Lady Gaga and my missing link

Last week we went to a Lady Gaga concert. After the concert, I made notes for this post. I only now can write it.

At the last minute, we decided that my husband would pick me up at the station instead of at our home. I packed a bag with several things I needed to bring, including his shirt. Then I grabbed my Gaga shirt. It says: “I’m a free bitch”. I hesitated if I would put it on, then put it in the bag with some vague excuse, and put on a floral shirt for the journey.

By the time I arrived at the train station, I was nervous. I had no idea why but figured it was my usual “they will dissipate when I am there”-jitters.

We ate something, drove to the concert, and then, at the car park, changed into our shirts. My husband teased me that I hadn’t put on my shirt before. It made me shrink away even further.

We went to the concert hall. We were zoomed up to our floor in an elevator with a group of people. A man said that I looked like Lady Gaga, and pointed out my purple hair as evidence. I acted like I didn’t understand him. We walked out of the elevator and went to our seats.

After a long wait, the concert started. I stared in awe at what happened on stage. Two things happened. I don’t remember in which order, but I don’t care. I needed to hear them.

The first was that she asked her dancers if they gave a fuck about what anyone else thought. They said no. The second was that we need to embrace the way we are, that we are born this way.

Something snapped inside of me.

I realized that I still suffer from good girl syndrome. Instead of wearing the shirt on the train, I wore something inconspicuous. I still had my purple hair, but for the rest, I looked bland.

The second was that it is about fucking time I accept my eccentricity. To accept thequirkinessof my art. To give no fuck.

What also made an impact, was the intense amount of love in the hall. It wasn’t just for Lady Gaga. It was for themselves too. You could see it in the faces of the people that left. A joyful sense of self.

I wrote something on my phone on the way back:

hear ye, hear ye, henceforth fuck shall not be given.

This past week has been a strange week. I had intense dreams, hardly slept at some nights, had some health issues, felt restless and did so many unexpected things. Today I started to make some velvet pants and realized it was time to write this article.

During my week of deep self-exploration, I realized I am a weirdo. I love being a weirdo who has purple hair. I love being a weirdo who writes silly and sometimes serious little books. I love being a weirdo who is more child-like than an adult, playful and sylly. That’s me.

I am so done hiding behind a mask of mediocrity. I am not normal. I am me. A free bitch, as my shirt so eloquently states.

Ever since creating this blog I have more and more become Sylvia. There was something missing, though. I needed to realize that I compiled to a mask of mediocrity. I don’t need to try to fit in. I need to be me. Then I will fit in.

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