Friday, May 16, 2014

My Dark Passenger: Pt 1

My first attempt at suicide was age 11. I carefully poured a small amount of poisonous chemical into a glass jar and packed it in my lunch container, and packed that into my backpack. Mid-afternoon, my favorite time of day, I took it into the girl’s bathroom and went into a stall by the high window and locked the door. I remember it was very quiet and well-lit in the bathroom. I felt very comfortable there. I stared at the black liquid in the jar for a long time, willing myself to drink it, thinking of all the good reasons to do it, but in the end I did not. I returned it to my backpack and went on with the day. No one knew a thing.

My second attempt was a year later, when I went to an apartment building in order to jump off the roof. I had left after lunch and never came back to school, just curled in a ball at the door of the roof in the cold thinking absolutely no thoughts at all. This is called a disassociative state. What was really weird was that I was a good student with high marks and no one called home to figure out what happened to me. No one asked me the following day. This is when I first discovered the power of putting on a good face to the world. For a girl this mask includes a big smile, for a boy it’s quiet consternation.

Often when someone asks me what I like, I think they are asking me what I can tolerate, and I can tolerate anything. So to save time, I say yes to whatever it is they are talking about, making a mental note to never see them again so I will not be pressed into whatever dumb idea they have cooked up, like organized sports or something. I have at times carefully thought about what I might actually like, what the right answer might actually be, but it never comes and if it does I always second guess it anyway. But there is no chance in hell that I would ever make the mistake of actually saying it out loud.

A psychologist once asked me if anyone played with me when I was a child. The answer is a quick and decisive no. No one ever played a board game, or computer game or even a game of cards with me. When my father left and then died I was a severe burden on my mother and she let everyone know it. I remember the looks of adults who were her “friends”. For the most part, they were people she had known in her childhood who had grown up to be drunks. If I accidentally spoke in their presence and belied an intelligence far beyond my years, they would cock their heads and stare like dogs listening to a high-pitched noise. I used to call this look, the “I am not the child they expected her to have” look. When I stared dead-eyed back at them, they would feel threatened and mock me. These are grown adults I am talking about. My mother would tolerate even the most vile behaviour from these animals. Then they all went went to rehab and dropped her as friend because you are not supposed to hang around your old friends after becoming sober. I guess the joke was on her.

When I was a child, any emotion I may have had was met with intense shaming by my parents and teachers. Very quickly, say by age 8, I developed a quiet stoicism that people would comment on. “Oh, she is so well-behaved”, they would say. With this stoicism came an unwillingness to be touched, and more intensely an unwillingness to eat. My mother says that I stopped eating the moment my father left, shortly after my first birthday. Up until that point, they laughingly called me “Miss. Piggy” because I was a good eater. I have absolutely no independent recollection of my father’s presence, save one, and trust me when I say psychologists have really pressed me on this. They say that the fat little baby missed her father so intensely that she stopped eating. I have no idea. I just know that I hated eating food. I hated the smell of food, I hated the taste of food, I hated how much my stomach hurt when I ate. And my stomach always, always hurt. But I never uttered a word about it because as you may remember, I am not that dumb. As a result, not eating was effortless for me, and not eating comes with an interesting side effect; it makes a person very skinny.

Being skinny is the single most important thing for white women of a certain demographic. With a big smile and a skinny body you can pretty much do anything. As long as that anything requires not speaking, not eating and not having emotions. Luckily, I didn’t have all three. I was the first little girl in my group to have a “boyfriend” call me on the phone. And it short order I learned the fourth thing you need; the ability to deal with intense jealousy. Given that I always wanted to kill myself, I found it really cruel and mystifying that a girl would go to the trouble of hating me. I used to think, Trust Me, Sister, I have cornered the market on hating me, you have nothing to add here; but that never stopped them. Because of their high-fat low-income diet, they developed breasts and hips very early. This led to adult-style conversations about maxipads and birth control by seventh graders. What they should have been talking about was their zits, because their skin was horrifying. To this day, I spend large amounts of money having my face professionally washed.

I was badly bullied by a few girls in elementary school, with the rest turning their backs on me. The teachers pretended it wasn’t happening even when I had blood and bruises. It was so bad that one girl tearfully requested my forgivenenss later in high school after she had found religion. I remember looking at her and saying No, I do not forgive you in my head while smiling very broadly with a “Yes” out loud. I think we even hugged. My skin still crawls at the memory. Couple my mother’s lack of boundaries with my father’s abandonment and you have the toxic ambient background noise to my formative years.

I felt then and I feel now that suicide is my "thing". It's like a hobby I perfected as a child and that I keep as a safety blanket today. Like the highest order of Zen masters, I contemplate my own death every day. Yet, were I dumb enough to say this out loud it would merely re-inforce the feeling of being misunderstood. I may or may not ever complete the act, but I am well within my rights to discuss it with myself. This is called, I am told, "suicidal ideation". Suicide is common and very under-reported. There is a suicide every 41 seconds globally, that's over 2,000 a day. Take a moment to think about that. As a sometime-suicidal person I have deeply thought about the following and concluded: I don't believe that all lives are worth living, or that all suffering is noble. Nor do I believe that people who commit suicide are cowards. Suicide in a healthy person is usually a waste, then again there are some for whom suicide is too good a death. You see, it's a grey area. What I want more than anything is to be allowed to feel suicidal, which I admit, is very strange and even a little ridiculous. Then again, clinical depression takes itself very seriously and has almost no sense of humour, which is why we will have to talk about it - behind its back - another time. Be Continued.

Friday, May 9, 2014

The Future: A Musical to Believe In

"Cheetah on my head! Cheetah on my head!"

Back when I was watching cartoons in the mid-eighties it was completely understood that Japan would rule the world by the time I was an adult. Kids in Kansas took Japanese in school so that they would be prepared for the New World Order. To a certain extent, Japanese art and commerce were already infecting us with shows like Astro Boy and the He-Man/ She-Ra / ThunderCats trifecta. I had an action figure with blue hair and a distant relation asked me vexingly if I would have blue hair too. I remember looking at her and being completely aware that she was old and that blue hair wasn’t a big deal at all, so much so that I have never gotten around to dyeing my hair blue. Hang on a minute… *makes hair appointment*

When I was a kid we were taught rudimentary computer programming skills like Turing and word processing. It’s hard to believe now, but just learning to type was a whole class. Of course, Russian kids were building program systems and their even their own games. When guys took games like Doom off “shareware” and uploaded it during the class, it should have been clear that we would be the computer programmers of the future, but all I can remember are blue-haired kindergarten teachers warning us about the coming future computer apocalypse. They were certain they were right because their own stupid children, having followed in their parents footsteps, were having trouble getting jobs in the closed house that is Teacher’s College and being “re-trained” to use Excel. Excel has upwards of 100,000 commands. If I could go back in time, I would advise them not to start there.

Speaking of which, when I was a kid, we were warned that there would not be any jobs for people my age because the Boomers would all have them and never, ever let go.

When I was a kid, I thought I would have a hover-car by now. Also, quicksand. I would have expected to be trapped at least once by quicksand by now.

I was lucky enough to go to Africa when I was 18. While there, I saw lions and antelope and gazelles, also elephants, monkeys and hippos in a river. Out of all the animals I just listed, would you believe that hippos are the most dangerous to man? Then I went to a restaurant called the Carnivore Restaurant and ate all of these animals, as well as crocodiles. I mostly drank my weight in alcohol whilst in Kenya, which is odd given it’s a strictly devout muslim country. Then I went out in the parking lot and visited with the safari vehicle drivers who were smoking what smelled like marijuana. They told me that women were not “strong enough” to drive mini-vans. I asked them if they had ever heard of a “soccer mom”, but they hadn’t. They asked me when I was getting married and when I said that university was next on the To-Do List they cocked their heads like dogs listening to a high-pitched whistle. Later in life I went to a clothing optional resort in Cancun with my mother (as one does) and a man tried to impress me with his travels. He started saying “There is a restaurant in Kenya called the Carnivore-”. “I’ve been there” I stated shortly.

Friday, May 2, 2014

On Concious Uncoupling

Earlier this month Gwyneth Paltrow announced her divorce from her husband, but she cleverly didn’t call it that. She gave it a name that will live in our hearts either sincerely or as a joke forever, she called it “Concious Uncoupling”. Gwyneth is the Hitler of Home Economists. She can’t do anything normally without it becoming a propaganda machine. She is worse than Martha Stew and that woman went to actual prison. I want to point out a couple (get it?) of flaws is Gwyneth’s statement. First, she takes a moment to advise her fans and by doing so she acknowledges that we deserve an explanation. Celebrities may get to keep marriages a secret, but that won’t work for divorces. Fans are rabid for this kind of info and she breaks it down quick and simple, by controlling the conversation. Now it’s something she wants to talk about, because it’s something she fucking invented. I think we lost the feminism thingie when we as women stopped taking our marriages seriously. Let me back up a step. First. I think it’s really really hard to be married whilst famous. I think it’s hard to be good-looking and tied to one person in general. I think that is compounded by fame and all the people that want to fuck you to feel famous themselves.

But I think you are dumb to get married at all if all you are going to do is spend time apart. That is the first problem. If you want to be married, you have to change everything about your life as needed to stay in constant contact with that person. This is essential or you grow apart. You can’t be swanning around the world without each other if you intend to stay connected. Let’s call that Concious Togetherness (TM) and let’s pretend I invented it. In her quick blurb, Gwyneth tells us that they have spent a year “both together and apart” trying to work it out. What’s going unsaid is that both probably had other people to date during this "difficult" year. Let me underscore how difficult it is to be faithful to your husband when you are a fucking someone else.

Back to Gwnnie’s announcement, almost immediately the tone shifts and we find ourselves being spoken to by an erstwhile psychotherapist (I’m guessing) who wants to tell us that marriage is outdated anyway because we live so long now that anyone can get bored with anyone. I bet Medical School took the whole day for him. And you want to go down like that, Gwyneth? Making up reasons why you couldn’t just stay married. Happiness is overrated and I’m not sure either one of you has a right to declare that you aren’t happy until you compare it to something in the real world.

Her real problem is that we live in a society that forces us to specialize in everything; forget the Age of Information, we live in the Age of the Orgiastic Extreme. There used to be a place for those who pursued a broad range of information and we called that person "well-rounded". How quaint it sounds now. Instead, every sport has an "extreme" component. Frisbee is now ridiculously called Ultimate Frisbee. Bungee Jumping is something couples do on first dates. You can't just ski down the hill, you have to take the double black diamonds intended for "Experts" only. Our collective narcissism is reaching a critical mass hysteria. We are constantly enraged because we are defined so narrowly. That narrowness sharpens to a point creating aggression. Like the bones of the models we rever, these sharp edges define our youth. It's not fat we hate, it the softness. There is no room for vulnerability when a boundary-less communication reigns. We are drowning in a fatal deluge of words and not really saying anything. The information we share is isolated to the flesh. How we look, what we wear, what we eat or – more importantly – don’t eat, is the only currency. People used to be genuinely concerned with the state of their souls. How naive that sounds now.

I want sadness over divorce to return. I don't want it to be a celebration. I don't want the divorce party first. Have one, just not right away. I'm positive your kids don't want it either. I want you to be broken open by this, I want you to shed a single tear on live TV. I want you to dye your black. Then shave it off. I want you to keen in the streets and wear mourning clothes and stay celibate for a year. I want you to tell me that you will never love again, that he was the only man for you, that no one will ever love him like you do. I want you to prove to me that it actually mattered.

Oh, wait. Wait a minute. He’s admitting it was all his fault? That’s like Hollywood code for “She found me fucking some chick on the kitchen counter”. The same counter he fucked you on? Where you conceived your children and subsequently created a small but tasteful shrine and altar to worship, well, the miniature versions of yourselves? Then nevermind, honey, you can do better. I will order the bouncy castle.