What is your major malfunction?
(From "Full Metal Jacket," 1987)
A massage, some acupuncture, the fumes of three hours of sleep and three glasses of wine, and I almost feel like my old self again. (That's presumably a good thing, not a bad thing.) However, I suspect I'm merely cloaking my "major malfunction" under a veneer of normalcy so that life can go on, and no one but me is ever the wiser. I think I've missed my calling as an actress, actually. Here I am, giving the performance of a lifetime so that life doesn't come apart at the seams, when I could be acting for Oscars! (After living someone else's idea of my life for three decades, I had lots of practice at pretending, so it's no surprise I'm still good at it.)
I have an internal dialog going on in my head constantly. I can talk and laugh and interact with others, and still this monologue, this inner soliloquy, is playing 24/7. (Maybe this is why I can't sleep.) It's like there are two distinct minds now existing under the bones of my skull. The two minds aren't discoursing together; they are each talking and telling their own stories, talking over each other and trying to get my attention and direct my actions.
As minutes and hours (and now weeks) tick by, the less sure I am which one came first and which one recently developed. Or did this second mind merely resurface? Because the most striking thing about this "second mind" in my head is how familiar it feels. Like the situation that's given rise to it, it feels very, very familiar. And unfortunately for me, this mind (like the situation) feels very, very good. Because in my world, familiar = amazing.
I have said in previous entries that I like to tell myself I'm a ritual/rut kind of girl. That's because nothing feels as good to me as something being familiar. An old friend, a well-worn shirt, a favourite place, a recognized touch ... these are my Happy Places and Things. It plays into my deeply-seated, most primal need for security. I hear about "adrenaline junkies," and this mindset STUNS me. Because I'm a "simpatico junkie," I guess. If I recognize something, if it feels safe, "intended" or familiar? I'm sold, I'm in, I'm yours. I'm a sucker for the peace that comes with knowing something deeply and well, with recognizing the familiar, with simpatico.
| sim·pa·ti·co Audio Help (sĭm-pä'tĭ-kō', -pāt'ĭ-) Pronunciation Key adj.
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It sounds hubristic if I say I rarely (read "never") find others "of like mind or temperatment." But it's true. I can count on one hand the number of people who I'd say I truly found simpatico. Other folks covet diamonds because of their rarity, which makes them precious. I covet feeling simpatico. It's like a drug to me. And worth a lot, worth maybe too much.
There should be support group for people struggling with addiction to simpatico.
Maybe I'm just a narcissist. Because the allure of feeling simpatico is a lot like looking, with a lot of kindness, at my own reflection. And seeing myself in someone else is so startling, so unexpected. Maybe it's just me trying to fall in love with myself.