Shia LaBeouf as Savior - A BPD Narrative

"Shia LaBeouf is so weird," everyone says, but secretly, I think I, and I alone, understand  him. As we speak, at this very moment, Shia is traveling through my state, the state I have called "home" for better or for worse my entire twenty-three years of life. Tweeting the coordinates of his location in regular intervals, he's allowing local folks who still care about him and his celebrity to "Take Him Anywhere" - I guess it's an art project of sorts, but to me, it feels like someone threw a rope down my well of depression. This is it. This is what's going to save me. 

I am going to go take Shia up on his offer, and damn it, I am going to show him a good time.

I roll up to greet him like I'm in a high speed chase. No one, and I mean NO ONE, will get to him as fast as I can. He gets in the car. He seems more nervous than me. I try to put him at ease, immediately begin to call him "Shy" - an affectionate nickname that takes him off guard because I'm clearly so *not* star struck by him and see that he's like, you know, a *real person.* He easily makes me laugh like, belly-laughs with the snorts interjected that I may as well have trademarked by now. He loves my snorts. He dances to my music in my passenger seat. He tells me, with conviction, that he really DID find Jesus after Nymphomaniac parts 1 and 2. That was a true story. He still won't judge me for my smoking habit, though. He doesn't even complain about the ash all over the car. 

He has mental illness issues too, he says? What a surprise! We joke about the various medications that we've tried (I say, "Dude, how is Risperidol even LEGAL??" and he says, "I KNOW!!") He tells me all about his breakdowns and his run-ins with the law. I hold his hand and let him get upset. He's vulnerable about the stories he's telling, openly remorseful about the messes he's made. We're about to cross state lines - we don't even know where we're going. 

"Do you want me to drive a while?" he asks. He looks so earnest, I am reminded of his Even Stevens days, when I first fell in love with him. "Sure," I say. I haven't been driven around in such a long time. It's such a relief, not having to control anything. I trust him behind the wheel more than I trust myself. 

Somehow we end up in some Mormon-run town in Utah by nightfall. We check into a cheap motel. He doesn't even try to make a move - he can see in my face how fragile I am right now, so all we do is sleep. He lets me be the big spoon. I've always preferred being the big spoon. We fall asleep, feeling safe, warm, understood. In the morning he tells me, "I don't think I ever actually want you to leave." 

So I don't. We just keep driving. Adventuring. Bonding. Cue the pieced-together montage of all our video clips - the Grand Canyon, the desert, the rest stop in Nevada when the engine overheats. Not to worry, he just buys me a new car. He's not flashy or gross about it, but he is, after all, a millionaire, who seems to be falling in love with me. He buys me an old VW hippie van, because I told him weeks ago that I've always wanted one. I am flabbergasted. He hugs me tight while I cry overwhelmed tears.

Of course, we end up eloping in Las Vegas. It's only been a few months since we met. The magazines briefly speculate, "Are they insane? Will this even last?" To both, we answer "YES." Cue the music. Fade to black.

The rest of the story I make up, it doesn't matter. I mean, I'm married to SHIA LABEOUF, what else could I want?? I guess I trail into thinking that he could get me hooked up with some editors and a nice agent. Maybe I could write a novel that DOESN'T suck. It would help, especially, if he woke me up in the morning with his motivational "JUST. DO IT," and a cup of coffee in hand. He's so damn thoughtful that way.

(Snap back to reality, as the Eminem song goes. 

Oh...wait...where am I? How long have I been sitting in the car? Why am I in my pajamas? Is it REALLY 2pm? My mouth tastes like metal. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I'm going to die. God, please don't let me die.)

End scene

Was That ME?

Sometimes it just blows my mind that about four years ago, I had the mental and emotional capacity to travel alone across the country on a bus. Like, I packed my own bag! I booked my own hostel! I busked on my own street corner and made my own friends and I don't even think I really panicked when I found out I was pregnant and had to come home! Who WAS that reckless, hair-in-the wind gypsy? Was that ME?

And sometimes it just blows my mind that about two years ago, I was engaged, and I was living with my fiance, and that I was not only working two jobs, but also (sometimes - keyword sometimes) doing laundry, and dishes, and cooking food, and playing with my baby girl, and maintaining a semi-healthy adult relationship. Who the hell WAS that responsible, domesticated wife-and-mother? Was that ME?

And sometimes it just BLOWS MY FUCKING MIND that only about three months ago, I was writing all the time, and performing every week, drinking vodka with abandon, becoming a regular at the Mercury, having no trouble with my words, with my words, with my words...

Who was that confident, sure-of-herself poet? Was that ME?

Because I can't even remember how to put the tip of the pen on the paper. I can't even remember how to open my lips to speak. I don't think I should be allowed to touch another human for at least half a decade, for fear of creating a mess like the last one, and you can't let me travel, because I get lost as soon as I walk out of my front door. How could I possibly be the same woman that did all these things? How is it that I, who am now afraid of going outside, once jumped on a Greyhound with the intention of never coming home? How is it that I once thought of myself as brave and now have to shut my closet doors in the dark and sleep with my head under the covers?

I've been thinking a lot lately about how little kids hide behind grown ups when they're afraid. I'm starting to think it should be the other way around. We have so much more to be afraid of. I have so much more to be afraid of.