Open Letter to Jack White, Day 1*
This is what I scribbled on my phone today: “I keep expecting that I’ll meet a fellow artist who will fall in love with me. Aren’t we–after all–the ones gifted with second sight? Aren’t we the ones who can see beyond? I want a man who can see me and not see me.”
It is too painful to continue. I am too lonely. I am weary of my secrets. I am weary of slitting my wrists with a pen because I think there is some way to solve me. There is some way to unknot me. I am weary of being full of surprises. How many fucking wounds can I possibly have to articulate and categorize and spelunk through in hopes of finding their source and then a cure?
I am weary of my obsessions: this body, my father (my mother’s off the hook for right now, but she’ll be back, another hectoring ghost). I am weary of having to divine what is truth, what is melodrama, when I am parenting myself well, when the whole thing’s just gone off the rails.
I am weary of having that feeling that there’s something to be said well up inside me like salvation. I am weary of setting myself this penance. I am weary of wanting to be known. I am weary of being so aware that, for me, trust is a dirty word.
I am weary of want. I am weary of desire. I am weary of need.
I am weary of the same questions: But, do I even want a partner? How can anyone even fall for me if I look like this? How do I explain that I’ve only ever had one boyfriend in 47 years and when I told him “I love you,” it was just to hear how it sounds? When will I be past it, over it, through it, beyond it? When will I let go? When will I stop haunting myself with the old wounds?
I am weary of accepting your comfort. I am weary of wanting your comfort. I am weary of doing all the wrong things to soothe myself.
I am weary of persisting. I am weary of starting again. I am weary of looking on the bright side. I am weary of the effort of naming myself: intelligent, pretty, funny, loyal, sensitive, wise, thoughtful, accomplished. Why is it so uncomfortable to write that list, to read that list, to believe that list? Why does it feel like holding my breath underwater till my lungs are flopping around inside my chest like marooned fish every time I need to remember who I am? Why is it easier to name the wounds, the scars, than to name their absence, their healing?
Look, I don’t really want to start this. This unraveling. This searching. This discovery. This panning for gold. I don’t want to perform for myself: But, look we’re making progress.
I’m weary. But still…
*I know Jack White is probably not a very nice man but I’d still like to make out with him. And sing some blues with him. And then make out some more.