August 2019
The rejection from this weekend hurt worse because I thought he was safe. He wasn’t brooding, he wasn’t a comedian, he wasn’t over half my age. Instead, he was sweet, supportive, fresh from the midwest, and about as conventional as they come. I was naive to assume these things from two weeks of texting and two in person hang outs. I was certain he’d be intimidated by my looks and my worldly background, but only in the way that he’d be determined to chase after me. Expecting worship is morally disgusting and I’m not proud. But rather than receiving any type of appreciation, I was met with the unknown. I must be too fat, too ugly, too weird, too shy, too awkward, I keep thinking. He was so interested via the words we shared that were typed out by our thumbs through screens that mask any semblance of reality. I’ve been bamboozled, I thought.
When I read how I write and think about these men I can see how self absorbed and selfish I must appear. I make myself sound cold-hearted and mean. All of these encounters are from my own doings. My interpretations come from a place of self-hate and lack of understanding of what I want or need. I hope and believe I’m not actually like this and this is just a bad day.
I’m picking up in a new spot because my last musings are not at the top of my brain. I write a lot but never in an outlet that is read. It’s okay but sometimes it feels stifling. I just came across what I suppose is a journal entry, though I’ve never thought of it that way. It reads:
“Candice,
Work is offering you more. It takes up a lot of your time. Is this how you want to spend your time? It’s okay if the answer is yes.
Creative projects are still alive and well. You’re going to film soon. The weather is beautiful, which is the only reason you’ve slowed down. Please don’t kick yourself. You deserve all you want.
You are alone. But you don’t have to be lonely. The fruits of your labor have and will manifest.
You’ve done so much in this world. Why do you punish yourself by feeling like a failure or a loser? Your priorities might not look like others. That’s okay. You are safe and loved. Why do you hate yourself when you have it all? I love you.”
I’m always happy when I find these notes to myself. I feel like I am more grounded than it sometimes feels. I’m not always this mindful though. I worry about rambling and having no chance of coherence to turn anything into a real project. It’s a shame I don’t see that even writing to this audience of one, that I am creating. This is creating. It’s good. I am a creative.
Other times I am not so nice to myself. In another journal I wrote, “Sometimes I am scared being inside brings me too much joy …I love being alone so why can’t I love who I am?” Reading this, I can’t believe I wrote that profundity. I continued in that same journal saying I think I have an eating disorder. “Binging food is sometimes my only joy. I hope I can be there for others. I am too tired. I love you.” I wrote this after breaking up with my boyfriend. I was severely depressed and yet I could not cry. I am so glad that only a few weeks later I went to a psychiatrist and was medicated for my depression for the first time in my life. My medication has improved my life tenfold. I am one of the lucky ones.
It’s funny, all of my journals consist of to-do lists, grocery lists, and the occasional mental purge. These chapters are usually in the form of manifesting positivity and are written in hypothetical ideals. But as seen above, there are dark ones too. If I’m writing, I’m probably feeling down. It makes me question how I am feeling writing this right now. It’s a shame it’s a question. I am going to take a break to go write another to-do list. The first in a long time. For me it’s like taking a deep breath, a reset, and it feels very good.
I go through ebbs and flows of self-deprecation and the aforementioned narcism that draws me towards celebrity. I’m sure there is an in-between, though I’m not sure it’s felt as acutely. When I was a child I hated my body so deeply. I was creative, intuitive, critical, and curious, but what I saw was ugly and fat. I didn’t stop hating my body until I was about 16 and that’s only because I stopped eating. That in itself is a form of self-hate, so I retract my statement. I cannot compare my narcism to the oeuvre of Cindy Sherman, but I used to take a lot of photos of myself. Digital cameras were new but they were a dangerous obsession for someone who was convinced they needed to continually look at themselves to recognize they were worthy of anything. I dedicated hours to photo shoots and editing. I was creating a whole image of myself when I felt I couldn’t really get a sense of who I was in the mirror. I liked and still like the control. Candids of myself make me want to puke.
Candice Chantalou 