When I had covid at the start of the pandemic, I became obsessed with celebrity diagnoses. Getting sick made me feel ashamed. Why was I ill when others weren’t? What did I do wrong?
Reading articles about Tom Hanks soothed me. I felt less alone but, more than that, my shame diminished. There was validation in seeing a shiny famous person suffering from the same thing. ‘Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us!’ If someone as successful as him also got sick, it really could happen to anyone. Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
I’ve recently taken similar comfort in the music of a famous pop star. My breakup last month left me devastated. Ashamed not only of having trusted someone who treated me poorly, but also of how much I hurt despite the relationship’s brevity. My brain once again circled the question of, what did I do wrong?
Was any of it true? You gazing at me starry eyed
The pop star sings these words and my attention centers. I see the way that person looked at me. The compliments he lobbed and the pedestal he built.
The singer reveals her disbelief that any of the good stuff even happened. Who the f—- was that guy? she continues.
…Yes, I’m quoting Taylor Swift. It surprises me too.
But this isn’t about her so much as the comfort I take in hearing an all-powerful billionaire express the awfulness of getting love-bombed and left behind, in your thirties no less.
I’ll forget you but I’ll never forgive, the smallest man who ever lived
The validation comes through her expression of pain without shame. Instead of claiming ‘poor me’ and asking what she or her narrator did wrong, the song points the finger outward. Shame on you, it says, to the smallest man and the tortured poet. Shame on you.
A tortured poet will send you love notes and then ask how you picked where you traveled last year. Casually revealing his underlying question of, how does one know what one wants?
The tortured poet might plan a future with you. Discuss getting married and whom you’ll visit together and when. He might bring you around and brag about you and call you the most perfect woman he’s ever met.
In public showed me off, then sank in stoned oblivion
The tortured poet doesn’t know what he wants. He hides under smoke and liquor. He puts you on a pedestal only to leave you there, alone.
Once your queen had come, you treat her like an also-ran
There’s a reason we’re attracted to these people. Something inside us is tortured too. Our poetic self is willing to believe that a greater truth exists. Two souls intertwined on the astral plane.
I would have died for your sins, instead I just died inside
Once I dropped back down, I blamed myself. What could have prevented this? Again, what did I do wrong?
A quiet voice inside has always known the answer: it wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong.
You deserve prison but you won’t get time
Swift points the finger and rages. The narrator in her story wasn’t the problem. Instead, it’s the poet, the smallest man, who failed.
You didn’t measure up in any measure of a man
I’m beginning to view songwriting similarly to fiction wherein a writer can feel free to adopt a voice separate from her own. In this song, the narrator represents that quiet voice who often gets drowned out by shame. But once it’s validated by a wildly successful and famous artist? Then I’ll listen. Call it the Tom Hanks effect, the one that reminds us bad things can happen to anyone.
You said normal girls were boring, but you were gone by the morning
The smallest man sends bombs disguised as poems then leaves when they explode.
They just ghosted you. Now you know what it feels like
Shame traps us in the bad feelings. Only once we flip the script and forgive ourselves can we finally move on.
And I don’t miss what we had but can someone give a message to the smallest man who ever lived
Ironically, the tortured poet I know is a big Taylor Swift fan. We used to argue about her merits as I introduced him to other, in my mind superior, artists.
I doubt he has the self-awareness to recognize himself in her latest album. I bet, like the smallest man, he’ll continue to slide into inboxes and slip through the bars.
I always feared he wasn’t good enough for me. But he knew how to flatter. He swept me away on promises.
When the bombs fell, he ran.
It feels good to have company in this decimated place. To stop blaming myself.
Tom Hanks got covid. Taylor Swift got loved-bombed. There’s no shame in either.
It’s okay to have dated a tortured poet. It’s okay to have been jerked around and upset despite being warned he wasn’t worthy. Still, we had something. A glimmer of true love. It’s okay that my romantic soul was willing to give it a shot.
It’s also okay to tear the poet a new one. Hold his feet to the fire and burn the words to reveal the coward beneath. Thank you, Taylor, for giving me that.
Been there and it sucks. While the only way thru the emotions is through, glad to hear your mind is strong. And woman, you’re better than ever on the other side of this 💪