Sunday, March 13, 2016

My name's not Blurryface and I do not Care what you Think

It's December of 2015 and I have officially been back in this country for a week when I declare out loud for the first time, "I've got to do it. I can't take it any longer!" My friend looks up from where she sits and warns me of what happens when girls end things with their long-term boyfriends: They start sleeping with randoms from their past. We both explode at the intrepidity of such a suggestion.

"Hey, whatever happened to that sad sap that hit on you when you were a literal baby?" she drags out the words, emphasizing how long ago this must have been.

I pause, completely unaware of with whom she is referring.

"Grog Shop." "Andrew Jackson Jihad." "L.A. Grange." She probes me.

"Ohhh, dude I don't know. Probably lost his hand in a warehouse accident."

"I just sent him a friend request," and she bursts into a roaring fit of laughter.

I smile at her sloppily, half smirking, half you better-be-kidding. This babe's probably the most prude person I could comfortably associate with and the thought of her hooking up with a random dirtbag is well...exactly the type of behavior I perpetually encourage her to participate in, historically to no avail. Not to mention, I am utterly in awe at my girl's ability to retain this asshat's name for so many years.

So, a few days later, when my phone chirps with a new friend request I nearly slap my friend square in her face. You didn't I want to scream. But then I remember, my bitch is back in California and punching her in the face is isn't really an option at this point, so I proceed asking myself only, "Will this make a good story? Will this be interesting to deal with?" There's this perfect two week window before school begins again and between working full time in a *gasp* office job and applying to every internship known to humankind, this presents as a comical fourteen day distraction. I saw his band play (an inaudible discombobulated mess) and spent a night in an unfinished bedroom where even the darkest of dreams go to die. Staring blankly and unable to identify why, I remember declaring, "I feel weird."

Then, something truly strange happened. My phone chirped yet again. It was a text from...him. Frankly, I was confused. Why can't guys understand when a scheme is well, over? Did I not specifically ask you not to remember me? But in his hasty abandonment of stock character behavior, I was overwhelmed by the few endearing traits I had collected the previous night, or as Margaret Atwood reminds us, "How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all. What an available temptation."

I made some joke about T. Swift's "Clean" being about finally washing the Lorain grime off your bod and slowly my fourteen day distraction became erm...more than fourteen days. I was going to be in town for a sewing job and we talked about the possibility of meeting up again, but when that blew up into insane proportions, I wished you well, went back to school, and was on my way. So, imagine my surprise when I walk into a local concert venue to see a whiny band that a friend from high school used to play with and I see this punk. Actually, my first thoughts are that I am hallucinating because somehow that seems more likely. We went three years without ever running into each other before, why now? When you sleep with so many men (sorry mum) they all start to blur together. Was it you who declared a love for the band headlining this shitshow? Why did their name sound so goddamn familiar?

And suddenly it hits me. Why I had felt weird the night I spent in that bed; fucking him was like fucking my high school self. And no, I do not just mean in the awkwardly timid way in which his gangly body moved, but in the manner in which fear dictates every single aspect of his human existence. Fear of navigating a new city. Fear of economic insecurity. Fear of forming new relationships. Fear of unscrewing the bottle cap of years of emotional suppression. Cozy in a twenty mile radius of his hometown he wrote songs about detachment with the same ol' cronies he grew up with. Shrugging apathetically in a perpetual declaration of indifference, he actively avoided opportunity and instead choose to trade every last drop of potential for a guaranteed lifetime of misery. Although music was the one thing his eyes semi-lit up for, the sheer possibility of unrecognized effort left him completely unwilling to devote any time or ability to anything. His band barely practiced, avoided promotion and was in a near constant lineman shift. Fail proof ego protection, sure, but I wondered if such doubt paralyzation had him biting his fingernails in the shower or waking up beneath steady streams of cool sweat. The whole chain-smoking habit made perfect sense now.

Like any opportunity presented in the last three-four years, he tiptoed around, actively avoiding eye contact and pretending not to see right through me. I did not really experience any surprise, for he essentially did the same thing months ago, hiding behind SMS screens and unanswered plans, but I was thoroughly amazed at his awkwardness, his institutional inability to behave like a cordial adult. Although an apology was far from what I wanted, “I’m sorry I made you unhappy,” were the only words he could fumble through trembling teeth. I did not feel embarrassed or humiliated or burdened by wasted time, I just felt sorry. Sorry that there are 24 year old men who have not dated since high school, who are controlled like puppets by the supposed horror of uncertainty, and who stage run-aways to avoid having to confront any sort of raw human emotion.

"I feel sorry for you," was all I had to offer.

Perhaps I am the one who owes you an apology. Sorry for seeing through your defenses. Sorry for believing in you. Sorry for having expectations of basic human decency.

Ten days clean, you were the first man I locked lips with in sobriety, and three years later, you were the first fuck after the official ending of arguably the most unfulfilling relationship of my lifetime. The beauty in such a cosmic continuum juxtaposed next to the reality of your fear made this whole experience exponentially more tragic. How foolish I was to believe you would allow me to do for you what you have done for me.

Two cars pull away, driving in opposite directions, each filled with a gaggle of laughing single-sex adults. I imagine the conversations that pour over, men foaming at the mouth, each eager to offer a misogynistic joust. Crazy. Bitch. Our car only shakes harder at the audacity. Sometimes when men are so incomprehensibly pathetic in their cowardice, all you can do is laugh and put on a lil’ show for your gal pals. Here’s to being fearless, aye?

Thank you for saving me twenty bucks in bleach and blue hair dye because why dye your hair blue when you can scare men away with your heart alone?

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

What I Learned from Falling in Love with Drug Addicted Men

It's a Wednesday afternoon and I have just slammed down my cellphone after yet another conversation with one of Ohio's most heavily sought-out treatment facilities for chemically dependent men. Elliott's on the other line, filling out paperwork and reading through counselors' emails. I worry that as a poly-substance addict who abuses just about anything besides benzodiazepines and alcohol, insurance will not cover the five-day detox. "Your withdrawal is not deadly," they'll say. But then again, I worry that insurance will only cover detox, and not y'know...actual treatment.

I am worried Elliott will die.

It is terrifying, yet a sensation eerily comforting in its familiarity. As a twenty year old, I have been through this before...thrice. This treatment facility, the one in which I have just spoken with, is the same one I visited Hudson at, what seems like now, so long ago. Even though Northeastern Ohio seems completely littered with addiction, I know there's more to my dating record than coincidence. After the first man, a tattoo artist I started vibin' with in high school, I cleaned myself up with the promise of never dating an addict again.

I lied.

As a recovering addict and aspiring clinician myself, friends and family repeatedly told me I fell victim to the thrill of addiction - the thrill of naively believing love can cure.

But really, I fell in love with personalities that just happened to have addiction checkered pasts...err...presents. One was actively using and dealing when we first met; another was in medical school, had been sober for years, and relapsed; and Elliott, oh Elliott, experimented with cocaine as a teenager, ran away to Europe for a couple years, and came back with a heroin addiction and baby girl. But all of them were fiercely passionate about their love for me.

I glorified such intensity - such rawness. They were hard-on-the-outside, complete mush on the inside types. Bad boys in stolen leather jackets, who said fuck a lot, drank Blatz beer, and were utterly unpredictable. They were outgoing, well-liked, fun. As a catastrophizer eager to abandon the comforts of my suburban girlhood, their adventure-seeking ways drew me in. As if experience can serve as some sort of protection from my curiosity, I sunk myself in again and again.

What I mean to suggest when I say these men were mush on the inside, is that they were well acquainted with pain. Naming him after the city in which he was conceived, Hudson's mother worked as a sex worker to support her own heroin addiction. As a child, he fell asleep to the lullaby of a steady string of men beating his mother to near death nearly every night. Liam, as an eighth grader, walked home from school to find his mother's body swaying within the grasp of a tightly wound rope. Elliott lost his father at four years old and kept a horrible secret for thirteen years. 

They prided themselves on pushing their pain away, suppressing it with swollen crack pipes and clogged syringes, but they all had such starkly peculiar insecurities that made them so goddamn sensitive - a quality I ate up greedily. So often I have been compartmentalized by lovers, burdened by conditions, aspects of my identity and reality excluded from their affection. Their love was different - overwhelming in its inclusivity. They were uncomfortable people who had mastered how to comfort others.

Friends and family said that I - a college-bound suburban-bred feminist activist with Ph.D dreams, was too good for them.

"He is not going to change," everyone told me, which only infuriated me. I don't know that. He doesn't know that. So, how are you to know that? Millions of people have changed. Heck, I am one of them. What if everyone said that about me when I was using? Wait, did you say that about me when I was using?

I cried in the shower. I cried in bed. I cried in the car driving to school. I cried in the car driving home from work. I could not find a single person who would listen. He's an addict? Dump his ass!

No one, even other recovering addicts, was willing to accept that I was in love and fighting for my partner's health, just as they would if their significant other were ill with some other less stigmatized disease. I was not better than my boyfriends and I had long known that, but what I learned was, neither were these people so eager to offer their advice. These people who disregard my relationships fail to recognize that what they have is not inherently better just because their partner's screw-ups are less stigmatized. When I think about my friends' and family's relationships, I am far from jealous. 

I never worried that these men would cheat on me or that I was just the best option at the time. I never worried about falling into routine, growing stale and becoming boring. I never worried about a lukewarm love because mine engulfed me in flames. They were addicts for Christ's sake. They knew devotion. They knew obsession. This kind of ride-or-die commitment was riveting. Goddamn, why do you think young women swoon over Lana Del Rey songs? Sometimes, this commitment was haunting. Beneath a loaded handgun, passion can quickly become a threat, "Five, four, three - are you leaving me for good? - two...."

Don't fret. I know that was not love; it was manipulation. I have since learned the distinction. 

There were other lows, like the time Liam and I went to see the Desaparecidos. Freshly out of Suboxone, he spent the night curled into fetal position on a bathroom floor. I remember driving back to school as he spewed vomit out the passenger side window. When he refused to go to an urgent care or hospital, I drove him to a shooting gallery instead. I am parking, the car is still in motion, and he is flying out the door. I recall looking in my rear-view mirror, unable to locate him. I bawled my eyes out as my imagination painted a vivid carousel of every awful thing that could have happened, only for Liam to return with a smile strewn across his face, gas station coffee (my personal favorite) in hand.

I am certain I spent more time on drug corners in my first year of recovery than during my active use. I have threatened to slaughter drug dealers, and followed men straight-up grand-theft auto style to ensure their attendance at 12-step meetings and/or counseling appointments. I have phoned mothers and sisters and parole officers. I have spent hours researching treatment facilities and Suboxone prescribers. I have looked through phone records and urinalysis screenings. I know that the real reason so many government agencies exclude former drug users from employment is not due to security risks, fear of relapse, or just general hate for addicts, but because we would be too thorough at our jobs. Our investigative skills are unbeatable and only strengthened by years of loving other addicts.

I know of no pain deeper than watching someone you love suffer with such intensity. To hold a grown man, trembling and shaking with hysteria, unable to solve the singular puzzle that was destroying their lives. The torture in loving someone who hates themselves. All I wanted was to convince them that someday, somehow, if they put in the effort, they could learn to feel okay, and with time, maybe even better than okay. You could be happy without drugs. Look at me I'd say, as if I was speaking to myself. I would light candles and play delicate dream pop, staying up for days caring for them as they detoxed.

But sometimes love is not enough (sorry 'bout the Lana references, last one I promise). They could not put the crack pipe down long enough to visit their mother's grave on mother's day or say goodbye to heroin long enough to earn the degree of their dreams or to cheer their daughter on in her school's theatrical production. They could not would not quit for their families or themselves and they certainly could not would not for me either.

I find myself in different circles these days and something tells me my pattern of romantic involvement will shift, but I have not one ounce of regret for the moments I have spent wrapped up in love with drug addicted men. Loving these men taught me how to fight for those you believe in, not to abandon something because it is not ideal, and perhaps most importantly, demonstrated the extent to which the opposite of addiction is not sobriety, but human connection. 

My heart grew bigger because of them. Perhaps too big, but what a small consequence for the opportunity to love so deeply.

*All names have been changed.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

My life has taught me one lesson, and not the one I thought it would.

There is nothing in this world that could prevent me from loving you, except maybe being both drunk and gay. I know that I am a very strong woman because each day I have existed within Mother Earth's grasp I have successfully overcame the urge to tear these photos off the wall and strip soul from body. Just because you do not want to believe something does not mean it is not true. What idiot has you convinced that truth is beautiful? The children know the king will not end their misery, so an endless reelection remains. My only desire is to be a part of this new wonder because how awful to simply accept fate, how awful to not rise up with fists and fight, how awful to sit stagnantly. And it is a failed day if I have spent more of my day within a bra than sans brassiere.

Mama cried when I put ink on my ribs. I am ruining my body and the damage seeps into my soul. Age is a restriction we have placed upon ourselves for centuries, but I own your emotions, and pass the revolution via kiss. I suppose everything has a purpose, and from her perspective, mine is to sit still, and kindly abandon my angst, adorn myself in kitschy apron-esque frocks and slick pinned strands. So, unsatisfied I forever remain, tarnished and broken.

Oh, what is comfort if not a change in perspective?



Spitting Blade Memory Regurgitation

When I proclaim the creativity seeping from your pores is to blame for the dampness of your skin, you dispute me with a claim that no beauty could have come from you. "It's just the rain," you say while locked within a dry bolt room.

My fingers trace across a slightly sloped spine, dreams have been weighing you down, chase them and watch yourself bloom. Turning, I can no longer fit myself into such a paradoxical juxtaposition. Your faulted desire to be taller accompanied by a lifetime spent between dope-tinted lens crammed within the corners of heart-shaped boxes.

Open your mouth, invite me inside to greet leathery cheeks and absorbent tongues. Unused dull teeth who nowadays exclusively chew misery and regret hors d'oeuvres. Each attempt to escape the depressive clutch that is yourself is met with an ever increasing tighter squeeze as we cram together like last season's garments, my world, an overstuffed clothing rack. How can there always be less of you? And how do so many ideas sleep forever dormant coiled within such a slender frame? Venturing, bitter but sweet, I am drowning, but you would still describe the water.

Sitting within me now I hate the way life besides you tastes. A sly reply of misery pours down my throat only to rest in my stomach for eternity. I know you would end me, if it meant you could remain a coward. Chokes frame our faces like smiles, everything blurs, melting into a voodoo realm, she's gone, I'm here, but you are live from nowhere near.

Refusal to recall hello or goodbye, but when you split yourself into a planned pattern I felt my face crack into a series of streams. Letters that long ago have grown foreign, spill out the optimism we once clung to, struggling veins softly crying to stain a shy pale skin I once naively believed was capable of reality.

Mother and child, cop versus criminal, broken china, how did we cascade into such opposing forces? You absorb into me, blemishing my soul. My inscribed name together with yours, it was goodbye for sure, I just wish I knew for whom.

Fashion, because naked people have no influence in society.

When it comes to fashion design there are two schools of thought. The first one being that fashion is born in the minds of established designers who showcase their creations on runways which is then diluted for the everyday person into affordable variations. Conversely, the second school of thought presents fashion as something bred in the street by off-beat trendsetters who, in their ironic refusal to follow mainstream fashion, inspire designers worldwide. Personally, I have always viewed fashion from the latter perspective. Obviously, my work here on The Onyx Clam is not fashion-oriented, but I recognize the beauty in the give-and-take element of the art of dressing, and as a result, will always have a profound respect for devoted fashion bloggers. Blogging serves as the ultimate way to communicate ideas and galvanize action. Regardless of a blogger's mission, fashion-orientated or not, blogging is an instrument for giving every person (with internet access) a public platform to express their personal vantage point. It is an honor to be a part of cultural dialogue regarding the ways in which people choose to express themselves, rather visually, verbally, artistically, etc.

Fashion is the sole art form in which everyone is obligated to participate on a daily basis. Now, that being said, all art forms exist as a privilege. What a luxury to have the time and freedom to focus on developing your own personal aesthetic as a tool of self-expression. Each moment we have to riffle through the hat racks at our local thrift shop, read Jane Aldridge's blog, or play dress-up with our great aunt's costume jewelry is another moment that we do not worry about the myriad of problems that plague much of the world. However, a poetic beauty remains in the fact that every day one possesses the opportunity to turn every individual with whom they encounter into a member of their audience. I am forever grateful for the chance to participate in aesthetic culture, but I am especially awed by all those who choose to join me.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

To everyone stuck spending the holidays with their bigoted relatives.

To everyone stuck spending the holidays with their shitty racist/sexist/homophobic/transphobic/classist relatives, you do not have to love these people just because they are family. I actively avoid multiple members of my family not because of the manner in which they treat me, but because of how they treat members of the LGBTQ+ community, people of color, or their general xenophobic world view. The weird thing is, long ago have I stop preaching at/to my family. No longer do I start debates with them over social justice concerns. Honestly, I do not think that human welfare at all interests them and I do not really value their opinions about anything of substance anyway. However, even if you are not actively probing people on their thoughts on gender inequality or immigration reform you learn their opinions after years of hearing subtle comments seep in. And then, one day you realize...holy shit my grandma/aunt/sibling/cousin fucking sucks. It is an uncomfortable realization, but you are allowed to think that person fucking sucks, because guess what? They fucking do suck. Furthermore, being a great grandma/sibling/parent/aunt/etc. does not qualify someone as a great person. I do not feel guilty about recognizing that and as I continue to age and gain independence I will continue to choose not to see or be around such relatives. So, in conclusion, sorry for all of the fucked up shit you will have to hear your family members say tonight and tomorrow --- and here's to solidarity making it through the holidays without puking all over our sparkly 'fits.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Instantaneous Communication: A 3x3 Window on a Fast Moving Train

Is the internet to blame for a major shift in humankind's communication methods? Originally, we were visual creatures. Messages were shared through hand motions. Using earth-derived paints, we drew pictures in sand and carved caricatures into stone. Next, we developed language. Now we could tell stories with symbols and sounds. Through language, our culture changes from perceiving ideas via movement to comprehending concepts through the shapes of symbols or letters. For centuries, the power of the written word controlled our societies. Those privileged enough to be literate and have access to texts, those who truly understood the publications of Kings and Gods and Lords and Landowners, had the advantage of interpreting such as they chose and filtering what was passed down to the illiterate masses.

The development of the printing press was perhaps more a tool for democracy than any other technological advancement. Suddenly, the illiterate masses could own books and even learn to read and interpret the text in which their newly acquired books contained. Language was power and books were a means of rebellion. Not only did words mean something, they meant a lot.

The internet was, once upon a time, a space for words. We logged into read live journals, message boards, wikis, blogs, and even *gasp* live-breaking news! People, anyone with access to the internet, had a platform to say whatever they'd like, and we, as readers, could find those words and read it all. The internet emerged as the place in which people, all people, could speak.

Say, three years ago, blogging reached what I fear will forever be its peak. I decided to go public and created a space to channel the thoughts keeping me up at night into words. Strange thoughts about punk boys and getting older, important ideas addressing feminism and the contents of the Millennial generation. I came here, wrote, and expelled. You, my readers, would actually read those thoughts. Those ideas. And, then, my time would come and I would read yours. In that odd pixelated way, I feel we knew each other. I felt we truly connected. There was so much comfort in knowing that you simply exist.

Blogging gave way to microblogging and we learned to speak less freely, more compactly. Twitter rewarded us for being clever and to the point, for being witty and curt. Although I appreciated the challenge, I longed for the verbosity of blogging. So often it's not the conclusion of the story that matters, but rather the manner in which our prose winds and tangles upon reaching that end. Sometimes, the journey is the story and the destination is quite dull, but at least we grew in getting there. Twitter doesn't understand that part about me about anyone.

Just as blogging paved the evolution of microblogging, microblogging gave way to visual microblogging. Fuck words. Use a single image. A picture is worth a thousand words, right? Or is it? You can scroll past hundreds of photographs in mere seconds, absorbing it all in entirety at the speed of light. That's the whole phenomenon behind Instagram: it is instant. However, when something becomes instantaneous it sacrifices its comprehensibility, its completeness. Instagram is a 3x3'' window on a fast moving train. Do you truly understand anything discovered through a window? If a train moves through Oslo going 100mph while passengers stare through a tiny plexiglass square, were the passengers ever really in Oslo? Did they see enough to accurately say they have seen the city? Did they come to understand anything about that place through such a journey?

I fear that eventually, visual microblogging will give way to a whole culture that communicates solely through pictures and emojis and abbreviations. No longer will humans greet each other with a verbal "Hello." We'll instead project an image of a hand waving in front of each others' faces. The punchline of your jokes will not conclude in a cascade of a laughter, but a projection of crying smiley faces. Maybe we'll use sign language to spell out the letters R, O, F, and L, separately like that to emphasize the abbreviation.

Shouldn't the future excite us? Why then, does the very prospect of veering away from written language depress me so? Are visuals a more efficient way of communicating? Perhaps my opinion has something to do with the way in which I, in particular, communicate. I find myself lost within the transition from words to images. I want to talk it through. I structure my thoughts in complete sentences and blocks of prose. I find comfort in hopping from point A to point B in my own head with an audience watching.

Click. Another picture of a face captured, but behind every selfie exists a brain containing so many complete sentences. That's the side of people we ought to know and relate to. Yep, that inside globby bit. Otherwise, what's the meaning of all this? What's the purpose of technological experiences when there's no level of humanity behind them?

Anyways, how retro is blogging? So quirky. So charming. Bloggers have so many feelings. I have so many feelings. Well, isn't that cute?