I Can Hear the Bells

You know that moment in Hairspray where Tracey gets bumped by Link? And the song starts… “I can hear the bells. Oh don’t you hear them chime? Can’t you feel my heartbeat keeping perfect time, and all because he touched me… one little touch and now my life’s complete”.  This really is the story of my life.

First there was DCM. Man I was so stuck on stupid for the boy. It didn’t matter that it was elementary school, without any knowledge of sex or love or lust. I only knew that I needed to spend every moment with him. He was the answer to the absent/abusive father. He would just grab my hand in class or pass me a note and my life was complete. No one else needed to love me because he loved me, in his small immaterial infantile way. Clearly he had no idea what he was doing either… but he was my everything. And then and there I developed a pattern. I would do anything for that butterfly feeling… to feel desired and be appreciated.

Two steps back, I’ve “taken a break” from this blog because I wasn’t sure how open I wanted to be, but who cares. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done (well, I am sort of), but I’d rather reveal so that I don’t continue in this pattern.

After my heart was broken by DCM ( I mean how could he know? I moved away so often and he had a life. We didn’t even know each other, not really); I couldn’t get over it. Then there’s the foster home… I can’t tell you what happened there… literally. I’ve blocked pretty much my entire childhood. If you ask me anything from the past, you better have a picture or a swinging clock to jog my memory because I can’t tell you anything.

Next serious person, there was Josh or Jason might be both. I didn’t really like him or either of them as the case may be. Josh was my first white boy though… saw his package and everything. It wasn’t that impressive. It didn’t matter though, I was still stuck on David. OMG David! He saved my life. The day I knew the millionaire was going to kill me, the day the horns appeared on his head, the day I stopped believing in love… there was David. I worshipped David. We used to listen to Cupid by 112 and he would tell me about his girlfriends, and I would wish to be one. OMG David. He needed somebody to love, and I wanted to love him. Those were the days that love was hero-worship instead of lust. I miss those days. I don’t remember the last time I got all thrilled up because someone wanted to hold my hand… When was the last time someone held my hand?…

After David, it was some back seat blunders, not really important. I don’t remember them, they probably remember me. I’ve always been a little “expressive”. Then there was Trevor?!? Maybe not Trevor… yea his name was Terrance lol. I asked him to be my valentine in high school before my sister kicked me out of the house for kissing the Prince (not really worth it). Trevor/Terrance ended up wanting to be with Nikki, probably because she had a huge butt and he was southern.

After high school, I went to Georgetown and there were bigger fish to fry. First there was FedEx, because… well because. Then there was ATM. OOOH ATM! I stalked that boy! Much like I stalked “Jake Ryan”. I was destined to be Molly Ringwald in 16 candles, and I even had my Jake… This is what happens when you live your childhood vicariously through books and 80’s movies. DELUSIONAL! Well I think ATM knew I stalked him. I’m glad I’m over that. You really shouldn’t send a 16 year old to college. Seriously!

After a few failed online relationships… I’m so glad BlackPlanet is discontinued *sigh*. I went abroad and there was Mansour. I was stuck on stupid. That’s what happens when you mistake lust for love. You end up dismissing your morals and changing your life path because you want to believe that what your hormones are telling you. “This is love”, they whisper. “This is your soul mate”, they seduce you with something you think you’ve been longing for. And it’s constant butterflies. But in reality, a man who won’t make a way for himself; let’s his mother criticize you; ignores your needs… probably isn’t true love.

So I was done. I was tired of searching and failing and crying. Who the crap wants to cry? So now I resort to picking men with questionable sexuality: The Racist, Mr. O, Arctic Wind. What the crap? I pick the most innocent/sensitive/ safe men to invest my energy. And you know what? It’s because I’m scared to get my feelings hurt.

I have the Tracey Turnblad syndrome: As soon as someone looks at me, treats me nicely, makes a small advance towards friendship and I’m already planning our life together. I mean I go from zero to 120 in 60 seconds. The worst part is I know why. I’ve never believed in my value. I’ve never thought I was pretty or even worth an ounce of attention. Whether that be past-practice or just a figment of my overactive imagination, it’s become ingrained in my molecules. What is my significance? I never knew I outwardly portrayed the helpless victim hat until I was in Japan and Tyson told me offhandedly: “stop apologizing. It’s like you’re apologizing for your very existence” (definitely a paraphrase).

You don’t realize how people can change your life until they do. I’m so tired of apologizing for my existence and then hearing bells when someone finally acknowledges me. I’m tired of playing the supporting the actress when I’m truly the lead.

I can’t wait til the bells I hear are the real bells, not the clinking of dreams crashing.

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