Mia Farrow Complex

I haven't felt the need to write a blog post in a really long time. It became kind of dated and unnecessary to me. Also, I couldn't navigate the divide between the need to express myself and the right to privacy, which I hold dear. In some sense, I don't want people to know my life. Still I can't help myself from talking about it almost constantly. And, here I am, writing about it in a public medium. There's something about airing one's dirty laundry that is both shameful and thrilling.

Blogging is undoubtedly narcissistic. It presumes that someone wants to read what I'm saying. Now that I've deleted the link from my facebook profile, I doubt anyone's going to particularly come across my posts. I nevertheless struggle with the pathetic qualities of this enterprise. Well, I struggle with the pathetic on a regular basis. Weakness and vulnerability are rather contrary to my persona. I tend to present myself a brash diva: wild, moody, stubborn, but always in control. When you're in control, you don't have to trust anyone. Everything's on your terms. Funny how that doesn't garner you a whole lot of sympathy.

I guess, in some ways, I'm having this meta-moment because I'm realizing how exhausting it is to have a persona. I'm not always sure how much control I really have over it. I hate the cliché, but it's a vicious cycle of sorts. I act out for the attention and so then I get noticed. In being noticed, however, I garner the label of 'difficult.' That, in turn, encourages me to act out more. If you think I'm a diva/a slut/selfish/mean/out of control, I'll do it back on a scale that you could never imagine. A sort of defiance in the face of judgment. The thing is, it's hard to be so vigilant and strong all of the time.

Sometimes I want to be taken seriously. I think, though, that my outbursts and mania detract from the times when I truly need support. I'm sure, too, that it can be somewhat of a chore to deal with me. I am the happy drunk. I flirt with whomever is near. I'll take off my clothes. I cavalierly curse, tease, and mock anyone I talk to. And so that's what people think of when I'm trying to be genuine. It's hard to forget that time I called your sweater ugly or left you to hook up. Being mean doesn't lend itself to a needy/neurotic interior. I'm sitting here as a cold blond, a Betty Draper, really. I'm an asshole looking for a chance to be good. Well, I had that chance. It blew up in my face. Now we're not speaking.

I'd find my tornado-like path much more amusing if it were simple fiction. The Mia Farrow persona—blonde, distant yet passionate, and so very neurotic—functions on a level because it's not quite her real life. None of us know her. We can only assume that many of her roles are playing up her actual attributes. I strangely feel as if I can relate to this. I'm having a weird time getting to know myself. It's as if so much of how people see me to be has so little to do with my reality, my humanity. Or maybe everyone sees me as a weak, pathetic, out of control mess.

I don't know. I'm trying not to rely on my various vices (you know: sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll) as I navigate this path of self-discovery. Most of all, I'm trying not to leave any casualties in my wake. I can't tell if I'll be friends with my Woody Allen. Lord knows I gave him hell, and now he's not making it easy for me. Well, I'm going to follow his advice and pretend he doesn't exist for a while. It's funny how I, the diva, find myself more concerned with his feelings than my own. Maybe it's time to take up the mantle once more. I'm ashamed of being selfish here, but I love it all the same. Guilt is a powerful bitch; I think I might be stronger.