She is Perfect in That Fucked-Up Way

That title's been derived from Everclear's "Amphetamine," a song I listen to roughly seven times a day.

It's about a girl. (Which, incidentally, is the title of my Women's Studies comp!)
She tried to escape her former life; she "came out West to break away clean from her family and her friends and her little girl's dreams."

"She is, according to Everclear's singer/songwriter, "the saddest girl that I have ever known."

She came out west to escape the pressures of her current life, to explore a different mode of being, to break away from all the horrible that caused her to turn to substances like amphetamine.

Results: unstable. Even moreso than before.

See, I've tried running away. I've tried removing myself from undesirable situations both literally and figuratively--I went three thousand miles across the ocean, for Chrissakes.

It.
Don't.
Work.

There's an annoying self-help book gatheing dust on a bookshelf upstairs entitled "Wherever You Go, There You Are."

Girl, you can go to California.
You can go to Bumfucknowhere, England.
You can go to Boston.
Illinois.
Florida.
Georgia.
Any place not in the tri-state area.

Wherever you go, there you are. Sure, maybe you have less environmental, social or economic stressors (or perhaps even more, if you are hella unlucky). When it comes down to it, you are you.

See that?
It's important.

You.
Are.
You.

Whatever circumstances brought you to this moment, whatever violence or pain or misery or disaster brought you here, to this place you can escape from, are going to be carried within yourself so long as you keep them buried there.

I guess what I'm trying to say in my Ambien-induced nostalgia/wisdomfest is that the past will always be with you no matter where you go.

Should you choose to ignore it?
Accept it?
Embrace it?

I am caught in a liminal space between acceptance and embrace[ment?].

On the one hand, I feel my crazypants makes me an incredibly unique individual.
My sense of humor is off-beat and quirky, sometimes a bit macabre, but it helps me to deal on some level with painful memories that my brain has declared off-limits.

I want to run.
I want to go to DC and be successful.
I want to rabble-rouse and set shit on fire.
I want to be a thorn in the ass of patriarchy.

...if only I could convince myself that it's worth waking up in the morning.

I'm perfect, I've decided.
Perfect in that fucked-up way.
Maybe it isn't the healthiest thing in the world.
Maybe I should buckle down and get long-term PTSD treatment in a facility.
Maybe I could go under hypnosis and find out what REALLY happened to me.
But you know what?
Fucked up as I am, I LIKE me.
Of course, me being the way I am does not make it easy to attract a potential mate.
I need someone who is the opposite of me stability-wise so that we don't implode on ourselves when shit hits the fan.
This post ended up in a really different place than it started.