one last thing
In the spring of 1998, I took an art class titled, Autobiographical Impulses. Each week, the small group of students were asked to write about a personal topic - a 2-3 word concept. Over time, this exploration resulted in a litany of emotional and intimate essays. These writings were then read out loud in what became an extremely safe and noncritical environment. All writings, except our own, were to be kept confidential.
Autobiographical Impulses was one of the few courses I found throughout eight years of art school that delved deeply into the artist’s own, personal experience. It was removed from the typical critique and defense strategy used in most art education programs. Visual creatives are taught to explore emotions, feelings and individual history, but the process is often a methodical one - one built on the larger artistic discourse - on visual dialogue that has a well-developed underpinning of theory. The truly personal in this environment can be overlooked and disposed of as undeveloped or unrefined.
I have learned since art school that there is something lost in this translation. As a society, we shy away from emotions that are painful, unhappy or unpleasant. We choose to veer around or turn a blind eye to those who have strong emotions and ask that others, through subtle acts of avoidance, hide any outward display of sadness, depression, anger or imbalance. This hits especially hard for women where the word “emotional” can be throw around as a sign of unreliability, unprofessionalism or as a signifier showing a lack of intelligence.
One of the most impactful and honest moments of my life came from an essay I wrote in Autobiographical Impulses. It was the first time I learned that the power of my emotions could be communicated - they had a voice and a strength that could bring a room to its knees. My emotions could silence the world. In an effort to shatter the wall of silence that surrounds those in pain, who are hurt, who are troubled - a moment of extremely personal and honest sharing from my past.
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One Last Thing
One last thing. I want to scream from the rooftop of an old hotel. I want to scream because some higher power made me this way. I want to stand up there with the wind whipping against my back and scream until my throat aches with tenderness and my voice goes away. I want to scream until the birds are silenced by my voice. I want to scream until they all understand and fly away. I want to scream until your head explodes the way mine did when you went away. I want to scream until your mind cracks and your thoughts scatter and you know nothing but the sound of my voice. I want to scream until the world ends.
One last thing. I want to stand naked in the pouring rain crying until my tears freeze. Until my entire body turns blue from the cold. Until the pain is frozen out of my body and I can’t feel anything. I want to cry until there is nothing left of me and nothing left of my tears. I want to freeze you out of my body. I want to understand why you could not love me but he could. I want to understand why you could love her the way you could never love me. I want to freeze that love out of my soul until there is nothing left of you and I can see you with her and nothing hurts. It would just be numb.
One last thing. I want to laugh like I never laughed before. I want to stand in the middle of a busy intersection and laugh for days. I want the cars to stop because of my laugh and the pedestrians to stare because of my joy. I want to laugh at you, at her, at the pain you caused, at what you made me feel, what you think I should understand. I want to laugh at it all. I want to laugh the cars off the street. I want you to hear that laugh, to stop, to stare. I want you to not understand why I am laughing without you. Why I can laugh while you hold her hand, why I can laugh while you love her. I want you to know nothing of that laugh, of my happiness, of my insanity. You won’t know why I can laugh in the street in front of cars and not care and not be hurt and not die.
One last thing. I want to throw things at you. I want to go where you work or where you play and hurt you the way you hurt me. I want to throw chairs, dishes, knives, clothing, anything I can get my hands on. I want to throw things at you so you feel pain. So I can be sure that you know how I hurt. I want to throw things so people stare at you and wonder what you did wrong. I want to throw things so my anger will be released and it will fly away with the dishes and so I won’t shatter like a breakable thing. I want to throw things at you because there are no second chances and I can’t make the feelings go away.
One last thing. I want to disappear. I want to curl up in a corner and disappear into nothing. I want to disappear so when you need to speak to me, I am no longer there. I want to disappear so that you run around the streets screaming my name, wondering where I have gone, searching for your lost friend. I want to disappear so you can’t find me, so the love goes away, so you realize that you were wrong, so you need me, so you die without me. I want to disappear so I feel nothing and your face no longer scars me with each glance. I want to disappear so I don’t have to live in this anymore.
One last thing. I don’t want to remember. I want to forget the way your eyes shine when you smile. I want to forget the way I feel when you tell me you care. I don’t want to remember the winter we sat on my dirty carpet, drank beer, and talked about how much we wanted each other. I don’t want to look at the gift you gave me for Christmas anymore, it burns my eyes. I don’t want to remember the way your mouth sometimes pauses open when I won’t shut up and you have something to say. I want to forget the time I saw you with her behind the building when I ran to get you a drink and some food. I want to forget the way you left me. I want to forget the fool I made of myself when I thought you could love me. I want to forget it all.
One last thing. I want to love you. I want to sit in the grass with you for hours and caress your face with the back of my hand and eat vanilla ice cream on sugar cones. I want to see you look at me the way you look at her. I want to anger you the way she angers you. I want to understand what it is like to be loved by you. I want to climb into bed with you at night and tickle your back with my fingertips and watch your body shiver. I want to kiss you until I can’t feel my tongue and my stomach is wracked with nervousness. I want to wake up in the morning, make you tea, and talk about the weather, family, art, sex, television, what type of milk to buy, anything. I want to make it all understandable. I want to make it all okay. I want this one last thing.