Thread

This blog was really and truly always for me.

I’m a very project-able person. Maybe everyone is. But I have found, the older I get and the more different people and places I’ve encountered, that people can receive me as the widest array of characters.

I went out by myself on Friday and walked around Tremont and overheard all the young single people smoking and trying to be entertaining. When I finally found a bar with an open seat to order some dinner the bartender called me “sir,” then quickly corrected himself.

I was weirdly grateful. The same gratitude I have to get carded. Ah, an old version of me was shining through. A thread exists between mom me and sir me. Spit up covered, mowing the lawn me and the high as balls, rocking what I thought were particularly good looking wingtips me.

This blog was always for me to dig up that thread. Every new place, every new group of people, I feel lost in their projections. I feel lost that the old versions of me don’t shine through as often as I’d like. Also this kid literally wakes up every time I start a blog post.

Now it’s about 12 hours after I started this post. The kid is asleep, probably will be till 1:30am. In his mind I’m a warm, moving mattress that dispenses milk and bounces him when he has gas pains. I don’t mind this projection, mostly. Not to say sometimes I’m not just killing time till he’s asleep enough I can put him down somewhere. My thumbs hurt from all the one-handed phone use while he’s taking his time drifting off. But often I really like that he would prefer to sleep on my body, given all the options. There are so many soft surfaces in this world, and there are warm ones too, but I am the most preferred soft warm surface for his sleep needs.

But back to the thread- being misunderstood is painful for everyone, but then there are those of us for whom being misunderstood is disorienting. We don’t have a strong enough grasp on the thread connecting all the different versions of ourselves and so when we are subject to being misunderstood we become very, very doubtful about who we are. Maybe I am a sex object? Maybe I am everyone’s mother? Maybe I am dumb? Maybe I am bad? Maybe I am a joke?

You know, you’re a person in the universe. And you look a little different every day, and you learn a little bit everyday, and sometimes you change in ways you can control and sometimes you change and you can’t do anything about it. So you watch yourself live. You watch yourself move, you watch yourself fight, you watch yourself meet new people, you watch yourself struggle, you watch yourself succeed. Maybe no one ever asks you what you think about every day you’ve had to live. Maybe they’ll always be annoyed that you’re not parroting back the points they really want to HIT, the narrative they need to PUSH. The internal monologue isn’t for them to promote a preferred narrative. The thread isn’t for them.

I’m gonna keep digging out my thread. And I don’t care if no one reads this, and I don’t care if it tells the wrong story, and I don’t care if inevitably I am misunderstood as someone with weird motivations. My motivation is this is my thread and it’s my right to find it every day I want to.

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