Gem Am Eye

Warm sun, it’s hard to find during these mid-winter months. Pale skin gleaming and chapped lips are striking at first glance, but with a second look you really see all the damage the past few months have caused.

Summer is much sweeter with your spring fling, but winter would have so much more warmth with someone to light your fire. The crushes seem to crash at the turning of pages and cramming for exams, then you know you’re back where you started the year prior. You wish for May flowers to be delivered by your garden and at your front door.

Not only has the weather caused harsh skin and unfortunate stress break-outs, it may have also been the source of a winter break-up. I have found that this is the time of year when we’re the most alone. Regardless of relationship status, housing situation, and family affairs, it’s in the white flakes that fall that we all hope to fall in love.

The single ones endured the sweetest day, the holidays and now Valentine’s without someone to treat (or have treated them). Now we’re just waiting for the first signs of April showers to maybe start raining men.

Is it awful to come to terms with the fact that in all of my years I have yet to say the words: “I love you.”

Maybe it’s because of my unwavering ability to pick the worst guy out of a line-up. Or my keen eye for the man that will for sure leave me by the morning, because maybe it’s all I want at the end of the day? I noticed myself wishing for colder weather back in the July sun and now I’ve gotten what I longed for. Another broken heart and another new year.

But I didn’t fall in love this year, maybe I fell down a rabbit hole, or was washed down the drain, along with the bleach that keeps my hair this shade of blonde and the soap that rinsed the months off.

And next year all of our troubles will be out of sight. Wasn’t that the lyrics last year too?

I’ve found that with each new year, comes new obstacles: some we’ve faced before in similar contexts or some we’ve heard of, but each seems brand new, we may use knowledge from the past to overcome the present. Or look to the future to bring us hope for today.

Each obstacle has a new lesson to be learned, taught and spoken about. Each lesson gives you a new position in life.

They call the ones who’ve learned the lessons wise, and with wisdom comes strength. However, if we’ve become so strong, why do we feel so weak, so helpless, so out-of-control?

Family, by definition is a person or people related to one and so to be treated with a special loyalty or intimacy. My definition: An unbreakable bond among a group of people, each with varying characteristics, but common values. A real family isn’t monotone, it isn’t perfect, it isn’t black and white. A true family is this, right here, right now, loud, technicolor, beautifully pieced and stitched together by intersecting lifelines.

Family gives you the strength to make it through yet another day.

As I sit here, surrounded by my brother, my parents, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my friends: my family, I cannot help but realize that even in the darkest of hours there is light, because there is love. The love that comes from the songs we hear, sounding from everyone’s hearts.

So this year, let’s not ask for another 365 days of good health, wealth or fortune, because let’s face it, that wasn’t the last 12 months. Let us instead thank each other for filling our lives with reasons to live: for everyone here having a voice that can guide, a pair of hands that can hold, and stories for them tell, so we here can listen.

At the end of the day, or the year, or the road, all you have is family. Something that I have been told repeatedly, but for some reason realized just recently.

This is to the family that has brought me to this point in my life and today I give thanks to you. I give thanks to life and living; the successes and recesses, the trials and triumphs, the new beginnings and bittersweet endings. I’m thankful for the lessons I’ve learned and the path that has given me tales to tell.

A paper I wrote for my Gender & Sexuality class:

    U of M Hospital, most certainly not my ideal location for scoping out men, but I cannot help thinking to myself as I scan the surgical waiting room’s supply of fresh meat, “He’s straight, he’s straight, he’s straight, he’s gay, straight, straight, gay, straight, bi, straight (but would probably still sleep with me), straight, gay, straight, straight, straight, HOT!”
    These are thoughts that run through my head on a day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute basis. Yes, my mind contains dirty thoughts, but I’m a guy, what do you expect? Straight or gay it doesn’t matter: I’m always thinking about sex. People confuse me for being such a lady, what an inaccurate observation.
    Gender, how do we define it, and how do we categorize it? Male equates to a penis and female equates to a vagina. In and out, yin and yang, mars and venus.
    However, gender, in my eyes, has always been just another stupid label. A label that has put me at the crossroads of self-loathing and name-calling. A label that has put me in a corner and has categorized me as “different”.
    From a young age I was noticed for being the weird one. The one who was taunted and teased in elementary school for hanging out with girls, the one who was questioned about being gay in middle school, and the one who took gender in his own hands and molded it to fit his liking.
    I wear make-up. I bleach my hair into straw. I take 3 hours to get ready when I’m going out. I saunter, instead of stomp, I kiss on the cheek, instead of fist-pump, I drink vodka, instead of beer. I smoke hundreds, instead of shorts.    
    Just don’t get me confused for a transexual, because that is one thing I am not, nor am I a cross-dresser or drag queen. I love my penis, I love being a man, and I love being classified as “beautiful”.
    I punch people in the face, instead of scratch them in the eyes. I start fights, but also finish them. I mow the lawn, I dust the house, I weed the yard, I mulch the beds. I’m a landscaper, a maid, a mechanic, an athlete, a creature of habit, a writer, a gossip, a fly-on-the-wall, the life of the party. I’m a contradiction, but so is everyone else I know.
    Gender is supposed to be obsolete in today’s society, but it’s not. We have all these agreements when we get new jobs that state the company is anti-discriminatory. We sign them, we trust them and eventually we realize it was just a cushion. I was let go from two jobs, because of my outlandish behavior, when I was 17 years old. I was “laid-off” when I didn’t fit the mold of an Olga’s host (i.e. I wore make-up), but it was cool, the uniforms were heinous anyways. Then again, that same year, I was fired from American Eagle Outfitters for wearing gender neutral clothing. Sorry I didn’t want an eagle plastered across my chest, girl.
    This was at the age of 17, now I’m categorized into an employee that can only work in an industry that supports difference and creativity. So I intern at a fashion magazine and sell designer sunglasses to rich folks. Sometimes when I take a look at my life, I think, “When did I get so gay?”
    I guess when I talk about this topic, it’s difficult for me to distinguish between male and female, seeing as I have qualities that mirror both. Shouldn’t that be the beauty in today’s society, having fearless individuals who do what they want, not what they’re told, not what they’re taught, people who don’t play the role they were cast.
    One father, one mother, two sons, a cat, a dog, my family: a perfect family, who lives in South Lyon, MI. We are middle class, live in a nice house, drive decent cars, the outside is pristine, the lawns are green. I was set to play the role, but abandoned it in order to have my own life, live my own dreams, make my own goals, set my own standards.
    Gender should be disregarded by the next generation, then maybe people will truly play their own roles. We have a society that gives us designated characters at a young age. We are never able to be ourselves, because so often we’re too busy trying to live up to expectation.
    In all my years, I’ve always stayed true to myself. I’ve done what I’ve liked and given gender the middle finger. While I recognize myself for being male, I also consider that to be a thing of the 1900’s. This is the age of un-innocence and oh, how mischievous are we. Reversing gender roles, changing our bodies from male to female and vice-versa. Not giving into the society norm and letting everyone live.
    Well maybe it’s not this good yet, but a girl can dream, right?

“People do weird things for love…”

We lie, cheat, steal, hurt, cry, lose ourselves in someone else. I lost myself, once, twice, maybe three times. Sometimes the mirror didn’t recognize me. But I was wise enough to wise-up and save face. Now the mirror reflects someone “not vulnerable enough to fall in love”.

Vulnerabilities: my worst enemy, but not just mine. It’s the foe of anyone who gives in to romance. We are all vulnerable to different things, some just do a better job at keeping these feelings under-wraps. Some are not even vulnerable to love at all, they’re vulnerable to everything else in life.

My weaknesses are few and far between, but I break for the unattainable, because I want to be able to change someone. Just like I’ve changed myself.

There is a common belief among my friends that I have the ability to transform my feelings, actions and appearance; for better, or for worse, without a moments notice and just in time to get out of an untimely demise. These changes usually come around when my life is on the verge of hitting a wall. I can throw my feelings out the window and leave them at the corner of Fear and Fate; two roads that always seem to intersect in my life. I like this power of mine, because it almost seems that I’ve become immune to hard times and can put a smile on the face of distress.

And this is where my vulnerability goes unnoticed to everyone who was looking for it; for I know that I gave into something or someone and I have too much self-respect to let go of myself for someone or something else.

Call it greed, call it selfish, call it whatever the fuck you want, just don’t call it “fear of the unknown”, because I know how it feels to be wide awake, in the middle of the night, alone in a king-size bed. It’s just that in my life, in the light of the morning, everything changes, that is, if I want it to.

I keep dancing on my own.

Sometimes we walk the line of right and wrong, sometimes we stumble around the edges of lust, and sometimes we fall in and out of love. Lately, I’ve wondered if it’s possible to just love yourself and not another. Is it mandatory to share your life with someone romantically? For the longest time I’ve wanted to be in a “relationship”, to feel what all have my friends have felt, to live what I’d dreamed of.

But now the tides have changed and I see that maybe these faux-ships are not all they’re cracked-up to be. When I hear of the love life’s of some of my best friends, while I am somewhat jealous of their partners, I’m also content; I love myself enough not to settle, just to settle down and I respect myself enough not to give into the temptations of a label (though on occasion I am, indeed, a label whore).

As I sit here, anticipating yet another exciting weekend in the world of the HBIC I cannot help, but to hope to be swept off my feet. I no longer want to be the selfish one. I want my love-less outlook on life to change. I want to feel.

Though that’s a part of me that I love, I feel nothing and in return I’m never hurt, or ripped in half, because I’m already permanently broken.

Actually, that’s what society wants me to believe. I’m not broken. I’m a strong, independent, individual, and the only thing that’s permanent in my ever-changing life is how fucking fabulous I am.

Suck on that.

And so it begins, another stepping stone, another path, another hope. Though this time, I’m doing it - solo; for no one else, unlike how it’s been in the past, and just like it will be in the future.

A new job, a new way of looking at things. I’ve started taking my own advice: looking out for myself, then realizing what life had in store was sitting there in front of me all along. It’s taking shape, the life I was afraid of; the life I’ve tried so hard to stay away from. Letting my profession take-over my life, not wanting to be the “single friend” forever. I am the single friend. The last single friend: officially.

It seems a lot longer than it’s actually been, maybe it’s the difference of age, the difference of status or the difference of maturity. It’s amazing what a few years can do, what a few months can change and what has the ability to transpire in just a few days. I find that as I travel down this path called life, things keep changing at an even more alarming rate than before, and quite frankly, it scares me.

It’s been different. I’m confident and drunk a majority of the time. Then I’m sober and alone. I can feel it, I get butterflies for my friend’s relationships. When will love enter my life? I can’t explain the butterflies. They’re not for me, but their right there, in my stomach, fluttering out of my mouth and dancing in my eyes.

Is jealousy the same as lust? In context both sentiments deal with the action of wanting, so maybe it feels the same, seeing as, in essence, it is the same. I can’t possibly be the same.

How do I describe this feeling? Here it goes, every emotion people feel at certain high and low points in their life, I feel, at the exact same time. Happiness and sadness, love and hate, frightened and brave. Opposites, coming from every direction. I’m in the middle of an emotional battle.

Then something happens, I get a flicker of hope. One good night, leads to a series of bad days, and I’m back at the start. I’m no longer expecting anything from anyone, because even a best friend can turn into an enemy and lust can turn into heartache. However, I’m expecting for my state of mind to stay the same for a while.

There is a group of friends, a unique collection that came from different walks of life. Different professions, different situations. It’s difficult to say what kept them together or what could possibly tear them apart, but isn’t it like that at the beginning of all new relationships, friendships and partnerships?

First there’s “Jackie O.” The neurotic, incredibly witty, unstoppably hopeful romantic who found the rest at just the right time. He’s smart, successful and completely oblivious to his strengths. I feel bad watching him suffer from his own weaknesses, but his mindset is one that doesn’t change and his habits are ones he cannot quit.

Then there’s the always fabulous partner-in-crime and lifeline, the “GBF”. He knows more about you than even you do, due to his continuous Facebook stalking. Less the creative, but more the perfectionist. He’s someone who has recently found his own life and stopped trying to live others. Unnoticeable to a casual onlooker, and a bigger feat than most would recognize, he’s brave now, just like he always was, but he never put his strength to work.

Now we have Andrew: the token goodboy, the guy next door, the gentleman, prince charming, white horse riding, savior of chivalry. Noble, yet always down to party, a quintessential fit to this clique. He’s one of the boys, but more the man in this cluster. Yes, it’s surprising that these types still exist. The “GBF” picked him up in the corner of some bar, located in what was formerly known as Detroit. They’re the couple you loathe, but can’t help to love, one could only hope to be as lucky in the game of love. Andrew is sophisticated and simple, low-maintenance with high standards, but more importantly he’s one of the most down-to-earth people you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.

Finally there’s me, the fourth in the fearsome foursome. The “wild thing”, the class act, the life of the party. I’m heavily broken, but have been beautifully pieced and seamlessly stitched together by the friends I’ve made and the lovers I’ve lost.

Four people. Four youngsters. Four friends. Four. Not a lonely number. Not a party. Not just company. Four. Not as many as five and six away from a perfect ten. Four. Sides to every square and legs to a chair. Four wheels on a car, and this Lambo is going places. Maybe down the street or perhaps across the country, or maybe it’s just taking us away from the wreckage of our past.

Disguises, masks, cover-ups, false identity’s. What happened to the “real” me? The charismatic young teenager. The one with the giddy smile on his face and an understanding that anything was possible.

I learned that everything is possible, everything good and everything bad. So I made a pact with myself, to forget the hurt and to seek out the broken. It has become more of a tragedy, but I decide to keep it a comedy. I felt ugly and was determined to become beautiful. I was fat and decided to become thin. I was flawed and wanted perfection. I’m still not perfect, but they think I am - that’s all I’m after.

“You’re more than what you want people to see you as…” Thanks for calling me out. Back in March, in the backseat of my car, when it was still cold outside, just like the inside of my heart. That was the last time someone read my mind, someone other than a best friend. It may have been the last time I let someone new in; gave someone a glimpse, took off my veil and faced reality.

Though you weren’t reality either. You were made-up just like me - hiding from something that wasn’t just your past, but also your present. You, were a “pretty lie”, and so was I.

Now, however, things have changed - you came clean, I did too. Miles away, we have made our modifications, but I still think we fit. Or maybe I just want us to fit, because I want someone who can read my mind, who will call out my lies, then still want me after the make-up has sweated off my skin and the hairspray has dripped from my hair.

I’m no longer what I wanted you to think I was - I am, just the way you wanted me.

“That boy is a monster,” yeah, I guess you could say that.

As the words pass your lips, a smile comes across mine. It lingers for a while and retreats to it’s normal position. This is the Nicholas, Posh, H.B.I.C, Samantha Jones replica, you’ve come to know and love. I’ve been beautiful, I’ve been bold, I’ve been loved, I’ve been left, I’ve been right, I’ve been wrong. I’ve been creeping, I’ve been seeking, I’ve been hidden, I’ve been hurt, I’ve been gaining, I’ve been losing, I’ve been winning, dealing, wheeling, freeing, killing, bitching, running, walking, standing still.

This is when life comes crashing down; when you’ve lost the will to go crazy. You don’t have the energy, a kind of calm comes over your body. Your mind frees itself from it’s normal strains and you dream.

Dream of a life where things are different, life is good, life is what it used to be. We were young and mature, now we’re old and act like children. We throw tantrums because insanity set in.

Not in this house. In this house we keep our poise and dignity, we have our heads held high and faces that look like plastic masks.

The outside is pristine, the lawns are green, the gardens are manicured and everything is always in full bloom. Inside everything has a place, no clutter, no rubbish, no dirty laundry. The drapes are custom, the floors are shined to a high polish and each room is magazine-ready, except for one.

The room with the cracked mirror.

This is my heart. The heart of my house.