I work with addicts. Everyday I use my BA in psychology and talk to these grown men about positive coping skills and living in balance. We sit in a circle. I sit at the head of the sphere. Technically there is not a head of a circle. It is all equally rounded and symmetrical. However I am the one with the clipboard sitting in front of the window in a chair with floral upholstery. Most of their eyes stare into mine, creating a head of the circle, me.
I feel like a fraud. Society says I am better suited for this life because I don’t abuse a drug to cope. To get by. Instead I abuse the affections of friendships. I abuse the feeling that comes with new. I am addicted to that moment when people are impressed by me. If I stay too long my novelty fades. Therefore, I am addicted to movement. First introductions are the best. They are opportunities to find people who will not watch my inimitability disappear as they get to know me. They will watch it grow and fall in love with me because of it.
There was a moment months ago. I was laying in bed, in a house surrounded by elk and dandelions. At night it was surrounded by our galaxy. The Milky Way as bold as the fiery, sprawling, city lights of Los Angeles. Looking at LA I feel small. Somehow looking up at the sky full of the universe, I felt omnipotent. Laying there in bed I listened to the noises of the man I loved then. The gentle pats of his feet. The clanging of pots and pans. You could tell he was trying not to make noise, because it was in slow motion. The door to the bedroom opened. My eyes were still closed. The bed creaked as he kissed my bare back in the middle of my shoulder blades. He whispered in my ear “I just read your story. I love how you see the world.” I smiled in recognition of his compliment that was geared more towards my writing than myself. In the next few days we made the decision to stop loving each other so obviously. He would move to Russia. I would move all over the United States. Movement is not conducive to love. Not our kind of love anyway.
“Taylor you are not used to struggling for something you want.” I could not look her in the eyes. Instead I looked at an outlet near the floor board. It was a new one. Very white very clean with six holes allowing electricity to flow through whatever was put in them. I was frustrated that she was right. A few tears rolled down my cheeks leaving black streaks. My eyes still watched the outlet waiting for sparks.
I enjoy attacking with the truth. I write letters with my feelings sprawling over the white paper. I write speeches on the outer layer of my brain, waiting for the perfect moment to turn the written into verbal. I am able to tell men how I feel as I watch them flee from my transparency. I use it as defense. It is courage. It is thrilling. Electrifying.
“What about your writing?” She asks as I dare to look back at her soft, slightly saggy face, which sometimes looks bored. I paid her every other week for this objective perspective. She saw through the movement of my life. The willingness to try anything new.
Today I will sit in front of the window, at the head of the circle, the details of my face darkened by the back lighting. We will talk about commitment.