The Muse, Herself.
I’ve decided to start a blog to keep myself from going completely crazy. By “completely”, I mean I am already sort of crazy. But, more on that in a minute.
I call myself a “Muse” because I seem to have the ability to inspire others to reach their goals and dreams…and an infuriating INABILITY to figure out my own.
At this point in my life, I feel like I’m in a four way traffic jam and no one is letting me move anywhere. I’m hoping that by writing HONESTLY, I’ll be able to figure something out for myself.
I’m doing this anonymously, because I don’t want people to know who I am. I want to be able to say things that might hurt me, or hurt others feelings.
I am also a little known, publicly. And people think my life is “glamorous”. I’m a model, an athlete and an actress. But the truth is:
-My right wing family dislikes me, aside from my mom. Who is dying a slow, suffering cancer death thanks to a lifetime of smoking cigarettes.
-I’m bi polar. (See…there’s the crazy I was talking about.) I fluctuate between extreme creativity and utter depression where I think about killing myself. In between that, I work like a madman and get snappy very easily. I’m on Lithium, but I’m having a very hard time balancing the dosage correctly. Too much and I’m in a brain fog where no amount of triple espressos motivates me. Not enough, and I’m tearing peoples heads off (almost always those I love) over running out of coffee creamer. I’m ridiculous and I hate it.
-I tend to intimidate people. I’m actually very kind…but I try to keep a hard edge because I feel people will take advantage of me if I let them in and end up caring for them.
-My marriage is hanging on by a thread. There has been pretty much zero affection in ages, despite that we are both considered some kind of ‘sex symbol’. Most days, my husband doesn’t like me. He’s a better person than I am. Despite not liking me, he stays. In a word, he is dutiful. Which should thrill me, but it just makes me more depressed. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t actually LIKE me. Yet, I won’t leave, because he is good to me, and I don’t have anyone else.
-Little things drive me crazy. I hate middle seats on a plane and will wear a knee brace to the airport to get “early seating.”. Traffic drives me nuts. I’ve been known to jump out of the car and yell at indecisive drivers who can’t seem to go around parked cars or manage to make a turn. I take bad stuff on the news personally sometimes, so I can’t watch it. I once jumped on stage during a concert to scream at a band who cut my husband off on the microphone when he was doing HIS show on the other side of the arena. And if I’d had the chance, I would have punched that guy in the face too, without thinking about it. I’ve punched a lot of people. All of them have deserved it. I personally feel that at times, violence can (and DOES) solve problems. My friends joke and call me “O.G.” I think they’re a little afraid or incredulous of my short temper as well. I can’t stand disrespect or lack of manners. There’s no reason for it.
-With my mom dying, I’m trying to spend as much time with her as I can. And on the side, I’ve emotionally eaten myself into 8 pounds heavier in just a few months, which threatens my career….as every dollar I earn is based off what I look like. All of it.
-I’m xx years old. I look and act xx, so I lie and say I’m xx. But I’m fucking xx. My husband, however, is much younger. We have no kids and probably won’t have any. That’s a long story as well. (I’ll touch on it more, but bi polar is passed down genetically. My father had it. I have it. I would not wish this on anyone else, let alone my child.) But, when someone doesn’t like you, sex isn’t that frequent. And sometimes, I’m relieved.
-I make a difference. In the world around me, with friends, with strangers. I smile, I help, I volunteer, I inspire, I share knowledge and information.I pay it forward. I have had fans and customers turn their lives around with my help. I just cannot seem to do that for myself.
So, here goes. My quest for truth and a career NOT based solely upon on what my ass looks like. Typos, truth and all.
Wish me honesty.