I’m Slightly-Dependent and I’m O.K. with it.

The phrase “I am independent” isn’t always a good thing.

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Sure, it’s 2018 and the term “feminist” is now synonymous with strength, power, and independence. Women are where it’s at and men are expected to sit down, shut-up, and only come when called upon. Women are fierce and our supposedly “newfound” strength and independence is neatly embroidered on the sash we wear proudly in public. I mean, we wear hats called “pussy hats” now at rallies and proudly exclaim that “the future is female” as if we didn’t know that already.

I mean, how will procreation occur if there aren’t women? Did men suddenly become asexual? Last time I checked, generally when an XY man peed on a pregnancy test and got a positive result, that was a bad thing.

Bad as in cancer, and I don’t mean the astrological sign.

I’m all for women having equal rights, pay, and the like if we’re being rational on the topic, but the idea that I am a “strong, independent woman who don’t need no man” is not something I’m okay with.

Do I need my guy? Absolutely.

But it’s more than that, I want him too. I like when he’s around and now that he’s over 4,000 miles away I’m a bit at a loss here. I’m at a loss and there’s no one to turn to because we’re not allowed to need a man and if we do, we better not admit it. But holy hell, things are hard and I’m incredibly emotional because my period is coming. Am I allowed to say that? Well, I did.

I’m emotional, irrational, alone, and depressed. 

Life is incredibly hectic right now and, to quote one of my fav men, Bob Dylan, “I can’t get no relief.” Every day seems to be a never ending list of tasks on my To Do List, even when I’m in bed I lay there staring at the ceiling with a sense of inevitable dread.

But I’m “independent.” I always have been and I’ll always probably try to see myself that way, which is why it’s hard to admit that maybe, just maybe, I’m not. Maybe when times are hard, I do need someone else around. I could use a shoulder to cry on, a person to talk to, and someone to love me. I could benefit from having someone wrap their arms around me while it feels like dawn just will not break and I think you’ve probably been there too. So why don’t we talk about that?

Why are we so proud to tell everyone how independent we are? How we don’t need anyone and no one better need us. Why do we pretend to have it all together day in and day out when we feel overwhelmed and under-qualified to face the day?

I guess I can understand it though. It’s like what I was talking to one of my friends about; we only want people to know the best of our lives. If you look on social media you’ll be greeted by the smiling faces of your friends and their perfect lives. Lives that you desperately wish you had; lives that seem so much better than your own. I’m guilty of it too; I know that’s what my pages look like. My closest friends were shocked when they found out my life was crumbling around me 2 years ago because I hid it well. I still hide it pretty well, for the most part. So I guess I have to explicitly state it:

My life is a mess, and I don’t mean the kind of mess you can wipe up with a swiffer. It’s a break-out-the-big-guns-where’s-the-shopvac? kind of mess. I’ve let myself get pulled in so many different directions that I don’t have a place to stand anymore. Sure, galpals are incredible and essential, but sometimes they’re not enough. My family is great and I know that my dad in particular would listen to any problems I may have, but that isn’t what I want nor is it what I need.

What I need is to let go of the emotions that I’ve been bottling up for the last few weeks and just have a nice and long cry fest in a hot bath, followed by wine and ice cream in a fluffy bed with the love of my life next to me while we watch YouTube videos of cats, bad movies, and sassy home cooks. What I need is to know that the light at the end of the tunnel is not just a flashlight, but the actual sun waiting for me. I need to know this shit-show will end soon. I need to know I can make it.

-LP

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Johnny Cash has been a friend of mine for quite some time; I’ve got my daddy to thank for that.

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That man has a voice of gold and I swear, he was my spirit animal once upon a time. I mean, I was singing “Hurt” when I was 13 and filled with emotions I couldn’t understand; at 15 I loved “A Boy Named Sue.” “It Ain’t Me Babe” was a go to when dealing with a break up (Mr. Zimmerman wrote a killer, but Johnny Cash and June Carter perform it beautifully); and who doesn’t love “Folsom Prison Blues” or “Cocaine blues?” If you haven’t already, go watch Walk the Line, and if you don’t fall in love with Cash by the end of that film, you’re crazy. Who doesn’t love a bad boy with a heart of gold?

While I love Cash’s early music, “Rose of my Heart” is exquisite in his aged voice. I remember hearing it for the first time and wishing that the song was mine. Screw being the apple of your eye, I want to be the rose of your heart. When I think of love, I think of this song. Nothing else paints such a beautiful picture in my mind. Love is resting my head upon your shoulder when life gets tough. It’s holding your hand through it all. I want nothing more than to be my beloved’s soft place to land and the end of a hard day.

Take a look at these glorious lyrics written by Hugh Moffat:

So hard times or easy times, what do I care,
There’s nothing I’d change if I could.
The tears and the laughter are things that we share,
Your hand in mine makes it good.

You are the rose of my heart,
You are the love of my life.
A flower not fading nor falling apart,
You’re my harbor in life’s restless storm.

Rose of my heart.

The simplicity of the song itself makes such a massive impact. The lack of embellishments adds to the raw nature of the song; it makes it feel that much more genuine. Take a listen.

This song puts me in such a loving mood. I instantly want to curl up beside the man I love, run my fingers through his, enjoy the warmth, and close my eyes. This is a song I want to listen to during the hard times as a reminder of the love I have been blessed to feel and during the good times because I know it fills my heart with happiness. So give it a listen, you won’t be disappointed.

-LP

P.S. If you happen to fall madly in love with this precious song, click the link below to purchase it and help a blogger such as myself. 🙂

 

Those Sunny Sunday Mornings

You don’t really realize how important music is to you until you stop listening to it.

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I went on a very long hiatus from listening to music and now that those tunes are back in my ears, I just can’t get enough. I didn’t realize how much I missed listening to artists from Tracy Chapman to Tina Turner, or The Moody Blues to The Temptations, or The Who (I’m pretending that I didn’t go through an embarrassingly long emo boy band phase, I’ve gotta keep that rep up, right?)

I have to say, my musical interests are extremely diverse. Some days, I want nothing more than to kick it old school with Motown; other days, like today, I jam out to 80’s music. After spending several years not really listening to much, I feel like I’ve been starving myself and now I’m just binging on everything. It feels amazing.

Growing up, music was essential. I have so many childhood memories of waking up on a Sunday morning with my dad playing some record on the record player. I would jump out of bed and run down the stairs to find him sitting on the sofa tapping his foot while he read the newspaper. He would give me a kiss on the cheek as I hopped into his lap and he would read the Sunday’s comics to me. Eventually I just couldn’t sit still anymore and I’d have to get up and dance around our living room to whatever was playing that day. I swear, those Sundays always seemed to be a bit sunnier, a bit happier; more full of life and laughter. Those Sundays were my favorite.

I grew up singing Big Girls Don’t Cry by Frankie Vallie & the Four Seasons in the car on trips to the store, or grabbing a handful of CD’s (he never cared which) and running out to the car before we left for vacation. We’d play in the backyard with a CD player playing anything from Motown to Classic Rock. Dad taught me about Bob Dylan and showed me that even if your voice doesn’t fit the societal norm of “perfection” that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t sing.

He made music a part of who I am. I’m not musically inclined; I can barely read sheet music, but I can appreciate some good lyrics and a wonderful tune. I can’t believe that I allowed myself to lose such a huge part of myself, but at least I found it again. At least I’m dancing around now to songs that remind me of back then, to songs that make me think of today, and songs that make me dream of the future.

I can’t help but sit here imagining myself boppin’ down the street with a boom box on my shoulder, crankin’ tunes, and singing along. A girl can dream… I’m pretty sure that those I live with would rather I not be listening to music because my singing is less than magical. Sorry guys! Girls just wanna have fun, am I right?

-LP