I have this thing where I hate for people to see me fail. I hate when others can see my flaws, that I make mistakes on the way to being labeled a “fuck-up”. I call those people ‘witnesses to my weaknesses’. I know for a fact that when they see me, they think about the times I did something wrong or said the wrong word or spelled that damn thing incorrectly or couldn’t put a sentence together or forget a punctuation mark. Or when I dropped something or forgot my keys or got off at the wrong bus stop or didn’t notice how ill-fitting a piece of clothing was on my body.
Or when I got fired from a job in the throes of deep depression or got put on blast by a man online for reasons I will never understand. Or see me schlepping bags from one bus terminal to another because I need to make it back to DC in time to have a place to stay for the night. Or stumble home drunk.
Or get punched in the face by your girlfriend on the internet.
Your worst moment could be in line for judgment. People are mean and people will bring up your worst days as your worst self as a way to knock you down a few pegs. I don’t talk about people because the wood plank in my eye is more like a damn cabin in the woods with full amenities and plumbing. I ain’t in the right.
But I think that’s where my transparency comes from. You can’t tell me about myself because I’ve already volunteered the information. I know I got some ‘ain’t shit’ situations in the stash. It’s a defense mechanism whether I want it to be or not but in its best form, it’s testimony.
At its best-worst, it’s a petition for help.
So I get it when another creative uses their art as their chance to put their pain at the foot of the cross and let go. Your audience becomes the first few rows of pews. The air and atmosphere is the Creator or whatever you deem appropriate to put on the paper is an escape from what it is you truly feel. Possibly a dream of what you hope for things to be. There’s hope and hurt in what we do.
Charles Hamilton and I were alike in many ways. We’re both creative kids with mental health issues that chose to medicate our trauma with substance misuse. Unlike him, I never got into anything hard. Instead I got into enough to numb the pain. The day I learned that alcohol could stave off my feelings just for a little bit was like a kid learning a new cheat code for Mortal Kombat. Fuck a slow trudge to victory with a slew of failure in-between. We need to get to this fatality quick, fast and in a hurry. I need to feel in control, for once. Feeling my body heat up like a cast-iron skillet thanks to top-shelf long islands took away whatever hurt, shame, confusion and anger that I had at towards a world that, in my mind, always made fun of me.
The internet is crooked and cruel.
I was on the internet the day it happened. I remember the memes and jokes. I cracked a few myself. Shit detonated like a bomb. Remember I am a person who fears being seen in the midst of making unwise decisions. I’m the girl with a plethora of dirt. The woman who isolates in hopes of disappearing from people’s consciousnesses.
That time wasn’t fun. It was sad.
I feel bad for participating in the sadness and people seeing it.
ciara roslyn-james 