An old piece of writing with various levels of applicability.

I like to claim that I’m ‘dark and twisty.’ It’s a phrase I picked up in my Grey’s Anatomy phase, and I basically use it as a way to validate my flaws and issues, and to ingrain them in to my personally. When you think about it it’s pretty fucked up— so I don’t think about it. It’s also kind of an umbrella term. I hate umbrella terms, because anything that means everything doesn’t really mean anything. I can say dark and twisty, and I don’t have to say that some days I don’t feel like I matter, or that it seems like people always leave me (and that I try to anticipate that and get out before it’s too late), or that being unsure makes me uncomfortable. Talking about it becomes a way for me not to talk about itit being anything that presents vulnerability and can’t be perfected or predicted. I box everything in that so that I’m in control. The whole thing is a self-fulfilling prophecy that lets me be right every time.

There must be daddy issues in there somewhere, because the problems manifest in my relationship with guys all the time. My dad definitely loves me— however where that love fits in between golf and work I’m sometimes unsure. In terms of romantic involvement, there was Devon, who really only counts in the interest of chronological order, who was only interested in me because he couldn’t be with my best friend. Next was Joey, who was one of my closest friends, and who I was only romantically interested in because he was interested in me— also previously involved with the formerly mentioned best friend. Followed years later with Anthony, who despite “breaking down” at the thought of us being across the country from each other broke up with me more or less because I wouldn’t have sex with him— for weeks afterwards I wondered if maybe that would have made everything better, if really it was me who had done something wrong. He was also the reason two of my friends didn’t talk to me for the better part of a school year. Before, during, and after Anthony was Ryan, who was never ever anything close to my boyfriend, but it didn’t matter to me because I depended on him as much as— or more than— any of my other friends at the time. There was also the detail of his much courted girlfriend, Annie. As Meiko says, “I know better not to be friends with boys with girlfriends.” Only, apparently I didn’t.

I think they’ve all got a little piece of me. Or maybe I have a little piece of them, and I carry it around with me to be evidence— brandished when things don’t go quite right. I’ve wanted to commit them to paper for ages, but I could never get it in the right light, the right angle. Even now, it’s a thrown together assortment of names and status blurbs— it lacks depth of focus and grey area open to interpretation. Maybe that’s better for me though— everyone knows Chelsee Bergen doesn’t do grey area. Things are one thing, or another. Lipkin, one of the few prized male role models in my life (and that’s full of its own problems and peculiarities) once said to me, “If you don’t like the answer, you change the question until it fits the way you’d like it to.” True story.

I don’t really know what that all means, except that it’s… problematic— which is another umbrella term, so I should define it. Being in control doesn’t really make me happy, because I’m never really in control. Neither does setting every guy in my life up for failure by depending on them, and then racing to pull out the rug before they do. I don’t even know if I actually do that. Mostly I’m just afraid that I do, and I’ve got a track record that doesn’t exactly contradict the hypothesis. So I’m working to change that. Not just talking about it, but actively staying aware of what I do and how I act. It’s not what I’m used to, and it scares the hell out of it. But I’m hoping that it’s worth it, because I want to be happy, and to not worry about everything, and a little part of it is because there’s a boy I’d like to let in without all the spring-loaded traps and hazards. A boy that I look forward to talking to every day, because he’s my friend, and who I love the smell of, and who somehow confuses me but also makes perfect sense. Which all scares me, because I emotionally invest in everything (another Chelsee Bergen trade mark), and because more than I worry that he’ll do something to hurt me, I worry that I’ll do something to hurt me— that I’ll ignore what’s right in front of me, or make something where nothing exists, that I will get carried away (manifesto, anyone?). But I can’t predict those things, I can’t even anticipate them. I shouldn’t try to. Maybe we’ll just be friends, like we have been, and that will be all that matters. Or maybe we’ll traverse the excruciating distance from East to West, and he’ll touch me softly like he does, and I’ll bite his lip between kisses because it’s just a little bit rough— a little badass, the way we always say we are. Or, or, maybe, maybe, I could go on forever. But I won’t. Instead I’ll have some faith, and give it some time, and remember that things change, life goes on, and time doesn’t stop for anyone.