the cocktail of normalcy

another ten minute quick write inspired by the word fake. thanks for reading!


Fake. Sometimes I wish I could be more fake. Fake in that way I could lie. In an easy way shedding the skin of the dishonesty easier. It shed off in flakes-I look it and walk away. But I am honest. I don’t edit. Sometimes I should. I should. I think I hold back. Back then eyes are popped up all around and next to me and I realize I have gone too far again. Again. But as I have became a big kid, a grown-up,an adult, I have tempered my jumping over curbs biking, riding without the helmet, and talking to myself too loud, but talking nonetheless.

Like the other day when a film crew came into the place I was shopping on 24th street, the 24th street of my grandmother’s childhood now of my adulthood. The film crew came in and to ask me if they could film me buying something. I just had. I said. They responded you could pretend. Okay. Are you sure I look all right? Of course. They smile. But they are film crew their fake and realness can be identical twins in doublewide strollers. I wish I would have showered today. I say. The woman reporter face flies back and scrunches slightly, you shouldn’t have told me I never would have known- you look great. Like the admittance of the non-shower thing might have been too much. But me pretending to buy something fine. Too real to admit aloud. To strangers. To reporters. No comment, maybe.

Fake. I tried to fake it once or maybe twice. But usually the look shows in my face. I hate pretending. Pretending to care about the importance of identity formed by your husband or boyfriend or your job or husband’s job or how rich you might be. I grow tired and fatigued in moments. What I would give for a cocktail of normalcy? What I would give for a taste of hard work or originality or humanity? Fake. I guess we live in a society that breeds it. We live in families and communities that re-enforce and support it. Keeping up with the Joneses in looks and prestige and education and relationships exists. But I hate being fake. I like to be considered pretty and smart and not living off a man. And to be honest not since I was a child have I. I like to be light and fun and not live in the confined box put before me. I hate being fake.

I hate being fake probably because I had to pretend for so long. Pretend I came from a normal family. Because I was scared, scared what would happen at school if they found out I had a crazy mother. Or I only lived with my dad. Or that my mom had once stolen me away. Or that I once was involved in a custody battle. Or that the cops came regularly to my house. No one knew because I had to pretend. The truth would have ruined me then. The denial of our family, the denying of our family, was the glue of the crazy. It had to be unstuck together. But the truth and saying it big or small is the only way for me to let go. Letting go I usually am holding on, hold on too tight but I am practicing, practicing the letting go. Let go. It takes practice.