetry and fiction. I quit performing. I quit writing music. I quit painting. I quit returning phone calls, emails, text messages. I became consumed by loss and by physical pain. At some point earlier this year, I was taking 15 (prescribed) pills a day. I have spent over a month of the past nine in doctors’ offices, not including therapy sessions.

What have you done to yourself, Twig? What have you let yourself become? Because this THING you’ve become that doesn’t go out, doesn’t throw his hands in the air and dance like a freak at a show isn’t the Twig you worked your ass off in your twenties in NYC to become.

This all occurred to me today during a conversation about a photo shoot I did several years back when I was filming for a tv show aiming for syndication. Yeah. (Maybe the tv show is when it started, when I saw picture after picture of myself, footage of myself looking like a jackass, but it’s been such a slippery slope, it’s hard to tell.) In the shoot, I’m talking to the stranger next to me, and he’s a good looking guy, a friend of the show’s producer, and it turned out he was in some famous band I didn’t know. It sort of made my day to not have a clue who the hell he was, and he seemed pretty pleased not to be shown any kind of deference for being whoever the hell he was.

Now I can barely talk to my own family.

And I certainly don’t tell the shitty people to Kindly Get Fucked.

What have I become so afraid of in myself? Even on this stupid dating site where I’ve got nothing to lose, I’m not myself. At a coffee shop earlier today, a tattoo artist was commenting on my sleeve, saying incredibly nice things; it’s another artist’s rendition of a painting of mine (because REAL Twig is shallow enough to have my own work tattooed on me), and all I could manage to say were horribly self-deprecating things. This absolutely beautiful artist is complimenting MY work, and I became a fucking self-loathing idiot. And I’m doing it now, too.

It has to stop.

I am a badass.
I am not afraid of the world.
I am not afraid to release new music.
I am not afraid of getting back on stage.
I am not afraid of creating and making a goddamn profit from new work.

I am so incredibly lucky, dare I say incredibly effing BLESSED, to have the talent I do, the intelligence I do, the potential I do, and the support of an alarmingly large number of family and friends despite my ongoing efforts to run them off.

Here in my car… everything bleeds. Thank you, Gary Numan.



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