Imagine the fear
and freedom
of being loved so completely
by strangers
that believe the very best of you
while you awe
at their fearlessness
and beauty
shining in the early morning sun
Welcome to Ship. We’re weird. We’re the lunch table that looks fucking cool as hell, dressed crazy fashionably, with booties that werk and bodies that revel. We listen to music that’s ear screeching, do things Mom told us not to, disrespect ourselves and each other in nasty, filthy ways.
It seems scary. It’s pretty unreal. It doesn’t make sense. And frankly, as much as I love it, it fills me with anxiety.
See, I spent a depression filled adolescence, terrified of the burden of loving myself. The systems in place [shout out Mom, Dad, Teachers, and Coaches] kept me from failing too hard, dragging me into “successful” adulthood safely.
But it never quite solved the underlying problems of “who am i. what am i doing here. why am i so blessed. what do i deserve?”
These weren’t questions, they were assumed challenges.
I am no one, doing nothing. Unimportant. Another victim to the ever-shifting sands of time and the universes’ tendency towards entropy. [Thanks AP Physics!]
Here’s the real kicker. Festivals, raves, drugs, parties, music, art, sex, dancing. None of that proved the underlying assumptions wrong. Teenage me read Vonnegut, he knows we don’t matter! We are just the same decaying masses of carbon and nonsense as plants or turtles or beavers.
But we matter to each other. In moments of relationship; terrible puns, or insides jokes, gifting rubber fishies, or passing out watermelon or sour candies, or brushing lips, pressed against the elevator glass.
We matter to ourselves, when we get to the gym, or meditate, or create art.
And none of that amounts to anything if you aren’t having fun.
See this world is magical, and we Shippers know that better than nearly anyone else. The things that happen to and because of us are weightless in their mass but immeasurable in their impact.
That paradox still fucks me up sometimes. And I’m not sure I’ll ever shake the weight of depression that sneakily or uproariously catches up to me.
But in the sunlight, we’re gorgeous. We’re beautiful. We’re perfect. We’re all fucked in the head.
When we choose to accept that ourselves, and accept it in each other. Then we are more friends. We’re fam. ShipFam.