Attention Whore

I want more.

I hear the dryer going off, one more load to fold. I can’t possibly let it sit there. It’s warm and soft and I need to touch it. It’s a solid distraction. I grab my bundle, thankful for the escape and start folding, noticing my girlfriend’s jeans and t-shirt in the mix. I fold them with a sense of pleasure remembering something she said. She told her guy friends, “Dating a mom has its perks, clean laundry just seems to appear when I stay at her house.” Smiling, thinking about the way she bragged made me feel satisfied. I take pride in my mad-laundry skills. And it pleases me knowing I’m a good caregiver. I don’t recognize how much of a “Domestic” I really am. I didn’t want this for myself. I wanted more out of life. I wanted adventure, life dripping with quality drama, rich with haunting sex, expensive entertainment, interesting creatures, exotic foods, and all things indulgent. In sum, I wanted a fantasy.

I press the pant legs of her jeans together smoothing them out and think about something else she said. Valentine’s Day night, wet skin, whispering to each other in the dark I told her, “I love you, and not just because you fuck me so well but because you make me laugh, and I love you for your mind and how you are with me.” And then I had to ask, “Tell me why you love me?” She rubbed my elbow and said, “I love you because you’re fun, and I love that you’re a good mom. It’s endearing.” This was surprising to me. For one, I never knew she saw me that way, and two, I’m always somewhat shocked when someone tells me I’m a good mom. Not because I think I’m a bad mom. I just forget it’s who I am. It’s my identity although I don’t own up to it very often. I don’t see myself as a mom’s mom. Why? See above.

I still see myself as a rebellious girl with a quixotic outlook. I think I’m unique in my weirdness, unwholesome and un-motherly in my tastes for the flavorful. That my inner-life (and the inner-life I share) don’t t align with car-pool and fabric softener. And yet I secretly (somewhere) enjoy knowing that I’m of high quality housewife and mothering material. I’m just a precocious little girl who grew up to be a complicated woman. I’m not special in my complication, I’m just more vocal about it, and possibly, I struggle with finding the balance more than others.

I fight to keep crazy alive. There’s no attention in the mundane. How will anyone ever notice me if I just give in to the complacency of being a domestic?
It’s not exciting. It’s not sexy or smart and it’s definitely not interesting. Yawn.
But ironically, it’s how I get noticed. Hmm.

(And what I want most out of life is to be noticed. That’s pathetic. But honestly, it’s the truth, has been since I was in the first grade. I even pretended not to be able to pronounce certain words just so my teacher would pull me in her lap and give me extra attention. Oh, I was such a sweet thing.)

So what do I do about this? How do I reconcile the life I have—domestic–and the life I think I want–attention grabber? You know, like the cliché of the phone-sex chick, the woman in her bathrobe and period-panties with a soft, dick-sucking voice. Can I be like her? Can I be who I am and what I want without losing myself? The answer is yes.

The two are not mutually exclusive. However, I’m not taking full advantage of all the ways I could be receiving validation. I’m not properly capitalizing on how I can get (You, the plural You) to notice me. I live my life as momma without giving myself enough credit for the legitimate job I do raising my minions, and I don’t allow myself to really get lost and write about the constant dramatic-mini-series dialoging in my head. It may seem like I do, but trust me, there is so much more I would love to be doing, hamming it up for you all, but I’m working on humility, you know as to receive more accolades for being such a humble and enlightened soul.

Let’s face it. I’m just a whore. Any and everything I do and don’t do are all motivated by that one driving force: attention. It’s the essence of my unsavory darkness. But fo sho ya’ll, that filthy whore part of my persona is alive and motivated; and like every Happy Hooker deep down she’s fighting for her life.

My inner slut is a liar. She’s a junkie and an addict, convincing, and so full of pain and need that she manipulates me into believing I’m a victim to get her fill. But I’m on to her. She uses my imagination as a band around my veins, exposing my shame and feelings of unworthiness, which is why she never gets enough. The story isn’t real.

Instead of directing my vast creative powers towards productive outlets, I often use them in negative ways that get me in trouble and cause a lot of emotional pain. My desire for fantasy and my addiction to being seen, plus my raw ingenuity are the perfect cast for acting out false and mostly fear-based scenarios I make-up and apply to my real life. In these scenes I’m the victim or the damsel in distress, and there’s always someone else to blame. In these stories I’m the protagonist, and each character that comes along becomes my antagonist. The faces and names change but their part remains the same. At some point in this redundant play I came to realize that the pain I was experiencing over and over again was familiar, and yet I was the only person who remained the same character as the set changed. I was the problem. Being the whore, in my greedy desire for recognition, even being noticed as such made me important.

What I’m trying to say here is this: I didn’t believe I was worthwhile and lovable on my own so I made up stories–for years, my entire life–that made me out to be the victim, because at least being the victim gave me my identity. I was important. You saw me because you hurt me. And if you hurt me well then that means you saw me. I meant something. There isn’t a perpetrator without a victim. I played a vital role, or so I thought.

However, now I know better, so in fact I have it all. I have the awareness of my inner-vixen, that she’s an illusion, and the reality of actually being a domestic-Goddess, of sorts. (I get to call myself this. I know where to find the missing socks.) This means I can sit home in my fresh sheets and clean underwear and harness the energy of the tramp to create all the drama, excitement, and made for phone sex-fun I want; and in the process I’m being noticed by the person who counts the most: I, I count the most. When I’m being real honest with myself I’m able to admit that the only way I’m content is when I’m creating a fantasy.

The best part about creating a false reality is that it doesn’t disrupt my real life. I have learned to value the black magic of homemaking; I know how to make people feel loved and cared for in my space. The foundation and structure of my life is grounded in mothering my children, they give me reason without searching, but yet I will go on inventing and crafting because I need attention. I may be more aware of who I am but I will always be me.

And I want more.

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About monocurious

I'm like air, forever flowing, moving, changing, gaining and losing myself, undefinable. View my complete profile
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