Archive for February, 2014

Oh to spend my life being “normal!” Even a day, a moment. There are those who would say that “normal” does not exist. The philosopher in me would then counter, then that would dictate that in that train of thought, neither does being special or unique. The difference lies in that being special or unique is not something I wish for. It may, in fact, be something I am accidentally, yet I never feel that either.

I am a very self-aware being. Yet sometimes, I feel like a stranger to myself. I look in the mirror and see right through myself. I look through myself quite a bit, actually. I see through to the scars and hurt and trials and decades of self-flagellation. I see to all the times I just needed the simplest things, yet didn’t get them. I see to all the times I should’ve felt content, happy, accomplished, loved and didn’t. I see to the bones and veins and sinuous tangle of confused memories.

A few years ago, it was suggested I surround myself with people that would provide an accurate mirror. A touchstone. A reality check. People who would say SHUT UP DUMMY YOU ARE GOOD. And I think I kinda have. Now getting to the part where I don’t retort SHUT UP FOREVER LIE TELLER may take quite a few more years. But I guess, as somebody else once told me, compliments, thanks and apologies from another person have to do with them, not me. And I should shut the fuck up, smile and say “thank you.” But such things make me very confused. I’m not trying to be that person. I am not exerting effort into standing out or doing anything where anyone would emote that as a response. I spend a lot of time confused…

I recently had a breakthrough.  In being raised to be accepting of others and gentle with differences, I was also getting a clear message that said “You are not exceptional. You excel because that’s in you. It is what is expected. You doing your best is better than other people, but you don’t have to try. Or work hard. Or do much. You are not special. This is just what you do.” For a lot of years, I  took the spoils of that for granted. Never thinking I had to try hard. Never thinking I was successful in any type of way. I just got good things. And maybe part of that was because who I “was” just deserved that shit.

My lifetime has lead me through constant evaluation and evolution. Most of it, initially, at the hand of others. It forced me to confront myself. But in the beginning, I was doing so  through the eyes of others. A few years ago, I realized how infrequently I was asked “How ARE you?” Or “WHO are you?” for that matter. And half my life was spent on answering that unasked question “Anything you want me to be baby.” That was probably the times in my life I started to be less exceptional. When I learned that I would get due credit for jumping off the path of righteousness and fucking up. Pavlov’s bell began to ring as an omen of  negative consequence. And how effective that was for me! All I had to do was do the most extreme,  irresponsible and callous shit and I would be SEEN. I would be attended too. And so the world only expected the worse. All I had to do was pretend I wasn’t destroying anyone, including myself, Pretty simple transaction. Much easier than natural and unnoticed success. Very satisfying indeed.

About three years ago, something changed. I woke up and realized that I was just not dying fast enough. I realized that in spite of all my fucking effort and self-destruction, I was stuck in this very irritating mode of optimism. It was a very very dark time. Initially, I tried harder to die. But I was so jaded by all the disappointing waking ups, that it didn’t last long, in the grand scheme of things. So one day I woke up and quit fighting the fact that I was alive. I’m not sure why. Even now.

So here I am. Resigned to life.  I truly hate when people ask me about my past. Living it was enough. And uttering such details sounds like the musings of a crazy person. A fictitious narrative. Even now, I feel as if my talking about my life comes out in a third person voice. “Jennifer Misiurewicz: Harbinger of self.” So, for a birthday gift to myself, I decided to sit down with a cup of coffee and sad music, and write my life story:

Forty years ago today, on a cold Monday morning in February, around 830am, a child was born. She was given the name “Jennifer Marie Misiurewicz.” She was neither normal nor special. And that’s how she spent her life.

90 days

Posted: February 12, 2014 in me

i used to talk myself out of it
now i’m taking myself in
i feel forced
and fraud
and less of who i was
my feet as heavy as my heart
feeling words unnecessary
wondering if you know
how i’ve hit the wall
but continue to confuse myself
in step and word and touch
deaf mute senseless and reaching
for something i never wanted
this is how you met her
this is how she’ll leave
in one quiet act of happenstance
breezy easy and gentle
smiling laughing and dropping your hand
as easily as i wound my fingers into it
and i’ll never be at peace
and i’ll never know
why i’d disappear
to a place of not you
other than it’s what i do
lacking a coward’s regret