First of all, I want to thank you all immensely for your kind words and your time, for reading my little banter and making me feel so warm and fuzzy! Thank you!
Secondly, I feel that there is a need to tell you a little bit more about Christine and where this all came from. This may seem ironic since, if you’ve read any of it, you already know so much. This blog/book-to-be came about because I was stuck, feeling all these feels and having no outlet. I was left, heartbroken, for the very first time in years, the night before a very long drive with my father. Being the emotionally disconnected, clumsy and confused man that he is, I could not see myself opening up to him about the misery that was brewing inside of me. He would have just made it worse.
So there I was, in this car, with this man, who shares more with the one causing my pain than I would ever like to admit, for fifteen very long hours. The landscapes of Italy never looked more morose. The sounds of very well known songs were ever so present, to taint the colors of the sky with my held-back tears. Sometimes, music burns through your soul until all that is left are the ashes of your memories. This was one of those times. Every chord, every lyric was an uphill battle that went on and on, past the sunrise and into dusk.
Once at our destination, I found myself on that patio, looking over the sea and at the moon again. It was the same moon we had once stared at; it was always the same moon, watching me from above, sometimes so comfortably, others so glaringly. What are you going to do Christine? What are you going to make of this?
So I drank. At first I drank the sweet wine to pretend to forget, to give me the illusion that maybe I could forget. Then I remembered Hemingway. And then I drank to write. And I wrote and wrote and drank, and wrote again. Until finally, I realized this was my outlet; this is what I am meant to do, to learn from this, to learn always and continue to grow. That summer was my last one in university. There was probably some kind of life crisis playing into the mix, and there still is.
This work on my self, this ultimate indulgence in narcissism, showed me something most valuable: that vulnerability does not like to be alone. I see this time and time again, and you can see it in the “Comments” too. People feel free to be vulnerable, and for some reason, tell me some of their darkest feelings, because they trust the sincerity. I am so deeply honored and incredulous that my voice does indeed transpire, and that it is received the way it was intended to.
It is not perfect. It never will be. Yet the encouragement you have provided me with makes me hungrier and angrier at our society. This expression should permeate every single second of our lives. I do not mean that you should be complaining or sobbing or expressing every booboo so solemnly. Don’t do that. Do express your emotions to the people around you. I wish I did not have to do this under a pen name. I wish you could all hear my voice, and my slight but perceptible accent. I wish I could hug you, because damn, do we all ever deserve a hug. Especially after the heartache and cringe I’ve put you through! I wish you could laugh at my crazy (and often ridiculously stupid) haircuts, and at my extra ten-twenty pounds that seem to like to come and go. Laugh with me that is. I wish I could bore you with my theories of post-structuralism, and penis-size, over a glass of wine and a side of human contact.
There is beauty in words. You will all read mine (if you so chose to) with your own voice, or maybe someone else’s. Mine will get lost, somewhere in the shadows and corners of this space. Yet the feeling that I may potentially have opened up some spaces for you, to indulge in your own self-ness, in your own lives, with your people and your stories, would make me so happy. Do it, push for the questions, and answers that do not belong. Make people uncomfortable. Comfort is dangerous. Do not let it suffocate you. Get on the road. Get on the phone and say what you thought so loudly, but your mouth was sealed-shut by some precept, that should have long expired. Or better yet, get lost (anywhere) and tell someone (me, yourself, whomever) exactly how it felt. Maybe then, you’ll know a bit more about Christine and how she works.
Again, thank you for the support. I am happy to discuss, deconstruct, re-word, re-think and re-root any of my wicked brain, to paint a better picture, of my life, as I know it.
All words copyrighted.