INTERSTITIAL COMMUNICATION #14: (REDACTED)'s TURN
Why did I do it.....? An improvised mini Deidream...the static between stations.
MUSE BEHAVIOR
A song I’ve had on repeat lately
THE RADIO STATIC
bbbbbzzzzzchhhh…Transmission. Transmutation. Transcendance…..bbbbtzzzzz
I am no longer content to live a life of shoulda-woulda-coulda-been-a-contender hypotheticals.
What I got in me
What I been holdin' down inside of me
Oh, if I ever let it out there wouldn't be signs big enough
There wouldn't be lights bright enough
.
.
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Hello, everybody! My name is Rose! What's yours?
WHAT’S UP TUMBLR / TWITTER? MY NAME’S (WITHHELD),
I was desperate enough to finally make something of my impossible circumstances and alchemize all the things that hurt, that I became obnoxious online for coin. I invented the role I felt They never gave me. All the self is a stage when you feel like a bird in a cage, so I performed being a person. All while waiting for my lucky break.
Pick me, Lady Luck! Hard work pays in dividends, doesn’t it? I’m here waiting for my turn! I’m healing, I’m working on myself, and being good! See me waiting my turn?
.
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Momma's talkin' loud
Momma's doin' fine
Momma's gettin' hot
Momma's goin' strong
Momma's movin' on
Momma's all alone
Momma doesn't care
Momma's lettin' loose
Momma's got the stuff
Momma's got—
Momma's—
Momma's—
Momma's got the stuff
Momma's gotta move
Momma's gotta go—
Momma—
Momma's gotta let go
Let go?
Yeah, I’ve gotta “let go.”
Shit.
One of the craziest things I’ve learned about letting go is that you have to accept that you’ll never get to rewrite your past. You’ll have to accept that you’ll never have the conversations that would make performing hurt less. The apologies you’re owed. The apologies you wish you could give. You’ll never get to take back the vulnerability and the hours spent working, scraping, and clapping for anyone and everyone else. You’ll never get to shield the little girl you were from the cruelty. You’ll never get to tell the young lady you were, “Please don’t give up singing. I know they hurt you, but please.” You won’t get the time back.
You’ll get none of that.
And you still have to let go.
And that will make you freak out.
For years, you’ll spend night after sleepless night after sleepless night wondering…
Why did I do it?
What did it get me?
Scrapbooks full of me in the background.
I really loved writing. I really loved singing. I really loved learning. I really loved telling jokes. I really loved performing. I really loved them. And when I did them, I was so wholly myself that I shone. I was a star. A leading lady.
Then, violent things kept happening one after the other, the more I was seen and the more I used my voice. But I pushed through, and I tried to be beloved in order to be protected. I got endless ‘thank you for being willing to bleed work for my betterment and the betterment of the spaces around you.’ Abuse stole my voice and my passions, so I gave up on my dreams and chose the path of alleged least resistance — a path full of the things I thought would finally keep me safe.
They didn’t.
Surprise, surprise. Respectability doesn’t work.
Word to Lorde, Your Silence Will Not Protect You.
But I was silent except when I was begging to be loved. I loved like my life depended on it because it did. I did what you said, I sang when you wanted me to, I showed up when you needed me. Five choirs, straight As, church on the weekends, work work work. Perfect daughter, perfect student, perfect productive prodigy. I worked myself sick again, so please? Love me? I love you, I love you.
Give 'em love and what does it get ya?
What does it get ya?
.
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All your life and what does it get you?
Thanks a lot, and out with the garbage
They take bows and you're battin' zero
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You’ll abandon yourself over and over, and someday, it’ll be a whole twenty years later. All you’ll be holding for your trouble is a bouquet of dying roses you bought yourself. They’ll once again attempt to steal your peace from you as they ask you to put your dreams on the back burner…
.
I had a dream.
I dreamed it for you, June (WITHHELD).
It wasn't for me, Herbie (WITHHELD).
And if it wasn't for me
then where would you be,
(WITHHELD)?
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I know...it’s maddening. Open your mouth. If they want a show, give them one.
Sing.
Even if your throat bleeds,
Open your mouth. You’ve got to finally let those thorns out.
Sing.
.
Well, someone tell me, when is it my turn?
What does it mean when the healing means I’m tired of waiting for my turn? My turn for consistency. My turn for romance. My turn for a life I can finally rest in? My turn for more than a pat on the back and thanks for my sacrifices? My turn to stand under the lights again?
I remember the thunder of applause. I remember when I was powerful, and I’m so
HUNGRY.
Don't I get a dream for MYSELF?
.
.
My voice is my own, finally.
No theatre or choral programs to overwork me, break my heart, and slide me into an eating disorder. No church members who don’t remember my name but demand that I perform for their amusement the glory of God. No helicopter parent to yell at me in public for wanting to back out of a competition. No false idol social media persona to curate in order to feel seen. No more believing in false promises of connection and community as long as I commit the sin of continued self-betrayal.
Just pure power. I finally, finally, finally remember how it feels to be my own leading lady.
Gimme the fucking mic.
.
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Starting now it's gonna be my turn.
Gangway, world, get off of my runway!