I sit alone and hear the fireworks this July 4th, as I ritualistically chew up my food and spit it out—I am nurturing an eating disorder threes days; better than cutting, I reckon, which has become bourgeois for me, silly and just plain leaves too many scars.
I could go outside to get a better view; the bright lights and smoke of the holiday are on either side of me, but I can see some sparks peeking out from behind a building diagonally across the street. That’s enough for me.
It’s not even that I have been a casual observer to life for the past six months; rather, I have simply dropped out of it, I have ceased to exist or to wonder about the world around me. In my isolation have come countless epiphanies, various theories and ideas to explain the situation I find myself in, and have continued to find myself in throughout my residence on Planet Earth. There is no real explanation that satisfies my curiosity or fervent desire—NEED—to know who I am and why I am here. But I shall collect all that I uncover, alone, and someday sort through it to find exactly what it is that I need.
I remember my early days as a cutter, junior high, when I wished I could be a pill popper and champagne whore like Marilyn Monroe, confessing my most disturbing thoughts to my Freudian analyst and falling unceremoniously and pointlessly in love with my co-stars. What a life that was for me, age 14, aligning my future with those who are most tragic and abandoned, pledging to be a Hollywood mess but beautiful and misunderstood nonetheless. And so I did what I could to create my own suburban-Ohio-daughter-of-Serbian-immigrants version of that oft-told tale of triumph and loss, but why? Why not be happy and live the stable, loving life I was living, the comfort of a two-parent home, the dog, the younger siblings who looked up to me, the good grades, humour, crowd of friends, knack for story telling and creative dress? Why pretend to be fucked up?
But I was not trying to gain everyone’s attention. And it wasn’t even to gain the attention of the boy-I-knew-I-would-marry-and-become-enmeshed-in-a-drug-and-alcohol-and-violence-infused-relationship-that-could-only-end-in-suicide (mine, natch). I needed the attention of a friend, the friend who enlightened me as to the true nature of said boy. He cared enough to reveal the painful truth about my boy, to let me know that he was not what he appeared to be—but what my would-be BFF didn’t know was that what he told me would only deepen my passion, feed my need for drama and self-destruction, and play right into my fantasy of a hot mess of a life with him.
This most American of celebrations is coming to a close. The pathetic show in the distance has been on the verge of extinction since its inception; in the windows in the building across from mine I can see the reflection of the two larger celebrations I sit in between. I am always interested in those who struggle, the lost potential, rather than the self-confident sure thing. Will there be a grand finale for the sad sparklers I spy in the sky? Or will they simply succumb to the superiority of the ostentatious coloured flames of the big city spectaculars? It’s better to burn out than to fade away. Why have I always believed in that so wholeheartedly?
Upon hearing that my perfect boy—Face, as I took to calling him after a Davy Jones nickname on The Monkees—was indeed a drug user, a binge drinker, and a petty thief—and despite his storied pedigree—his mother was president of the PTA, his father a well-respected doctor, his older sister a child prodigy at the piano who was now playing around the globe for heads of state—or perhaps because of his storied pedigree—my boy was not the image people projected onto him. Neither, in fact, was I. But not to the degree that he was not. This is perfect, I thought. I was rightfully distressed by this information, it did help me to formulate my game plan for the future we were to have together.
Out of nowhere, after the lines of cars fill the street going in either direction, there are signs of a last goodbye from The Little Celebration That Could. It’s not terribly loud or enticing, but it is an effort, and that is all I want. A few extra splashes of colour to help turn down the sheets for the night, a short round of crackling and popping so you don’t forget they were there, the faint smell of smoke that lingers for just seconds…
…and it is finished. The last few explosions sound like gunfire—I hear some white boys fighting loudly on the street, and I stand in the window enough to hear what they are saying without being noticed in case witnesses are called.
So the cutting started like that, a reaction to disappointment—even though I secretly felt satisfied with Face’s crashing off the pedestal upon which I had so precariously placed him. In a way I was quite pleased with my own fall from grace, and it didn’t seem unnatural at all. Back then it was not as bad as it got in my twenties—the cutting as well as the need for drama was pretty mild, more fantasy than anything, but just by being so obsessed with self-destruction I was setting myself up for some serious shit when I grew up.
At age 14 I used a Snoopy pin my best friend had given to me, and I didn’t cut particularly deeply. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, obviously, but I wanted to give the impression that I was depressed and needed attention to stop me from sinking irrevocably deeper into the abyss. In band—I played flute—I would sit next to Thomas—he played French horn—the friend who had revealed Face’s flaws to me. Face was also in band—he played the trumpet—and I would spend most of class trying to get a good angle out of the corner of my eye to watch his every move. Sometimes I would playfully cut my wrist at the end of class when our instruments were packed away and we waited for the bell. I just wanted to trace along my blue veins with some small scratches, nothing serious enough to even draw blood. I wasn’t into blood until later, I think.
Thomas would express concern over my behaviour and it made me happy. I just needed to know that someone cared, that they noticed me. I was always the funny one, the smart ass, the one who gave great advice. But I was always depressed deep down. Why? I didn’t think of my cutting as a manifestation of the innate sadness I lived with; I didn’t really try to understand it at all. It wasn’t something I concerned myself with much, it was just something I did occasionally and it never left permanent marks or anything, so it was pretty incidental to any other issues that I recognized in myself.
At 14 I was pretty self-aware. I had started reading Alan Watts and Ram Dass that year, and was really trying to figure my shit out. I’m not saying that I fully understood what these guys were saying, but something about it resonated with me and made me push forward despite my depression. As lonely as I felt at times, as suicidal, worthless, and pathetic, I can’t say that I ever truly felt hopeless. That came later. I dreamed of a dramatic life, filled with drinking and drugs and infidelities—but equally filled with prolific creativity, success, and wealth. I wanted to be on both sides at once, I wanted to know everything, feel every emotion, experience all that is great and heartbreaking in life. I thought it was the only way to live, to have a life worth living. Do it all! In high school I discovered Teresa Stratas, a Greek-Canadian opera singer, and she really had an impact on this vision. I was more obsessed with Maria Callas because she was literally a tragic heroine, suffering throughout her life and never really being happy with the love of her life—Ari Onassis—but living every day anyway, despite her terminal melancholy. And she was dead, so she was a role model. But La Stratas was younger, still alive, still suffering, though she didn’t come across as quite as misunderstood and scandalous as La Callas. But she spoke to me through a story she told about her youth in Toronto, growing up the daughter of immigrants, something I can relate to. She was maybe nine or ten, and she was overwhelmed by everyday life as a Greek, which she described as “living every emotion, every day”. At one point in her very young existence she tried to commit suicide. I never thought about suicide before I was a teenager, but the idea of living each emotion each day fascinated me. What a way to live! I wanted it, I wanted to be fully human, real, to understand who I am through every experience every day. I think about her statement once in a while, but I really am living that way now, and it’s not as fun as I expected it would be.
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Little Richard played every song you would want to hear, he talked about James Brown, and repeatedly admonished the crowd to “shut up” in the endearing way that only Richard can do. It was one of the highlights of my life to see this man perform, and I was glad that he was so great. The year before we watched Ronnie Spector mumble her most famous songs that she appeared to have forgotten as she sweated through her ill-fitting outfit. Oh, and we were pretty sure she was drunk. 
The degenerate person is like a sāla tree choked with ivy. By his own actions he brings to himself just what his enemies desire.
“Cut yourself free from the bonds behind you; cut yourself free from the bonds ahead; cut yourself free from the bonds around you; cross over existence–birth and old age will cease to be when your mind is completely free.”
