I’m sick. So, I have time to stare at the ceiling. When you’re positive, colds, flu, and illness kick your dick in the dirt ten times harder than someone that isn’t poz. By the way, the name I chose for this blog entry is a Keith Urban song from his album, Ripcord. I highly recommend hi, it. Jeez!
I have been going through a dark night’s journey of the soul lately. Blame it on Saturn in Capricorn, but it’s been happening and shaking me to my core. I feel like I need to watch some Daniel Craig Bond. Tortured, tormented, but ultimately successful-but at what cost? I posted a pic on IG the other night, you know how you want to cry, but can’t? Tore up from the floor up, and you can’t squeeze a drop-not even a whimper? Yeah. That was me. So, my friend calls me and says, honey, you look miserable. Miserable. Because I am, Jillene. Because I am.
There was a fork in the road about Monday, Tuesday. It had been brewing all weekend. I”ve been asking myself some hellatious and deep questions. What I expect and will tolerate from myself, what I will expect and tolerate from others. Most importantly, shit I will not tolerate from myself, shit I will no longer pull, et al.
We’re back on the DID wagon. In acting, as in life, you must commit to the thing, emotion, prop, whatever, just commit to it. And go big or go home. At least that’s what I do. But I’ve always had trouble committing. To a simple theatrical feeling, motivation, or even bigger, a person, a career. Why? Besides the fact that I am split into 400+ parts, I have virtually zero self-esteem. It’s all bravado, darling. Smoke and Mirrors. Good name for the play.
Yes darling, the play. I’ve got to do something. What makes me happy? Theatre. How much? A Lot. Telling my story, honoring my truth, explaining a phenomenon to a world that doesn’t want it, read want you, that is freedom. Will it be easy? Hell no. Will it be taxing? Fuckin A. Will I want to quit? You bet. But then I think of all my friends with DID, and I’d feel like I was letting them all down. I’m open. About my HIV, about Dave, about my DID. Because I have no shame. Why should I absorb someone else’s bad acts, how they transmuted their shame, and splayed it all out on me- why the fuck should I hold on to their shit? Child, please. I got enough shit going on, okay? I have enough shame for my body tricking me while they were abusing me. I have enough. I’m not absorbing any more of their bad acts or keeping quiet about their bad deeds.
And how about that piece of shit Nassar? What a fuck. They’re all fucks, and I’m tired of being quiet. Boom