Ex-Boyfriend (/Franz Ferdinand)

On By Marie Billiel JouIn bs lovelife, personal1 Comment

Charm you and tell you

Of the boys I hate

All the girls I hate

All the words I hate

All the clothes I hate

How I’ll never be anything I hate

You smile, mention something that you like

How you’d have a happy life

If you did the things you like


I listened to Franz Ferdinand’s, “Dark of the Matinee,” yesterday for the first time in something like five years. It brings me back to a lot of closing shifts on warm summer nights in Shelburne Falls. I remember mopping and laughing with old friends while this album played in the background. At that point in my life, I was still posting lyrics that suited my mood to my AOL Instant Messenger profile. My away messages reflected the same.

I was seeing someone at the time. Let’s just go ahead and call him, “John.” John was cynical and jaded and aggressive in his criticism. He knew what he liked and was at least as certain of the things he disliked. It was never that he merely disagreed and never that he was indifferent. He was never on the fence. There was never an instance of him simply not caring for something. John loathed things. He found them disgusting and despicable. People, politics, ideas, books, and songs all came under fire with equal vigor. I loved him deeply. These lyrics spent many days on my away message as an affectionate reference to him and his unwavering opinions and condemnations.

I have never been a stupid girl. I’m too curious; too interested. I was never seduced by John. But there is something absolutely irresistible about being the object of someone’s affection when that someone seems to love nothing. He was well-read and smart. Not only were his ideas organic and sure, but they were new and fascinating to me. He introduced me to new music and I found that although he was arrogant, it was in the same vein as my own arrogance. I was swallowed up in my love for him.

I granted John the right to act bored among my group of friends and I attended family events alone, despite repeated invitations and his admitted availability. He didn’t like the company I kept, and while he supported me spending time with my friends, it was a rare day that he would join. When he told me of his hatred of family events, I thought he was onto something. We both come from broken families. Maybe John had found freedom from some archaic ritual to which I was still woefully attached. People asked me questions and criticized his absence. I joked about engineers and defended his choice despite my own disappointment. I was the ambassador of his furrowed brow and sullen lips.

Eventually I forgot about Franz Ferdinand. John hated them anyway. I moved away, as did most of my friends. I spent my days working or seeing my boyfriend. I felt so lonely and stagnant at times that in retrospect I can see that it bordered on despair. I had entered a phase of depression that turned out to last for months. I was uninspired and hateful. John and I broke up one, two, three, five hundred times. He told me I was miserable and sometimes he felt like it was his fault. I told him I was just a miserable person. I felt the way I had in middle school: I was unhappy because I was enlightened. It’s both wildly arrogant and depressingly passive, and in this, it seems to breed the right to idleness. I accepted disliking everything and feeling as though I had no friends. The only pleasure I sought in my life was in the company of John. We drove each other crazy. I was sure we were soul mates.

Things are different now. There has been a great deal of things that led to the change, but I tend to think that a trip to Israel cured me. I chose to do something selfish and it resulted in one of the richest and most pleasurable experiences I’ve ever had.

I heard, “Dark of the Matinee,” yesterday. John still fills the role of the first person when I hear it. However, the meaning has changed slightly. I’m no longer the girl who can be charmed by an extensive list of things that a boy hates. I’m not an airhead who’s going to respond with a giggle and a wistful sigh. I do not let my attitude imply that doing enjoyable things is somehow unattainable but, wouldn’t it be nice? I am someone who does things. And I do things for the mere enjoyment of them. I work almost entirely so that I am able to do the things in which I take pleasure. I don’t have the time or energy or tolerance to indulge someone’s unproductive negative bullshit. Grow up! It is unbelievably unattractive. I really believe that it’s an outright refusal to be happy or content or to find something rewarding and enjoyable. Having been with someone like this for years, I can tell you that any denial of that is either ignorance or a straight lie. Thank you, Franz Ferdinand, for reminding me of how far I’ve come.

Things I’m doing to not feel like utter shit

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1. Trying to go to bed at the same time on nights before my early shifts. 10:30 is tough with fun neighbor friends, but I feel less shitty.

2. Eating delicious greens! I love those bitches. Thank god it’s growing season and I have an endless supply of local veggies.

3. Drinking an absurd amount of water. (And only 1 coffee a day)

4. Going to both therapy and acupuncture as regularly as I can manage.

5. Making myself get out of the house.

6. Writing and reading more.

7. Watching movies in other languages, even though it’s a bit bittersweet and makes me feel a little restless.

8. Holding standards for relationships I maintain and sticking to them.

9. Thinking about going to the gym and accepting that I’m going to feel shitty about myself at first.

10. Paying my goddamn bills on time.

11. Feeling less attached to my physical belongings and more attached to the positive connections I have with people.

12. Reminding myself that I have proven I am able to do amazing things and that finding enrichment is feasible with my resources.

 

I’m thinking about an 18 month plan to be done with the diner and the US for a while. Seems realistic.

Homesick

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I cannot remember a single time that I have felt legitimate homesickness. Not in my entire life.

I recently was told (numerous times) that I am cold and unfeeling. These traits are news to me. But maybe my inability to feel strongly about a place I call my home is a result of my alleged coldness. Or at lease an illustration of it. I’m not so quick to buy this.

I have felt a deep and heartfelt longing for places that I have not yet been able to call home. Maybe this is my real crime. Sometimes I feel as though it is my aspirations that have damned me.  My family has condemned me again and again for reaching farther than they ever have, and worse yet–succeeding. I am arrogant because I have found pleasure and enrichment in what my work can afford me and I am selfish for indulging in it. I offer no apologies.

Perhaps it is because I am still here, but I cannot see myself getting all choked up about Western Mass. I think of the cornfields in the summer, the farmers markets, and the ice cream from the local dairy farms. There are streets I can walk down and restaurants I can enter where everyone will smile at me with familiarity. I know woods and towns and buildings like the back of my hand. And in recognizing this, I can smile. But my heart is not sick.

The first time I ever remember feeling like I truly belonged somewhere was once when I drove into Manhattan after being away for many months. I felt the way one feels after they’ve forgotten their hunger and take their first bite of food. The hunger is sudden and insatiable. So I’ve felt that…but never homesickness.

And now, when I think of Tel Aviv, I feel something similar. Something stronger. I am certain that when I next step off that plane I will weep. For weeks I have dreamed of the fine white sand and the orange juice, freshly squeezed and warm, available on every street. I hold this city the same way young girls hold their lovers. There are days when I feel infected by it. It is in my blood now and I cannot shake it. I will walk those summer streets again.

So, no. I have never felt a longing for my home. I get feverish only at the prospect of other places. But I cannot help what touches and speaks to me. If my desire to pursue the things about which I am passionate mars my slate, so be it. I will live my life in hopes that at the end, my slate will be so far from clean that it will be destroyed entirely. I owe nothing.  I will be selfish until the day I die and I may never even go home. If Tel Aviv is scab that I can’t help but pick, then I will do so earnestly because I have chosen to.  I do not expect to be met with understanding.

Memoir.

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I know that I have wanted to write a memoir for years. I think I have been infatuated with the idea of telling my story before I even had one to tell. And here I am now: my life is a far cry from either typical or amazing or even terrible. Its patchwork has positioned itself solidly in limbo. And who wants to read that story? There has been a sudden influx of memoirs in the recent years. My childhood was vaguely similar to all those tales of neglectful and mentally ill parents, but since those stories have been told, where’s the need to tell it again? Where’s the interest in reading that again? Thinking my life is any more fascinating or special than what’s already written is unadulterated arrogance.

When we read biographies we are interested only in drama. And to us, that drama has only two acceptable places from which to stem: from the life of someone amazing and with whom we are already starstruck, or from someone with a past so ghastly and horrifying that their very survival is what amazes us. I fit neither of those. Even if I were to become known because of my past, I would have to do something spectacular in order to draw that attention. I am still in the midst of my young adulthood. And as my experiences prove again and again, leaving my home or my town or even my country never provided me with an escape from my problems or my mother’s mental illness.

Nobody wants to read about an unfortunate child and her unfortunate life. Not when she never finds success or well-deserved good fortune or even consistent happiness. America needs happy endings. Maybe we as humans need happy endings. In any case, mediocrity and stagnancy do not sell, even if you do use big words and a bit of charm.

Israel

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I’ve been speaking to a friend about this. Bear with me; I’m buzzed.

 

(But not so buzzed as to not use a semicolon! Or to properly structure the previous sentence!)

 

I remember sitting on the couch in my friends’ living room. I was sweaty. Exhausted. My hair was frizzy and unbrushed. I wept. She told me I looked the prettiest she had ever seen me.

There’s something to be said about the me that I was when I was in Tel Aviv. It’s not that I was different than I am any other time, exactly. But I was at my best, to be sure. I am certain that I exuded confidence. I know that I offered no apologies for who I was and that I owned every single piece of myself. I love feeling like that. It’s a step down from arrogance, which is a thin line I walk most of the time.

I think that I’m really close to being like that while I’m at home. The problem is that at home there are habits. There are people and stagnancy that prove difficult to shake. When  you fly over 6000 miles you can let all that go. And then what’s left? Just me. And I was satisfied. Unfortunately, I’m back in MA and the habits are here and the relationships and the expectations are here. I’m making wise choices in terms of my person and my self preservation. But let me tell you: it’s exhausting.

6 weeks and $1400. Then I can experience that freedom again. And I make these things happen for myself. Who else will?

 

Can you tell I’m totes drunk? Not that this post isn’t legitimate. I just dont trust myself to articulate.

 

 

Croissants

On By Marie Billiel JouIn Uncategorized1 Comment

I am a fool. I am attempting to make croissants in 95 degree weather.

Have you ever tried to make croissants from scratch? It is hell. It’s endless rolling and rising and folding and rolling. But all the while you have to frantically keep track of the temperature. Is the dough too soft? Is the butter cold enough? Over and over and over for hours.

My shirt is filthy. There’s dough under my fingernails. I can feel the layer of flour in my pores and on my face. It’s like working at the bakery all over again. Bittersweet.

well, here’s something

On By Marie Billiel JouIn personalLeave a comment

I struggle with getting lonely. Maybe everyone does, but for me it sometimes still feels like an affliction. It’s rarely a passing feeling, consistent to that of boredom; my loneliness takes hold.

It took me years to notice that among the people I knew, this depth of longing was not normal. It has really only been within the last year that I’ve become aware of why it is that I become so enveloped by this. I try to reverse it. You can only do so much.

My life feels like a series of people leaving. And if they weren’t leaving, they were disappointing in monumental ways. My father, my mother. My father never looked back. My mother chose heroin. It’s funny how things can happen to you when you’re a child and you seem to recover quickly enough. I’ve always looked and felt resilient. But the truth is that I am damaged and it manifests in ways of which I am only now becoming aware. You can ignore your daughter’s existence from the time she is 2 years old until she calls you when she is 7 and you hang up on her. You can go about your life and she can go about hers. You can bring her along to live with your abusive boyfriend and on your late night trips to buy dope.  You never have any idea what you are doing to your child. You can beam with pride at the things she does when she is young: the books she reads, the pictures she draws. But I will never understand how people think that they got away with it. How could it ever be possible that you have not affected your child with your choices? I am terrified of having children.

I remember a time when I was still living with my grandparents. It must have been when I was in second grade. A friend told me she couldn’t come over after school like we had planned. I sobbed for an hour.

In my early teens I sought solace in a friend on the internet. He was 20 years my senior but understood me like only my closest friends did. I befriended my uncle and confided in him when I could not trust my mother. Maybe I had daddy issues. In any case, they both left. My uncle shunned me when my grandparents disowned me. My mother told me I ruined the family. My online friend got married and told me to stop speaking to him.

I remember a time soon after moving in with my guardian-to-be that I got home and could not find her. I was anxious and disappointed. I was  certain she had left without me. She laughed and took me in her arms. She told me she wouldn’t leave me.

This all seems so trite when I write it out. How do you explain how much these experiences shape you? Although they were not necessarily jarring, I have carried them with me. I make poor decisions to keep people in my life because I cannot bear the thought of losing more relationships, even if they are not healthy and rewarding. I cling so hard to the idea of having some kind of stability that I allow myself to settle in ways that I should not. But I’m learning.

I find that I frantically try to find ways to make certain people like me. I’m overbearing. For years after my ex dumped me I bought him clothes, linens, packed his lunch. I cooked for him and cleaned for him and taught him to do laundry. I explained how to keep a house and how to take care of a shitty winter’s cold. I remember his friend’s birthdays and phone numbers. It’s never that he expected me to do these things. It’s that if he didn’t want me anymore, maybe being needed would be okay. I didn’t resent it. I tried to take care of him because I genuinely loved him…but also because I desperately wanted for him to decide to have me stay. It shocked me when I saw it was just another area of my life my loneliness had creeped into. It’s all abandonment issues, really. But I don’t want to just be useful anymore. I’m learning to reign it in.

So, there it is. Pretty much the groundwork for all the issues I have. Emotionally, I mean. every single time I write a post I realise that I simply can’t write it properly without laying this out first. I hate talking about it. It seems so absurdly stereotypical and whiny. I discovered this all last year and spoke to the people with whom I wanted to speak. I’d rather just be aware and let it go. Somehow I feel like talking about this out publicly is too much of a window into everything I do. I could be wrong. Maybe that’s just what I see in myself. But I am nothing if not self aware. And now maybe I can write again.

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