Real at 2 a.m.

I like to be awake alone at night. Perhaps it’s a preference inherited from my mother. Can preferences be inherent? Any smarty-pants reading this post, feel free to comment the answer below; however I do know the answer to the broader question unasked. So, maybe don’t bother commenting because you’ll probably just piss me off. You should know I know the answers to a lot of my own questions.

Mental instabilities are inherent. Though I don’t consider myself mentally unstable. I consider myself the breathing, bleeding heart product of learned behavior–which is not necessarily linked to mental illness. I’m an introvert, and an empath. And I’m a fucking brooding brooderton. Those things don’t make me crazy–unless I allow them to. I also have an iron will. Just so you know. I only went balls to wall once in my life, and that’s when I was going through my divorce from my daughter’s father. That’s saying a lot, considering the fact that my mother is an alcoholic, and I watched her get beaten on a daily basis throughout most of my upbringing.

I believe I exhibit “normal” levels of anxiety and depression when I am overwhelmed with physical pain…

Ha! I’ve just read what I have written so far. This post does not resemble in the slightest what I had intended–a memoir about my late nights observed. My mother stayed awake late when I was a kid. She’d play music while she rearranged living room furniture, waiting for my dad to get in from work. I remember the scent of floral incense, and the sound of ‘The Honeydrippers.’ If you don’t know ‘The Honeydrippers’ I feel sorry for you.

I have few memories intact of my parents together. Mostly, I see splices–poorly edited scenes.

I’m being real. I mean, I’m always real. But real with a twist. Right now, I’m fucking real. You feel me?

I’ve been in love a few times in my life. I feel awful for my mother because I think she’s only ever been in love once. In true love.

I have felt the kind of love that makes a person goddamned stupid, but also makes them see more clearly than they ever had before falling into the shit. I have felt the divine kind of love that made Helen leave her daughter behind in Sparta. I’ve felt the kind of love that is absolutely unconditional, comfortable, reliable.

Love is difficult for me because it’s not black and white. So I make it my own. I have a paintbrush in one hand, a saltwater color palette in the other. And with all the bright possibilities, I manage to use up every motherfucking shade imaginable.

And now it’s 3 a.m.

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