I’m sitting at a teahouse in Eugene listening to Mozart’s Requiem in my headphones… really loud. I’ve had trouble getting myself to write lately. Writing makes me feel so naked, I’m always afraid my underlying emotional volatility will spill out like a genie from a bottle, and I won’t be able to cram it back in again.
I have a separate peace with myself… I’ve figured out how to stay clean, but that’s it. Maybe I was naive to think that the same brain that forced me to shoot heroin for 11 years was a functioning brain in any sense of the word.
I’m not “better.” Will I ever be “better”? I am just BARELY able to keep the surface of myself from falling apart, keep up the facade that I am just like any other student going to class and sitting at cafes writing. The reality slips through every now and then, I say strange things in class and then kick myself later. I still can’t make eye contact. Talking to other humans is always an adventure… depending on the day, I might come across as a capricious eccentric or as a seriously disturbed basket case who can’t follow a simple conversation.
I remember 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 years ago, all the way up to January 2014, I prayed to a god I don’t believe in with the force of a million suns, that if I could just stop doing heroin, everything would be perfect, forever. Did I really believe everything would be easy after that? I think I had a hard enough time picturing a version of myself who was able to think about something other than heroin for longer than a few seconds.
You are shipwrecked in a stormy sea, thrown into the drink from your shattered hull, drowning in dark water. Suddenly you come to a tiny island and drag yourself coughing onto a rock. You kiss the ground and sob from joy. Then you look up and realize your tiny island has no fresh water and no source of food, and the ocean stretches out on all sides.
Life is change. That time I had an ego-melting mushroom trip in 2003, when I became the entire universe, I looked into the heart of everything that is, and saw the nature of reality. Exponentially increasing strangeness. That’s what I saw. I saw the infinite complexity of everything, laid out before me, and just when I would start to comprehend what it meant, it would jump up a dimension, get stranger still, strangeness squared, cubed… The strangeness is eating itself, is what I thought at the time, as I rolled around on the floor and bit Eva’s thigh so hard I drew blood. But that’s a story for another time.
I suppose things do improve, slowly. Remember when I wrote about my door last year? I think that was in my old blog, maybe? How relieving it is to have a door that locks, to have control over my own space, to have no one in my personal space who is touching me without my consent. I don’t stare at my door so much anymore. I still think about the door when I’m feeling extra panicky. The door tells me no one can hurt you here. Do I sound crazy enough yet?
Now I have more anger than fear. I imagine that every guy on the street is going to catcall me or try to grab me… even though that never really happened much in Eugene, it’s more of a big city thing. But I’ll see some guy on the street who is about to walk past me and imagine that he’s about to say something, and I involuntarily picture kicking him in the balls, scratching his eyes out, and this wave of rage flows over me just as I pass him… then he says nothing, walks past, and I try to take a deep breath and keep going. Not every guy is a scumbag, I try to tell myself.
There is this scene in Top of the Lake, maybe my favorite TV show, ever. It was a mini-series, six episodes. Directed by Jane Campion, who directed The Piano. Anyway. It’s a dream-nightmare of gorgeous, moody, blue-tinged cinematography. The main character, Robin, is played by a beautiful Elisabeth Moss. She’s a detective who comes back to her hometown and gets involved trying to find a missing girl in a town full of secrets. When she was 16, she was gang-raped, and one of the rapists is still around in the town. She has never dealt with the trauma, and being back in this town that time forgot, where misogyny is rampant, dredges up her memories.
One night Robin’s drinking at a bar and her rapist, Sarge, sidles up to her and tries to pick her up with a lame joke that serves as a metaphor for the whole story. He doesn’t recognize her as the girl he raped some 10 years earlier.
Random guy: Hey! – Do you know what the perfect murder weapon is?
Sarge: No, get fucked, that’s what I do.
Guy: Go on, you tell her then, Sarge.
Sarge: An icicle stalagmite. Ta-da! Cause after you stab them, it melts. It self-destructs. … I know you from somewhere, don’t I? You’re not a Sydney girl, hmm? Too classy for you to be a Sydney girl. I reckon it’s like a picnic races or something.
Robin: You don’t remember me, do you?
Sarge: Probably the royal easter show, I’m thinking.
Sarge: Yeah? Did we fuck or something? We fucking did, didn’t we?
Robin is trying to control herself but a millisecond after he suggests that maybe they had “fucked,” she calmly, in one fluid motion, smashes her wine glass against the bar, stabs him with the broken glass, and starts screaming:
You remember me now asshole? You remember me now, asshole? Do you remember me now? Do you remember me now you motherfucker? Fuck you, piece of fucking shit! Fuck you piece of fucking shit! Fucking remember me now? Do you fucking remember me you piece of shit?
…as her boyfriend drags her out of the bar and throws her in a puddle, and she falls into the water, sobbing.
The first time I saw that scene, I had the most intense emotional reaction to anything I’ve ever seen in a movie or TV or read in a book… the whole show was very emotional for me, but that scene reached into the darkest corner of my soul, where all my hate and anger had been hiding, and pulled it out to the surface in the span of a minute. The scene comes out of nowhere — most of the rest of the show has a slow-build feeling — and then suddenly there is this flash of pure cathartic rage. I wanted to BE her, I wanted to be stabbing that guy, I wanted to be stabbing him continuously for the rest of my life. None of the drugs I’ve done even come close to comparing with the rush I got from that scene.
I didn’t even realize I had that much rage in me before I saw that. I would complain to M. or whomoever was around, telling them stories about my sick, horrible escort clients or my abusive exboyfriends, sure, I had anger. But that scene sliced through any defenses I had left. I felt like I was the one who had been stabbed, but it felt fucking good.
For days, weeks, and months after I watched it, I thought about that scene every single day, many many times a day. I would play through it in my mind in the shower, as I got dressed, in any downtime at school, lying in bed at night. No matter how many times it ran through my mind, it never lost its power.
Last Christmas I was home at my parents’ house. I had the DVD, and decided to watch it again. I watched the whole series from episode one, but the whole time all I was thinking about was getting to that one scene. It’s in episode four. I knew I was going to feel something when I saw it again, but I wasn’t prepared when I started sobbing, loud, ugly, with tears streaming down my face. I skipped back and watched it again. And again. And again. Probably 20 or 30 times, mouthing along with Robin’s words: YOU REMEMBER ME NOW? Then I pressed stop and just sat there rocking back and forth and wiping my snot off my face.
Those outpourings of emotion are good, I think. My therapist told me that people with PTSD don’t start feeling the fallout of their trauma until the trauma is over. While you’re still in the horror, you’re running on adrenaline and pure survival instinct. Whether that’s for a momentary attack or years at war or a decade of incremental abuse and violation…
I didn’t start having those emotional breakdowns until I got clean “for real” in January 2014. Before that I would have freakouts and panic attacks but the pain didn’t cut into my soul, it was surface pain. It was, how do I get through this moment, how do I get through this one situation… or usually, how do I make $300 today so I don’t get dopesick again. I wasn’t really FEELING the weight of everything I went through. It feels good, now, in a way. It feels good to cry, like I’m working through all that shit. I don’t think I ever cried about it — I mean REALLY cried, about all of it, not just about whatever was happening at that moment — until the second time I watched that Top of the Lake scene.
This entry probably makes it seem like I’m losing my mind… well I’m always losing my mind… but things have been good. I graduated, for one. I got an internship up in Portland, probably at WW. (It’s through a program, so I still have to be placed at a publication.) Just when I thought I was through with Oregon and Portland, 100% ready to move to New Orleans, I get this dream internship. “Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.” ha. I can’t really handle Portland anymore. It’s always been perfect, well now it’s too perfect. I can’t handle being around people who have never had any real problems. I know I’m irrational and that people in Portland have problems too. Well, I’ll see if it feels any better now that I’m clean and (possibly) employed, or at least interning.
There were places where the luxury dropped away, where I waited. I saw something flash open then lost it.