time cast its spell on you
Please hurry leave me, i can’t breathe
Sittin’ in your sweatshirt, cryin’ in the backseat
I dream of you almost every night
Always real, always right, always alright
If you ever change your mind
For you i’d bleed myself dry
You’re beautiful and i’m insane
But the fighter still remains
Delete the kisses at the end
Then i’ll set fire to our bed
I'll love you till my breathing stops
Always an angel, never a god
but you won't forget me
the full soundtrack
I could tell you the story of Lazuli by Beach House, and how it saved my life at 19, but I fear that would be cheating. I’ve written it down before, did a speech on it in my communications class, and told it to my therapist.
I could tell you the story of Wonder by Natalie Merchant, how it played on the radio in the hospital parking lot the day before my birth. My parents wanted my gender to be a surprise, but my mom knew when she heard that song that 27 hours later she would have a baby girl.
I could tell you the story of Round Here by Counting Crows, how Prozac worsened my depression when I was 15, how my mom drove me to school, how we sang that one line loudly, how she told me that even if I didn’t believe I could survive one more day, she would believe for me.
I could tell you the story of Maggie May by Rod Stewart, how I listened to it on the way to church, how Thursdays became my favorite day of the week and how Classic Vinyl became my favorite station, how it was Springtime, how I was 17 and happy.
I could tell you the story of Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton, how I baked cookies in my big beautiful kitchen in my childhood home, how I listened to the song while I did the dishes and felt at peace for the first time in years.
I could tell you the story of The House That Built Me by Miranda Lambert, how I walked through the neighborhood, past my elementary school and the swimming pool with my hand covering my mouth to hold in my sobs, how I listened to it the day I drove down 21 South, knowing I’d never come back and cook in that kitchen again.
I could tell you the story of Mother by Pink Floyd, how I sat outside the restaurant under the string lights hanging in the trees, listening to a man play a cover of a song I’d never heard before, how I felt okay in my new home state for the first time after three years of constant grief.
But instead I’ll tell you about Take Me Home, Country Roads, how it’s the only John Denver song that doesn’t make me cry, how they played it over the speakers at the end of the Hootie & The Blowfish concert where I wore my mom’s old t-shirt, how everyone walked together to the parking lot and sang a full rendition, how we all continued after we were too far away to hear the song over the speaker. How it was my favorite song of the night.
undead
it takes over a year to decompose myself. my gorgeous decay is interrupted and, when pulled out from the ground by a fleshy hand, i arise groaning. i climb six feet towards the heavens, leaving sparse footprints and claw marks on my dirt path upwards. when i return to green grass and breathing people, i am handed a bouquet. is this an apology? are you guilty? is it gratitude? a thank you? the rose thorns do not puncture the skin on my palms. i do not bleed anymore. the red petals fall through my bony fingers. he loves me not.
what is stoicism?
I didn't know much about Stoicism before taking on this challenge. I'll admit, I had a heavy bias against it because a person who used to be close to me, (who I now despise) used to be obsessed with Marcus Aurelius (specifically the Meditations).
After reading about the philosophy of Stoicism, I have mixed feelings about it. For the most part, I don't like it because it seems too dispassionate and individualistic to me. I do have a few things that I like about it and would agree with though, so I'll start with the positives.
On a small scale, I like the idea of worrying only about what you can control. When I was in the mental hospital, we talked about "radical acceptance" which is the idea that what has happened in the past has already happened and there is nothing you can do to change it, so you will have to accept it one way or another. Therefore, it's better for you and others to not allow yourself to get overwhelmed with anxiety or anger. An example they used was road rage - if you're in traffic and you're going to be late, you can't choose to leave earlier or force the cars to get off the road. There's no sense in getting angry about it.
I also like the anti-materialist/anti-consumerist attitude. I can talk about how much I hate consumerism all day, but I won't. I think this is a point that especially applies to today's world because, especially with advertisements, we are constantly bombarded with the idea that we need more "stuff" to make us happy, when I wholeheartedly believe that it's completely the opposite. I believe that most people want to create, to do, to invent, to interact, rather than to simply consume and purchase. And we would be so much better off if we could break out of the mindset that we are meant to buy, buy, buy.
On the other hand, I find that stoicism encourages an “it is what it is” mindset, which is my second least favorite phrase behind “life’s not fair”. To the second one, I would say: "but it should be". And to the first I would say: "shouldn't we strive for a better future?" Stoicism seems to be very individualistic, and doesn't just put the responsibility on the individual but robs the individual of the idea of collective power. The mindset of only being upset about what is within your control is resigning yourself to “what it is”. We do have some control over our external environment and we can convince others to join us in creating change. We are not passive or reactive actors in our own lives.
Moreover, I think that we should be angry sometimes. I think that the only way to fighting against injustice is to be fed up with systems and the actions of others. The only way that we can create change is by getting upset and banding together to change things. Again, there is power in numbers.
Caveat: I think that the modern conception of Stoicism is kind of different from the ancient one, and so some of what I'm speaking about isn't completely rooted in ancient philosophy but rather the teachings "self-help gurus". A lot of them seem to preach about self-discipline which I hate. For one thing, some people in this group, have an attitude that your lack of discipline is the reason that your life is subpar. If you woke up at 5 AM everyday, did 10 pushups, put money into your 401k, and were more grateful for everything around you, then you would be happy. One, this neglects to consider the socio-economic conditions that a lot of people live under, as well as disabilities and mental illnesses. In all of these cases, people can't do certain things that "self-discipline" requires due to lack of resources or lack of energy, etc. It's also unproductive at best and obnoxious at worst to tell people to be grateful for what they have (it often implies "because someone else has it worse" or "because it could be ripped away from you"). That just makes people feel guilty and anxious.
Additionally, the happiest I've ever been was when I was completely carefree but completely undisciplined. I skipped school, went out to parties and drank underage, I slacked off, I spent all the money I made instead of saving it and I'm happy that I had fun despite being sad and poor (and still undisciplined) now.
Most of all, I'd rather be passionate than content. I want to have security and peace of mind, but I want to grieve when people die, I want to feel longing for someone I have a crush on, I want to feel pissed off when I see injustices, I want to feel passion, despite how “irrational” it is. I hate stories with happy endings, I love tragic and bittersweet books, I love sad songs, and I write best when I am upset. I'd rather feel something so intense that it makes me scream and cry than feel something so subtle that it makes me feel numb.
the train trip that transcends time
I didn’t used to believe in past lives. Until I boarded a train in Vienna. There was a man a few rows ahead who looked familiar but I couldn’t put a name to his face. I considered the possibility that he looked like a childhood friend or a famous celebrity, but I couldn’t come up with anyone who looked quite like him. Sometimes I dream about people I’ve never seen - scientists swear it’s impossible, but my dad insists it happens to him, too, and he often meets people later in life that he’s seen in his dreams. When we locked eyes, something felt different. I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I recalled at that moment our story.
Coincidentally, it began on a train, the Orient Express, going from Paris to Budapest. I spent my inheritance on a ticket, which I came to regret come time to retire. We were in the dining car, and I tripped right next to his table. I have never been good at walking in heels. I had borrowed that pair from a friend and they were about half a size too big, making my balance even worse.
I knew that not everyone was staring at me, but the hush that fell over the room was significant enough to make me feel humiliated. I was not raised in the upper class - the inheritance came to me through technicality. I’d never met that side of my family. It was obvious that I didn’t belong here. I was about to regret my decision to purchase a ticket when the man next to me reached out his hand to help me stand up.
The first thing I noticed about him was the way that his brown eyes softened when I met his gaze. The second was that he was sitting alone.
“Yes, I’m traveling solo,” he said, knowing I was thinking of a way to broach the question.
“Why is that?”
“There wasn’t anyone to take with me.”
“I can relate.”
“You’re here alone?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
I realized that I was in the way of a waiter who was doing a much better job balancing a tray of plates than I was at balancing on my own two feet. I made the split-second decision to sit across from the man who I came to know as “William”, sometimes just “Will”.
We talked until the dining car closed when we were politely asked to leave, though I could see behind the waiter’s eyes that he did not like me.
“Would it be inappropriate to ask you if you’d like to come back to my room?” William asked. “And I’m not suggesting anything like that.”
“It might be, but I’d say yes if you did ask me.”
“Okay, then: will you come with me to my room?”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
I came to find that he had a nicer room than I did, but there was no reason to be jealous because I slept there too for the remaining days of my trip. William opened the door and immediately removed his suit jacket, tie, and shoes, and I started to consider the fact that he might’ve been propositioning me after all. I lingered by the door, trying to decide if “it’s vacation” or “I paid a lot for this trip, so I should get my money’s worth” was enough of an excuse to sleep with him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he noticed I hadn’t spoken.
“I’m still trying to decide if I should sleep with you or not.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No, but I think you should take your shoes off because you look like you’re about to fall over and I’m pretty sure you only had one glass of wine.”
“Okay.” I placed my shoes next to his and I heard the distinct sound of his body flopping back onto the mattress.
I gathered a lot from the way he smiled when he was sprawled out on the bed like his long day of mingling in the bar car exhausted him to the extent a day spent in combat would.
I didn’t ask him if I could take off my earrings, but I did before I mirrored the way he fell backwards into bed. He later told me he liked how I was “unapologetically myself”. In reality, I was ready to apologize for any misstep I took, but he happened to be easy to please on account of the fact that we were very much alike.
We were late for breakfast the next morning and I was absolutely positive that everyone in the dining car assumed it was because we were having sex the night before - I overheard a snippet of a conversation and I wanted to go over and correct the record, but William said I should enjoy my fifteen minutes of fame. Most people are unremarkable, and that I must be remarkable since they were making remarks about me.
The truth was that we spent the night playing Gin Rummy with a pack of cards he borrowed from an old friend and “forgot to give back”. I insisted on playing until I won, but I didn’t win until well after midnight.
We were in as much of a committed relationship as two strangers on a train could be by that night, which was when I stopped by my room to grab my toothbrush before I headed back to his. We didn’t sleep together, but we did sleep next to each other. It was quite possible that he caught a glimpse of me naked when I changed into one of the complimentary robes after I spilled champagne on my shirt - actually, he made me laugh so hard it came out my nose. He promised not to peek, but if I were him I would have, so I couldn’t blame him either way.
Since the other passengers made their assumptions and judgments about us, we decided to make some about them, making up rumors about the rich folks around us as they walked through the bar car. Most of them were unbelievable and some of them were crude, but all of them were hilarious.
I remember the moment I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. We were in his bed and he started singing this song he had stuck in his head, but he could only remember the chorus. He gave me the tune of the verses and we worked on lyrics. He wrote them down on a napkin and kept them in his pocket. The pen was mine, but he asked if he could keep it. I had no particular attachment to the pen, so I let him have it.
It was a few hours later that I asked him why he wanted it. “Why did you ask for my pen? It’s nothing special.”
“Not to you, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s special to me because it’s yours.”
I wanted to tell him that he already had my heart and he could have my soul if he wanted it. But instead, I asked him for the deck of cards he had, and he gave them over without hesitation.
I’m not a writer like I was then, but I still carry a pen in my purse almost always. I take it out along with a receipt, so I can write him a message. I don’t address him by name because I don’t know what his is in this lifetime.
I don’t have the time or space to tell him everything I’m thinking either so I keep it short.
“Just so you know, I loved you. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”
When an attendant comes by with the drink I ordered, I hand him the note and beg him to discreetly deliver it. For whatever reason - maybe it’s the desperation he sees in my eyes - he places it between two napkins and hands them to the man I knew as "Will".
I get off the train before he does. When I pass by his seat, he mouths “I love you too”.
light me on fire one last time
when it's cold, let me warm you
feed my letters to the flames
make me eat my words
"I'll love you forever,
I'll never leave you"
let me go, but before i leave,
light me on fire one last time
dispassionately,
let me cook you dinner
let me light the candles on the table
let me leave before you pour the wine
the blood is mine,
kiss me, kill me,
light me on fire one last time
release me
with eyes bloodshot and brilliant
sharpen your kitchen knives
eat me, cremate me,
light me on fire one last time
my smile is warm, my cheeks are red
blushing, burning in the firelight
red, blood on the ledger
mistakes fade into ash,
into the clean black of night
all that's left is:
light me on fire one last time
my first and worst love
This story is a tragedy. I’ve told it a million times. In fact, it’s most of my stories, but I’ve left out much of it. I’ll tell you more and more each time, I swear. Here’s the most I can give you today:
He was my first love. It all began when I was 18 and he was 17. We were almost to the end of our senior year of high school. March 24th was our first date. I had never been romanced before. I’d had crushes, been on dates, been kissed, been felt up in someone’s basement by a guy I hated. But, I’d never felt something like I had that night. I was wearing ripped jeans, a black tank top, a flannel shirt, my black converse, and my dad’s old jacket. I still have the last two items. The shoelaces are frayed and the jacket’s pockets are ripped, though. We had pizza and ice cream, and talked about our future plans - college, jobs, moving away from home.
I had already committed to school, but he was waiting on a letter from his top choice. He wanted to be a theater major. I only went to one school play - the children’s play he was in - because I hate plays (for the most part). He’d actually told me not to go to it, but I did anyway, and I think I still have the ticket stub and the playbill with a kiss mark over his name. I wore pink lipstick that day.
He got his degree in computer science but works in email marketing (I despise advertising of all kinds, but not because of him). But, before all that he moved back to Italy, and we were long distance for a year. It was awful, minus when he visited me at Christmas. I drove to the airport to see him. It was raining and I listened to “Friday I’m in Love” by The Cure on the way home. I got distracted and took the wrong exit. I ended up on the toll road.
Our second date was at the mall. I wore yoga pants and I may have been hungover again. I know I was tired. I don’t drink anymore which makes this story funnier to me. When we were walking, I started singing along to the music they played over the intercom and he said to me, “you know every song”, which isn’t true, but I know a lot of the hits from the past 50 years. We sat on a couch in the Macy’s furniture section for hours. Long enough for someone who worked there to come up to us and comment on it. He said he’d already sold the couch and didn’t mind that we’d been there for so long, he just thought it was interesting. He said, “When you two get married, come back here, so I can sell you some furniture”, and we used to reference that all the time. We didn’t get married, not even engaged.
On our third date, we went on a walk at a park near my neighborhood. We ended up back at my house (not in that way, that comes later). He met my mom for the first time, and we went upstairs to “watch TV” aka makeout. We made our relationship official that day. I was wearing my favorite overalls that I still get compliments on to this day. I bought them specifically to wear on that date.
Our fourth date was prom. My dress was $450, and it was the most beautiful I had ever felt. I was not popular in high school, but he was relatively popular. I ended up getting compliments from people who had never spoken to me. We went back to my friend’s house for the afterparty. He drove my car there. I got a little bit drunk on shots of Ciroc and we spent the whole party alone in my friend’s bedroom (not like that, that comes later).
That happened for the first time in late June, but I won’t tell the story. It was unremarkable to be honest. We had our first fight around that time. We were driving home from another park. I think I was driving because that was something that I used to do. I stopped the argument by cranking up the music. We were listening to “Jack and Diane” by John Mellencamp, and I was singing along to it. He used to like my singing and my taste in music back then. I took him back to my house and my mom convinced him to stay for dinner. We were fighting about something stupid and she was the one who ended it, albeit unknowingly.
The worst fight we ever had was when I was 21 or 22. Flash forward from senior year of high school to senior year of college. He was an anti-vaxxer and I made fun of him for it. I can’t remember what I said, but it wasn’t that offensive. He started screaming at me. He screamed at me until I sobbed on the floor of my bedroom. I stopped trusting him that night. I remember my friend was in the other room, and he texted me asking if I was okay, and I said “yes”. The next day, when my boyfriend had gone home, my friend asked me about the fight again and I told him that I started it, which is kind of true, but he said, and I’ll never forget it, “I can’t imagine what [his girlfriend’s name] would have to do for me to yell at her like that”. They live together now and are a very happy couple, I’m still friends with them both.
The reason for the breakup was not all the fighting. In the end, he cheated on me. He admitted to it in August. I was 23 and he was 22. He told me it had happened while he was away in Italy while we were 18/19 and that he had just kissed a few girls, so I forgave him. I told him not to do it again and he promised he wouldn’t. I visited him in mid-September and was there until October 30th. He called me on the 31st to tell me he’d cheated on me twice while I was there.
I told him he was a coward for not telling me before. The thing that made me the most angry was that he chose to confess over the phone. I didn’t even get closure because he didn’t want to see me cry in person, he couldn’t do it when we were together because he couldn’t bear to see my face. He didn’t cry when he told me. That made me angry too.
He started dating someone else, but we called each other and fell asleep on the phone together many nights for the next few months. He started going to see a therapist and he got better to some extent, he started letting me talk and had more empathy towards me. He apologized and told me he’d repented (he’s a devout Catholic). I told him that meant he was forgiven by God, but not by me. (I love the song “God Will” by Lyle Lovett, and I think it’s fitting).
Regardless, we saw each other in person in January, and we went on a weekend getaway to Savannah to try to patch things up. It ended in him yelling at me in the airport when I had a panic attack. We haven’t seen each other in person since then. I wish I could say I had a better last memory with him, but I don’t.
We continued to try to patch things up for months, multiple times. We broke it off once and I started dating this girl that I really liked (she broke my heart too, but she was nicer about it). The ex-boyfriend and I almost got back together in June, but we fought over the phone about sexual assault statistics. He said men get falsely accused all the time and I disagreed. I asked him if he really believed me when I told him what had happened when I was 16 and he promised he’d never hurt me like that. He said yes, and I asked him if he’d believe that I’ve had so many friends who have similar stories and he said he wouldn’t necessarily believe them. I hung up and told him I couldn’t do it anymore.
I think back to all the times I took Klonopin before having sex, so “it’d be easier for me to get through it”, and I think it makes that argument make more sense.
Last Thanksgiving, 5 months post-breakup, we went around the table and talked about what we were most thankful for, and I said that I was most thankful that he wasn’t in my life anymore. The whole table - my whole family - clapped for me.
dum spiro, spero
i moved to south carolina
reluctantly, with nothing
but my degree and a few
prescription bottles
i told my psychiatrist
in august that i stopped
feeling real. my fingers
and toes went numb
sometimes they felt like
they were filled with TV static
the air was colder in virginia
i could feel it in my nostrils
every time i returned
the first breath felt like
waking up in a haze
sweaty sheets, after months
of an ongoing nightmare
sweet relief when you realize
you’re in your old bedroom
but every time i come back
to a place they want me
to call home. i stop feeling
real at all. the air is suffocating
and dum spero, spiro.
ergo, ego non iam spiro.
love and hate
I sift through newspaper clippings with her face, identical to mine, to find the note that was sent to my mother days before her disappearance. I went to the police, bloodied, and told them that I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized the phrase. "Love and hate are two sides of the same coin." And his voice, saying, “I love you.” Those three words were left unsaid until that moment. I spoke with a pocket knife. The police asked whose blood it was. I said, "Both, but it’s all mixed up. My father and I bleed the same color."