Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out

i.

I almost forgot how pretty you are,
And how something suspicious
surrounds you.
I am overwhelmed;
underground,
swallowing dirt
just to have something hit my lips.
Tune in: what’s that?
Nope, no one is sitting here.
I’ve lost my appetite.

ii.

I tune in just in time,
Why didn’t I write that down?
I follow this thought to a more civilized place -
How perfectly wretched,
Echoing in a British accent.
Eyes roll.
Page turns.
Sighs deep.
So deep, so deep,
Helm’s Deep.
Wait, how in the middle-earth did I get here?

iii.

I am surrounded by mothers.
Some Soon-to-be,
Others Wannabe.
Shouldn't I be
tuned in by now?
That palm reader in Queens said
I'd be a mother to three.
Seems improvident.
Highly improbable.
Somehow impossible.

Mutual Interests

I've been thinking a lot about mutual interests.

Well, only since I decided not to put my purse on the floor in the bathroom because the opening scene of A Visit from the Goon Squad involves theft in that exact scenario.

That, in turn, reminded me of a recent experience trying to date online in NYC. I messaged a handsome journalist who had accidentally typed, "A Visit from the Good Squad" to alert him to his error, hoping to show that I too am a writer, and I have read this book! Mutual interests!

"Ha Ha," he wrote, "what a different book that would make!"

We met for whiskey and ramen. Had a great time, and awkwardly said goodbye, hoping to see each other again. In an effort to clinch a second date, I followed his suggestion and read some of his work.

I immediately found a typo. This time, more embarrassingly, on a national publication rather than an already embarrassing OKCupid profile. The first time landed me a date, so I thought it would be advantageous to point out another flaw.

It turns out, men don't like to be reminded of their mistakes.

I even went the positive route - praise and affection. Support and admiration. Acceptance of awkwardness.

Compared with tales of former lovers, this was new, I wanted to be positive in my criticism. Bright and shiny, wide-eyed. I tread carefully into a constructed world where all are welcome (but only allegorically).

It turns out, men don't like to be reminded of their imperfections.

I'm so bad at this. I once painted a man so deep into a corner that the only way out was to tell me, "You're pretty". Impossible to recover: Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

It turns out, men don't like to be reminded of their lack of attention to detail. Note to self: stop dating creative types who's lives depend on post-it notes.

Living with Epilepsy

Epilepsy Overview:

Epilepsy preys on us in the most unlikely circumstances. The early signs of an oncoming seizure are fast-acting (like Tinactin), and can lead you into an aura that lasts mere seconds to minutes too many to count. Mine spring on in the most uncomfortable way. Instantly my mouth begins to water, and I have a hard time swallowing, followed by acute nausea often accompanied by diarrhea.

My head doesn't hurt anymore like it used to, at least not pre-seizure. Depending on how quickly the onset, I often develop a kind of tunnel vision. I have 20/20 vision, so I'm not exactly sure what myopia (near-sightedness) is like, but I imagine it must be like this as I can't see things that are too far away clearly. My hearing gets, well, blurry too. As in, I can't hear as usual, and often I can only hear the sound of my own heartbeat, or this weird swishing sound, almost like I am under water. This is also known as Bruit: an abnormal swishing or ringing sound in the ear caused by blood pulsing through an area of the brain.

Along with these symptoms, I also get mental confusion, including the inability to speak my thoughts clearly, or sometimes, at all. If I am alone, this causes no problems; if I am in public, I cannot communicate my needs clearly. This, you can imagine, scares people. It is amazing how disturbing it can be to see a stranger faint, or worse, go into convulsions.

I'm not actually sure how long the convulsions last - but I've heard 30 seconds to over a minute at a time. Judging by the severity of bruising along my shoulders, knees, and elbows, and how I feel when I wake up, its probably pretty crazy to watch. My lips are often riddled with blood blisters and puncture wounds from where I've bitten down during my unconsciousness.

I've had seizures all over the place. At the airport, in the kitchen, on the sidewalk, in the Subway, with a man inside me... seriously. It can happen anytime, anywhere.

My Epilepsy Story:

My epilepsy came on in my adult life as a result of an Arteriovenous Malformation (AVM). An AVM is abnormal cluster or tangle of blood vessels in the brain or spine. This birth defect happens either during fetal development or directly after birth when an infant's organs are still forming. AVMs are relatively rare; approximately 300,000 (.14%) Americans have them, but only 12% of those experience symptoms. My symptoms presented themselves as - you guessed it - a seizure! My first, occurred on July 7, 2004, when I was 22 years-old, while babysitting for a Neuroradiologist. Consider those odds. In addition, Dr. Marx had a son with various mental disabilities, including epilepsy. I was home alone with his three children, and collapsed in the kitchen, hitting my head against the brand new wall, leaving a baseball-sized dent. His wife, Lisa, pulled into the driveway as I lay unconscious on the floor. 10 minutes before and the kids would have still been in the pool outside, 10 minutes later, I would have been driving home.

As I had never had a seizure before, I thought I fainted from the heat, lack of a good diet, and dehydration. I was a recent college graduate after all, I hadn't managed to maintain a good sense of self-awareness or self-control at that time. I still smoked cigarettes for crying out loud. I got to the hospital, got a CAT scan and a Sprite, and waited to be released. That plan fell apart as soon as Dr. Marx returned home and accessed my scans on his home computer. After seeing a blurry dark spot in the CAT scan, he called the hospital and ordered an MRI. They told me the CAT scan didn't come out right, so I still sat oblivious to my brain condition. The MRI revealed the AVM, and suddenly, I was admitted, put on an IV, and requested to stay overnight.

Meanwhile, I couldn't get in touch with my parents to let them know all of this. This was pre-everyone-has-a-smartphone, and my parents were at a fundraiser having a good time. I finally reached them around 10pm, and conveyed the life-changing information over a staticky hospital phone. My mom could barely hear me, and when I said, "I'm at the hospital, I had a seizure," she thought I said I had a fever. "A fever," she said, "How high could it be!?". Only when I spelled out "S-E-I-Z-U-R-E" did she get the gravity of the situation. They arrived the next morning, along with Dr. Marx, and I learned all about the brain, the AVM, and my choices for treatment.

My Treatment:

My AVM was located in the front temporal lobe, home of the Wernicke's area - the sections of the brain responsible for speech. The AVM was as big as a golf ball, and had to be treated, as a fear of rupture and bleed were highly likely. My options included either invasive brain surgery - a crainiotomy, to expose the area of the brain, and remove the AVM completely; or a noninvasive, longer-healing option of precise radiation treatment with a tool called a Gamma Knife. I chose option two, and that September, my family and I drove to Charlottesville, VA to obliterate the AVM at University of Virginia's Gamma Knife Center. I spent about a week in Virginia with perfect Fall weather, and underwent two noninvasive treatments: the first, an embolization to reduce the size of the AVM using biological glue. The glue is injected into the AVM via specially designed microcatheters, which are guided directly into the brain via angiography (insertion via femoral artery). The reduction in size assists with the second treatment: on-spot radiation. The Gamma Knife works by using a head frame to accurately pinpoint the target area of radiation. It looks a bit like a colander with over 200 holes for the machine to locate exactly where to shoot the radiation into the brain.

While it is noninvasive, it is not painless. An angiography opens and inserts a catheter into the femoral artery, one of the body's major arteries, that if not properly closed after surgery, can rupture, causing a patient to bleed out. To close it, doctors have to carefully insert a plug that doesn't disturb the walls of the artery further, but also closes the hole intentionally placed there. The patient must be awake during this plug, and depending on the tactic, the patient must lie still for 4 to 8 hours post-op to confirm that that plug didn't rupture or tear the artery during placement. This plug feels like a what I imagine a gun shot wound may feel like if someone stuck their finger inside it and tried to dig out the bullet.  

After the first round of treatment in 2004, I got on medication, and went seizure free for nearly two years. Then, one calm, spring day, I found myself more confused than usual while perusing the fancy cheese section at the local Greenlife (Whole Foods). The seizures had returned. In November of 2007, I went back to UVA for a second round of radiation to eliminate the rest of the AVM. Now, I've got nothing left but serpiginous scar tissue in the area, and my MRIs prove no bleeding or other indicators that the AVM is active. That makes it sound like a volcano - which, sometimes it seems like to me.

The seizures stuck around, and I can't be sure as to why. Maybe the brain can't handle that kind of trauma without always having an aftershock. I am confident that the staff at UVA did all they could to treat me, and there is no way they could have known the epilepsy would follow me. But here we are: I wear a medical bracelet, take medication daily, and have a medical device implanted in my body to help me live with this disorder.

My Life with an Implant:

Although technically my device is implanted in my left pectoral muscle, its not that kind of implant. In 2009, after troubleshooting my seemingly increased epilepsy by tracking my diet, exercise, social habits, stress level, even hormonal balance on birth control, and exhausting my Big Pharma options, my neurologist and I decided to try something new. By maintaining my daily anticonvulsant dosage, and removing additional medications that could be adding to my adverse side effects, I decided to get a Vagus Nerve Stimulator.

This device works much like a pacemaker, sending electrical stimulation through the vagal nerve to the brain in regular intervals to help control the activity that can lead to a seizure. When I feel an aura coming on, I hold a very powerful magnet up to my skin, and the generator either stops the flow of electricity, or doubles the amount to force the brain to sort of reboot. This can help stop the seizure all together, or at least shorten the duration or intensity. For the most part, it works. It also makes me hum in my sleep as the lead presses against my vocal cords and causes a vibration. Falling asleep on an airplane is pretty funny. So far, I've had the battery replaced once, and my insurance at the time didn't deem this to be a required surgery, so they only covered part of it. How special.  

How to Handle a Seizure:

The old put-a-spoon-in-their-mouth trick has been generally dispelled by medical community, but has managed to stick around as an aid. Do not do this. Ever. It is true that some people - like me - bite their tongue, cheeks, or lips. But it is generally best to be sure that a person having a seizure is safe from harm by removing objects around them, even putting something under their head to be sure they don't bang it on the ground or whatever surface they find themselves in. Do not leave them alone. Check for a medical ID or bracelet. Some seizures finish themselves in 30 seconds to a minute, if it goes on longer, or another seems to happen immediately, call 911. Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy (SUDEP) is a real thing. This is not meant to scare you, just to keep you aware. Not all seizures require a trip to the ER in an ambulance, but if you are in any doubt, it is better to be safe than sorry.

Questions?

Feel free to reach out to me with any questions about epilepsy, medications I have tried, Gamma Knife, VNS, or anything else! shelbylthompson@gmail.com. Thanks for reading - knowledge is power.

The Hamlet Complex

In which I have rewritten Shakespeare's To be or not to be monologue after reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt followed by The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem, which both star a motherless boy coming of age.

1 To read, or not to read - that is not the question:

2 Rather it is shall my eyes bleed over

3 The repetitive selling points of character and indignation,

4 Or have my mind find a better source of entertainment

5 and forget this bildungsroman? To cry, to howl -

6 evermore- and by cry, I mean I see no end

7 to these hapless dreamers, these boys with

8 no mothers to soothe them. I date enough in my

9 paperless life to seek them in inked dreams. To cry, to howl -

10 To howl and wish these away, it is slight;

11 For I survived my own coming of age. And through this rage,

12 what a woman I have become,

13 Humbled by my misuse of mania. I still hold on

14 to the right that I deserve more than this.

15 To be a woman who can meet a man who can bear me,

16 Should I choose to bear another man of our own,

17 Who in time may grow into his own right to oppress me,

18 And hate himself for doing so? The duality of existence,

19 Of existential crisis, of the right to be on his own,

20 But still need me; and wonder if I am worthy

21 of bringing him into this world? None other than this mother,

22 Who could find the strength to

23 Look for life in a place of unforeseen death.

24 The landscape of my womb carved from stone,

25 Where a seed may look to find purchase

26 to again remind me of past implantations.

27 Am I always to remember you lost?

28 Reframed in my mind like a child left behind,

29 But resolute in my need to move on,

30 To flip the page and read on,

31 To lose sight of scorn; myself reborn,

32 Knowing that I could have never brought this life

33 To life without all the countermoves I bore. I sigh,

34 And seek solitude from mankind, long overdue,
35 I close my eyes, and find the words: To be continued.

Hangnail

Its not regressing, it’s oppressing.

I’m no longer messing

Around with the sound of my voice in my ear.

Have I really forgotten everything I’ve learned?

All that I’ve yearned

To explore, deplore, find the corner where it tore

Find a way to piece it back?

It’s not for a lack of trying.

I’ve been on this journey before,

Understanding triggers-

Handling them gently, like daggers.

The grip is tight, and it matters,

For even as I fight, the plunge runs deep.

And there I am, lost in my keep,

Tied up, worn out, full of heart-doubt.

A sigh of sorts escapes me, a small plea

To return to the world, known.

In my struggle to understand the joy in demand,

I push aside the rage

And pay homage to shame.

I am so glad you came.

Forget blame,

I’m the only one here in what appears

To be the small pocket of my heart

That refuses to eject rejection.

Thoughts on Racism in the Wake of a Hate Crime

I am at a loss as how to comprehend the shooting on Wednesday at the Emmanuel AME church in Charleston, SC. Three black men and six black women are dead because a young, white man decided to target this race based on his understanding and hatred that black people “rape our women. And [are] taking over our country.”

Racism is not an inherent trait, but a learned one, as is White Supremacy. White Privilege, however, is something we, as white people, choose to understand as our basic right. It is not. As a white women, I clearly fall into a side of the spectrum of White Privilege. Because I am white, there are things I am able to receive and achieve easily. Because I am a woman, some of those things I must fight for, and work for, but they are still available to me more easily because I am white. This is not a point of pride, it is a fact.

I work hard to educate myself, to break down barriers in places that do not allow women to progress, and to gain respect for myself and others like me. What is clear to me now is that I must add to this list is a sense of deeper pride in making not only a difference for women in general, but also in trying to help shape the future of this country and its stance against racism.

It's sad to say, but in my 33 years, I've been given plenty of opportunities to become a racist. But I have chosen not to let those events shape my beliefs in equality for all, in my belief in One Love, or in my belief in voting for and electing a black president in my lifetime. I grew up in Chattanooga, TN; a city riff with cultural racism dating back to the displacement and massacre of Native Americans on the Trail of Tears, to our involvement in the Civil War. Yet, Chattanooga has seen enough political change to make that history dissipate by carefully holding onto the truth of it. Unlike other Southern cities, ours does not hide the truth, and understands that being a part of shameful past events does not define us for life.

Had I been raised by a different family in the same city, I might have learned a different kind of history lesson about those events. Luckily for me, most of my family is liberal, open-minded, and interested in equality. Sure, there are outliers who are not as involved in shaping the future into a less hateful place, but they themselves are not hateful people. They are indifferent to the actual struggle that is happening today because it does not affect them directly. It's hard to argue with people you love about things that seem so simple and true to you but do not to them. I still love them despite their decisions to stand aside and let the world happen. Even the ones that choose to believe Fox News. I still love them too.

Because of my family, and the people I surrounded myself with growing up, I was able to get a clear understanding of love. With this understanding, I could apply love to those around me who were different from me. There were underlying messages to this love, of course, because no Southerner can outlive the shame of our past entirely. Some of those in the south still instill bigotry, so I won't pretend that I wasn't also shown racism growing up.

Leaving Chattanooga to attend college in Asheville, NC, further opened my mind and heart to others who were different from me. I found my Tribe with people who come from all over the world, and the color of their skin never mattered. Yet, Asheville is a special place, and the whole town believes in One Love, so of course it was not hard to find a Tribe there. The bubble that exists in Asheville allows for more freedom to be who you are without the threat of violence or criminality, though I know it exists, even there. Hell, I kept my North Carolina license when I moved to Washington D.C. just so I could vote for Barack Obama in that state because I knew my vote would literally count more there.

Living in D.C. was a different story, and I became more aware of my ignorance of what was really happening in America outside of my so-far-pretty-lovely life. My five years there tested the truth about my open-mindedness by forcing me to face my own fears and racial understanding by meeting more people who, for all intent and purpose, were other-worldly to me until that point. By working in a corporation, I further understood that classicism is just as widely rampant in this country as racism, it just shields itself more carefully. A bi-product of White Privilege is forgetting about the struggles of immigrants in this country trying to work hard and make something of themselves until you are face to face with it. Another lesson I learned even more during my most recent months in New York City while trying to help a colleague get a work visa, and watching the immigration system in America fail for him.

New York City is its own beast. Opportunities for racism are on every street corner in this city, and even for someone like me who has an open heart, I have to fight off moments of doubt and fear when faced with circumstances that are new to me, but somehow familiar in my consciousness. Just as the shooter in Charleston said in so many words, we as white people are taught that black men are to be feared. Even though I was never explicitly told this growing up, it was still all around me. The southern white culture ensures that it stays a palpable fear in order to continue to hold back the promise of a better future for black people.

What haunts me the most, and what I work on the hardest not to let envelope me and my unconsciousness, is that it is this fear that continues to allow racism to survive. Part of my story involves something that happens to most women in this country. I was raped. By a black man. When I tell my rape story, I usually leave out his race, because it doesn't matter to me. It doesn't make what he did to me any less real or sad or more horrible. It is just an adjective that further reminds me of his face and brings me to tears. The reason I don't share this detail is because I refuse to allow it to take over my general understanding of other black men. I do not want to ever feel like I must be fearful when in the presence of a black man just because one black man in particular violated me. Because that is racist. Assuming that all black men are rapists of white women is exactly what led the shooter into the church. Allowing anyone to spread that assumption around is racist and a result of White Supremacy ideology.

I fight to forgive my rapist for many reasons because I do not ever want to be a part of a culture that holds on to hate. So I fight to forgive him because if I don't, I can fall victim to that hatred too. I fight to forgive him so that I can move on in my heart. I fight to forgive him because otherwise I cannot forgive myself for being afraid sometimes when I find myself alone with a black man.

This is how we must all work to change what is happening in this country. As Jon Stewart said, "Once again that we have to peer into the abyss of the depraved violence that we do to each other in the nexus of a just gaping racial wound that will not heal yet we pretend doesn't exist." If I, (even if I try not to), and we as Americans, continue to pretend that racism does not exist, and is not taught to us, then we will all walk around afraid of each other. And more innocent people will die at the hands of hatred instead of more people thriving in the hands of love. If equality for all were simple, we would have achieved it by now. I understand it is complicated, but we can at least start with the truth. We can change things if we are willing to do so. The best place to start is to let go of hate and fear, and try to find love and hope instead. For those are the things that have brought me this far in my life, and I can only keep trying to uphold them and look for ways to help others see them too.    

Sorry Not Sorry

Editor's Note: I started not to put this up because it didn't feel finished, but then clever girl Amy Schumer beat me to it, so here it is.  

As if we can't help ourselves, women say, "I'm sorry" so often, it's almost as if we reverted to our early 90's teenage selves when we suddenly started saying, "like" every other word. There isn't always a need to apologize for something we want or don't want, but it has become so engrained, that we do it all the time. Especially when under some kind of social normative pressure to be the cool girl-next-door who's literally down for anything - even DTF when we aren't really ready. I came upon this scenario recently, and although I never actually apologized, I agonized about it for a long time.

I decide not to apologize, you don't ask me too, but I still feel like I should.

I work hard not to say I'm sorry 

that I don't want to fuck you yet. 

I manage to hold it in, pressed tight 

(like my pussy) 

and feel it beat against me. 

I make no excuses; I just say, I'm not ready and leave it at that.

In my younger years I would have said something you might believe 

like, I'm on my period. 

But now I don't care about such things; 

and I've had lovers and boyfriends who don't either, 

so no point in lying now.

The truth is too harsh for such soft pillow talk.

Since I held my own on the apology field -

But still wanting to be affable - now I fight the silence

by working not to say thank you,

For understanding. 

My polite nature is so demanding.

Lust hangs in the air like a malcontent. 

Even when I know its my choice, 

I still feel so weak making it.

My aim to please self screams 

- since I don't put out, will you go black out?

I fight again not to apologize. 

I say "thank you" instead, but this time for a lovely evening,

because you deserve that, and so do I. 

On Being (and Having) a Cunt

499 days ago, I was raped. That's a real specific detail, I know. I couldn't remember the actual date until I looked it up on the calendar. I am a detail-oriented person, interested in important dates, and yet the day of my rape escaped me. Until I decided to define it and say it out loud. I confronted my rapist, I told the friend that introduced us about what happened. I told my girl friends, my doctor, the man I was seeing, even my Mom. Yet with all of that, somehow I still didn't want to add a date to it. That would mean I would have to remember it forever and think about it every year. I don't need a date for that memory, but I'm giving it one anyway.

Before I defined it, I had been casually referring to it as "sexual assault" instead of "rape" because it sounded nicer. To whom? I'm not sure. There is nothing nice about what happened to me on August 10, and I owe the man who raped me nothing. In fact I gave him plenty by not filing charges; by letting him make me feel like the rape was my fault; by beating myself up when faced with the repercussions of having unprotected (non-consensual) sex with a stranger. I don't owe those that I tell about it anything either. Softening the name I give it doesn't change the truth. And it doesn't change the way my body responds when I think about it.

Sometimes when I remember being raped I am full of sadness. Other times I am angry. Or numb. Then, some other times, I am turned on. Down to the last pulse. I get wet. I feel my heartbeat in between my legs. My mouth begins to water. I am distracted... And disgusted. My eyeballs scream at me, wanting to fill with tears, but can't seem to.

Maybe you can imagine my confusion when my vagina betrays me and reacts in a way that I can't control. As an epileptic, I know all about losing control of my body, but at the very least, I thought my vagina and I had an understanding. That we got each other after these 33 years together. But maybe not. Maybe she is more of a cunt than I gave her credit.

When I get turned on as a result of the memory of my rape, I try to make my mind think of other things - other men that turn me on for real. But I stop myself because I am afraid that I will then begin to associate these men with my rapist. And if that happens, and I am still sharing a bed with one of these men, than I am afraid I will lose interest, or worse, lose my orgasm. I refuse to lose that. Not like this. I never had an orgasm when I was raped (though I've heard that happens too), and I don't want to give that over to him now.

I wasn't prepared for this. That the tricky, blurred line between fantasy and reality doesn't stop with rape. I've heard of Rape Fantasies - two consenting partners acting out a rape - but that still feels controlled. I've joked about hate sex, and even written about the desire to have it with my ex, but this reality does not make me want to explore it anymore. The word hate is heavy and carries as much weight as rape. I am trying not to hold onto hate in all aspects of my life, including my rape, so I am redefining my fantasies along with my realities.

The rape has not removed my desire to explore sexuality, but it has changed the way I approach certain things about sex. I tread carefully around topics like, "you know you want to try it," and I search for the trust and freedom to tell the men I am sexually involved with about what happened so that they know that while some things are appropriate with other women, they are not okay with me. Not while this rape is so fresh. Not while it is so confusing. Not while I am still trying to understand why my vagina behaves in such a way outside the sheets. Not while I am still reclaiming control. Not while I am still trying.

Not That Kind of Girl: A Personal Essay of My Own

It seems almost too on the nose that Joan Jett bellows "Bad Reputation" just as I am contemplating whether I like or hate Lena Dunham's collection of personal essays, Not That Kind of Girl. She's only a few years younger than me, so some of the shit she goes through is all too real. Stories that literally happened to me too make for both easy and hard reading. Not to mention carefree references to 90's pop culture icons - such as Angela Chase or over-plucked eyebrows - and how they shaped our lives.  Or the way her writing sometimes feels like you're in on some inside joke makes it feel fun and relatable. The very New Yorkness of it all, even when she left for Oberlin (yeah, Liz Phair!), makes me feel so at home. Then there are times where she is so frank it's kinda gross. Other times, she's so awkward I cannot relate, and it seems almost staged. I'm not looking to pick her apart like the media has, or request she change the details of her life, or anything like that, because well, I'm not that kind of girl, but, maybe it's that I don't really like her.

That's OK, right?

As women in this generation, we are taught to fight for our right. To get a fair wage, to have a fair representation in congress, to control our bodies, to discuss rape openly, hell - even to party. We are also taught that not only are men the enemy, but by god, other women are too. We are jealous of other women's success, their bodies, their lives, anything really, and we end up cutting each other down for being too ambitious (cold), too fun (slutty), too pretty (bitch), too thin (ugly), too fat (ugly), and a slew of other double entendres shared with a resting bitch face for emphasis. Women are constantly talking about how we need to band together and stop fighting each other in an effort to fight the real enemy. And I agree.

In theory, I should love Lena. I should be all about some Girls on Sunday nights. I should take her irreverent point of view and celebrate it! Yeah, speak out for all of us Lena! But really? I kind of can't. I've got about 50 pages left of her book, and I can't wait for it to be over. Reading about her entitled, albeit awkward, upbringing isn't nearly as entertaining as reading about Sarah Silverman's. At least Sarah is self-aware, unlike Lena who I can't tell if she knows how bat shit she sounds. And there I go both comparing and destroying women! But seriously. I have a hard time taking this book of essays as anything I can learn from. Maybe that means I went about it all wrong. Stripping off the need for meaning from her book allows me a little more space to just try and enjoy it. I still might not when I reach the end, but I don't think I have to like Lena to appreciate what she is doing for comedy, for women, and even for me. Reminding me that being in a tribe of women who are trying to make a difference in this world is worth cultivating.

Being in this tribe is where I am supposed to be. I like being a girl. A woman. And I've worked hard to get over myself to be able to enjoy it. It's kind of like being in an Al Anon meeting and hearing, "We aren’t perfect. The welcome we give you may not show the warmth we have in our hearts for you. After a while, you’ll discover that though you may not like all of us, you’ll love us in a very special way—the same way we already love you."

So, I guess I love you Lena, in your own special way. I just don't like your book all that much.

Robin Williams Stories

Yet again the A.V. Club has inspired me with their "What's your Robin Williams Story?" post. Mine is pretty funny, actually, though at the time, pretty horrifying. I was 10, and sleeping over at my friend Florence Kizza's house for a pretty innocent 6th grade version of a New Year's Eve party. Along with some other girls, we were cutting up old newspapers and magazines as confetti to throw around the room at midnight and watching Disney's Aladdin (for about the hundredth time). "Prince Ali" came on, and I immediately got up to dance, forgetting all about the clipped paper all over the floor. As I shimmied my way around, I slipped and fell face-first into the arm of couch, squishing my braces into my lip. The laughing stopped when we realized that one of the braces was stuck and needed medical attention. It's important to note that the Kizzas are from Kenya, and while they spoke conversational English, they were in no way able to convey my needs to the doctors at the hospital, nor were they legally able to do so without my parents consent. Mind you this was '92, so it wasn't as easy to get in touch with people back then, and my parents were at their own New Years Eve party, so we could not find them to give consent. Mrs. Kizza, Flo's older sister, and my friend Carrie sat at the ER for what feels like forever, all the while Carrie offering painful comic relief (every time she made me laugh it hurt). Finally, a kindly doctor took pity on our situation and agreed to dislodge the brace from my upper lip. Without Carrie stepping in as the role of comic, I might have panicked, so I forever link Aladdin, Robin Williams, New Year's Eve and Carrie in my mind. Oh, that and how having braces was truly horrifying. RIP Robin.  

Tougher Than the Rest

It started before the year even took hold. On New Year's Eve day, I found out that my tests came back positive for Chlamydia. I suspected it might as a result of the sexual assault I suffered in August. After hanging up the phone and confronting my boyfriend in the shower to share the results, (and fleetingly holding on to the thought that maybe he had given it to me), I resolved that I would never really know how I got it, but there it was. I thought back to the other men I had slept with since August, and awkwardly called each of them to both wish them a Happy New Year and to let them know they needed to get tested, even if we used a condom. Then I cried. I entered January 2014 determined to succeed in a self-assigned month of sobriety.

Six days later my friend Katy's mother died of complications related to MS. My best friend Sarah's mom died of the same 11 years ago. I went home for the funeral, and saw a lot of old friends, some doing better than others. Three weeks later, my friend Molly died, and again I found myself in my hometown trying to make sense of another loss. I stayed sober until the night of her funeral, almost all of January behind me.

Come February, I was drinking again, and unable to control my emotions. I had no idea how to handle what the year decided to throw at me in just over 30 days. I lashed out at my boyfriend, I ignored my professional obligations, and I cried constantly. I went home again in March, this time for a wedding and my dad's 60th birthday celebration. A better occasion to be sure, but being home again brought so much to the surface that I still wasn't ready to face. Immediately after that trip, I spent a week in Costa Rica trying to understand all that I had been through. I spent each day with close friends on the beach, doing yoga every morning, learning to surf, eating well, journaling, and trying to rededicate myself to myself. I came back renewed and ready to change my perspective. Turns out it's not that easy. A few weeks later I broke up with my boyfriend because I knew I didn't love him and I never would. He didn't take it well. Still being emotionally exhausted, his behavior pushed me into a weary and often hateful place.  

April brought on taxes, as usual, equally as tedious. I don't remember if May had flowers or not. As a cure for boredom, I started seeing an old flame again and remembered why it didn't work out the first time immediately, but continued to date him anyway. In June, I visited my parents in Philadelphia and saw how terribly my dad's alcoholism had progressed, and how it made my mom feel. I heard stories about the effects of mood enhancers and alcohol; about drunken nights that ended in tears and broken ribs. About how concern turned to anger and crept quickly to feed off my mother's inability to be around this anymore, and my dad's inability to control it. I went to Puerto Rico not long after and tried again to ignore the creeping madness my life had become.

Just before the Fourth of July, I broke my arm and learned just how stupid and clumsy I can be in the middle of the day. And just how little my boyfriend cared about my general well-being. I'm still suffering as a result of that. I am drowning in debt, and my spirit is want to wonder down a dark path. I can't say I blame the guy I was seeing from wanting to flee, and I am actually thankful he did, his drinking only further fueled my own. In truth, I am in no condition to date right now. I went home again at the end of July - for another wedding - and lay witness to my mother's new-found hatred. Maybe 'hate' is too strong a word as she still loves my dad, but she most definitely does not like him right now, and I cannot blame her for that. She's been putting up with an alcoholic for nearly 45 years. She blames herself for enabling him, for being codependent, maybe even for staying all these years as she watched it get worse. Deep down I think she knows he would die without her. Who knows exactly, but she finally had the courage to tell him that he is ruining their marriage. He says he'll try. So far, he's failed at even that.

It is now August and I am attending my first Al-Anon meeting tonight. My mom went to one last week. I need to know how to talk to my dad about what he's doing to us, to himself, and I don't know how to do that without making him angry, or worse. He's been there before too. I'm not sure what I will get out of it exactly, but I am not going alone and I am grateful for that.

At the end of this month, and I going to be in a wedding in Pasadena, for friends that I love dearly. In September, the day I turn 33, I am traveling to Copenhagen with two of my three coworkers for a work-sponsored trip. In October, my best friend Michael is going to marry his best friend, Michael. I'll be in that wedding too. I am trying so hard to look forward, not backward, to these events to come that are happy and full of hope, because some days, all I can think about is the heartache and shame that this year has brought so far and it makes me hateful. It makes me want to crawl in bed and hug a man who doesn't love me instead of a man that does and forget all the things I have to do. It makes me think of Molly, and I start to understand how this happened to her. How she must have woken up every morning hungover and hating herself. The best thing for a hangover is another drink, so there she went. You know the rest.

I don't want to become a person who lives in hate. I see what it's done to my father, to my friend, and to my heart. Since I turned 13, any wish I make whether it be on stars, on eyelashes, on birthday wishes, has always been for love. I can't help it, it's just something I always do. My friend Jenny calls me a hopeless romantic, and maybe she's right; but maybe it's more than a Jane-Austen-novel-kind-of-hopeless. Maybe it's because I've never given up the hope. And maybe that's what will save me after all.        

The Beauty of Molly Kate Pryor

Part of our senior year requirements and a tradition at my high school, Girls Preparatory School, is to prepare and deliver a speech to the entire student body, faculty, family and friends. Called "Chapel Talks," they are delivered during Chapel (assembly), and as many people who could pile on the stage next to you would as a team of support and love. You could include a performance if you wanted to, and lots of girls sang, danced, or acted with friends. Always terrifying, but fun, they usually dealt with understanding the impending graduation and changes about to happen in our lives, including leaving Chattanooga and each other. I found a book of Chapel Talks from my class, the Class of 1999, and decided to share Molly's. It is so special, and unfortunately, so timely, as we are again preparing to lose each other. As I said in my last post, Molly Kate Pryor is gravely ill. She lost sight of her beauty and spirit and if she dies, I am going to miss her everyday for the rest of my life. I can't dance as you do, Molly, but I can offer all my love to you, and remember you for all the beauty you help me possess. 

Molly Pryor’s Chapel Talk, GPS 11/13/98

I’d like to dedicate this talk to my parents who have sacrificed a lot so that I could stand here today.

Sometimes when you look at something just right you see the true nature of it. Like standing on roof tops, looking out into the city and realizing that you and the people around you have meshed into one amazing unit or when you are driving around with the windows down, sun-kissed and smiling, and you realize how beautiful your “gang” is. It’s a fleeting moment and you never want to forget the light in which you now see things. In these things I realize the innate beauty people possess. The beauty of the people who surround me every day amazes me. Their beauty is separate from all the outside influences. I can see her beauty in the way she dances, her’s in her writing, her’s in her art, but mostly I find it in the simple gestures of their faces that show a glimpse of the pure indescribable emotion beneath the surface of their mind and heart. Holding onto this vision of beauty is never easy. One day it is the most obvious thing that confronts my eyes, but sometimes the routine of everyday fools me into thinking I don’t care about the beauty that surrounds me. Sometimes every action seems fake, and I forget which part is the real part. I cannot delineate between the everyday outward appearance and the beauty I know is there within. They cannot see their beauty and sometimes I can’t see it either. I have to be reminded and watch from a separate perspective to see all that is there. So much of the beauty around us goes unappreciated. My gratitude to the people around me will never be enough to truly do them justice for all they do. Be sure that the people that you love know how much you love them and don’t let yourself forget it either. The time is coming when you will be separated from all of this. Don’t take it for granted. My separation from the people I love grows closer everyday and it’s hard for me to think about life separate from these people. But I know I can leave and they can leave and we can both always come back. They are my sanctuary and my rest. And for all of this I would like to dance as an offering to You. I Love You…

Old Familiar Friend

It's January 25, and I'm 24 days into a sober month. The only alcohol I've had in the last 24 days was a small shot of a Greek liqueur at my friend Katy Mena's mother's funeral. We all toasted to Vicky to help ease her passing into the next world. I don't regret it, and I don't think it counts as cheating.

It's been hard. Harder than I ever imagined it would be. I didn't realize how much I rely on a glass of wine or a beer at the end of long day to help me wind down. Or a whiskey on the rocks to help me have a better time when I'm out with my friends. Or several more to stumble home and have sloppy sex with my boyfriend. It's not like I was wasted all the time, but it started to feel like too much. Like I couldn't just go a night without having a drink, or two maybe, to relax. There is always a happy hour somewhere in New York, and I am usually always available for boozy brunch. No better way to chase a hangover than to wash it out with a Bloody Mary and bottomless Mimosas.

It started as just a casual statement to myself. I think I want to quit drinking for the entire month of January. Then I said it aloud to some people and they said, I think I like that idea. Then more friends agreed, and here we are, almost to the end. There are days that I've wanted to get completely shitfaced in some weird effort to make up for lost time. Yet, the only time I lost is when I was shitfaced. Or hungover. Or in the middle of a seizure the next day because I abused my brain chemistry by drowning it in alcohol.

For years I have watched my Dad struggle to be what people jokingly refer to as a "functional alcoholic," and I try not to let this need overtake me like it has him. Or worse, like it is doing to my friend Molly right now. My Dad is almost 60, and while it scares me to think that he may one day drink himself to death, Molly is already there. She is 33 years-old, and may not make it through the night. As her friend, I have seen her turn from the smartest, loving and loyal woman I know to a shell of herself - a hard-hearted, self-destructive, deceiving person that I am scared of. She has become such a different person that I feared losing her friendship forever if I confronted her about her alcoholism. So I didn't. I let my need for Molly to be alright, and the need to justify my own desire to continue on my own path without judgment, stop me from telling her that I was worried about her. That I thought she needed help. That I didn't want her to die.

It maybe too late now to tell her those things. She is in the ICU on a ventilator struggling to keep her organs working. Her liver failed, and now her kidneys are failing too. She is swollen and yellow, and now I believe she is the one who is scared. I've been talking to a lot of our friends over the last two days, and every conversation we have ends with, "I love you." We are all trying to hope for the best, but I'm not sure what the best is anymore.

I am heartbroken standing in this middle ground, and trying to sort through the twisted clarity my break from alcohol has brought. It has called attention to my need, even in this most inappropriate time and place, to want to drink. I want to drink just to take the edge off feeling so helpless and sad. I want to drink so that the reality of Molly's situation is less, well, real. I want to drink so that I won't be as frustrated with my boyfriend for trying to be helpful. I want to drink just because I do.

I find these confrontations confusing. I hope that I am a person who can control myself, but when it comes to alcohol, maybe it is not that simple. What will it be like when I get back to my normal routine and "allow" myself to drink again? Is it even a wise choice to ever go back? I am struggling to find solace in my old familiar friendly state of mind, and I hope to keep that wary understanding for as long as I can. I don't want to ever depend on alcohol to make me feel like a better version of myself. I want to see drinking as a fun thing I want to do, not a fun thing I have to do.

For now, I'm going to be grateful that I am able to stop for the month of January; I'm going to continue to understand my relationship with alcohol; and I'm going to pray for my friend.

Bloodletting

Somewhere in between
the choices I made and those made for me,
I find myself unclean.
Keep your distance, only whisper;
the darkness here tends to fester.  
I will bite my thumb at you, sir.
And you can claim no offense, sir,
but I know this cur.

This bitch will come unchained,
un-maimed, again unclaimed,
searching for blame. It's not the same.
Fists tight, I aim to fight.
To wake a dragon that never
sleeps leaves no room for clever endeavors.
When death escapes the cave
all is left to the depraved.

Once brave, now I crave
what was my innocence,
misguided sense, teeth clinched.
Unsure of the next tense, I close my eyes and aim
to claim whatever I can do to overcome this.
I am ashamed and would be remiss
not to admit:
I'd sell everything I own to forget.

For Shelby

A Poem by Katie Massari

little prowler of the night
grumble dancer, 
firefly. 
protector of those that shouldn't 
or might
and definitely those that stupid why. 

you stride aloft the world 
so wide
yet, careful you,
to take the ninja stride.

no fear has she
bruce lee and Tarantino bound
because fear screams at cowards
and she's really not trying to make a sound. 

Pose / Counterpose

I pose for you trying to find my repose,
The act of stillness is exhausting.
I search for silence, but come up lost,
So I bury my mind in madness.

An ostrich buries its head too (but for clarity),
and I know only flamingos.
Forgetting to counterpose, I ache.   
On the days I remember, I still burn.

Looking to elevate my mood I review rooftops,
and recognize that they require ambition.
Today I am lacking, so I seek comfort in creatures
with lower expectations, (mostly because I do not understand them).

I try to touch you without touching you with no success.
Thumbing through my notebook for inspiration,
I instead stumble into a fall on accident.
You used to think I'm beautiful

(and probably still do).
It doesn't matter either way as I am not what you want.
I go back to pose and breathe - balance out of reach
(like your arms around me).

Like a tree I stand; my limbs, free, while
Rings rage internal.
Someday I will come to terms with birds
and accept pigeons among doves.

You Rape, I Plunder

I walk with Midnight - deep, dark, milky in its way.
Forward in mind, I declare, eyes closed.
What is there to see but the shadowy moon readying its defeat?
In my path lays the sun, and behold a pale horse.
There is no following here, and my patience runs thin.

I make bets on wingtips, though I cull rubber souls.
Freedom abounds but comes only in pairs, leaving me
alone in silence to collect my loss.
My skin rejects me with no apology, and I wish for new fingertips.
I bleed. I breathe. I beg. I burn.

I swim with the Samurai, solitude seeking.
There is no freewill only knowledge in this realm;
and it escapes me, like my dreams,
dragging behind infinity ad nauseam.
Drop the weight of it like hammers and try to wake again. Again.

I bathe in sweat, fretting the presence of more salt.
A fortress of tears holds hard but I refuse to be trapped here.
I ignore despair, and ask for clarity amongst the clouds.
Erase this from my landscape, I say, so that I may sleep soundly again.
And break open my heart to let go the wandering warrior.