Dangerous Compassions


Hey, guess what.  I posted on facebook about the recording I did of the Bach song I love, and a link to the soundcloud file.  Then I got really embarrassed, like it’s no good, and took it down from facebook.

I was playing the recording for Ming, and all I could hear were the flaws.  It’s sad, to hear it multiple ways.  I like the strengths–moments when it sounds sweet, and I had emotions that came through.  My voice was ok.

But then to hear the flaws, like weakness on high notes…  I feel ridiculous that I even thought to post such a terrible recording.

The problem is I really want a world where things don’t need to be slick.  I love making bad art, flawed music recordings, strange blog posts.  I’m sorry there might be a typo or two.  Blogging every day, some errors slip through.  I hope they’re not too distracting.

all kinds

There are all kinds of singing in this world.  A little kid sitting on the floor, playing with her own fingers, singing to herself, not to be heard by others.  Me, belting out sacred stuff in German in the middle of the night.  A pop star, happy birthday ritual, some kind of taunt.  I don’t think all the singing needs to be perfect.  In fact, the errors are sometimes where the light gets in.

So I want to be brave, and let people hear my song.  But then if I don’t feel strong, it’s hard to risk vulnerability.  Embarrassed hurts.  I need to find the right zone, where I’m vulnerable but not so much I harm myself, exposed and raw.

If only my perceptions and feelings would have some consistency.  Often I see things in wildly different ways, from different moods.  I try to love myself for this, thanking myself for complexity and honesty.  But it’s not easy.


It also hurt this morning when I was googling a fibromyalgia medication and encountered a suggested search about whether bipolar people can truly love.

List of suggested google searches including the question “can a bipolar person truly love.”

The question felt like a little stab to my heart.  My immediate response was biting.  I wanted to talk back to the question, saying, “Only bipolar people can truly love.”

I imagined the a non-bipolar person asking this fucked up question, how hurt they must have been, to wonder.  A bipolar person had betrayed them or been very cruel.

Or maybe they were diagnosed bipolar themselves, crying about something they considered wrong about themselves.  Personal defect  concern question.  I guess that’s sadder.

The people who have loved me best have all been crazy.  Crazy people are my people.  Ming is disabled by ocd and narcolepsy.  A beloved ex, dear to me for many years, had a schizophrenia diagnosis.  God, I miss them.

I’m only very close to crazy people, as a rule.  There’s a checkbox on the application.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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