The Post Where I Get Way Too Naked On Your Asses (written 12/31/04)
New Year’s Eve is always a very frightening prospect for me and I find myself placing a disproportionate amount of importance upon the evening- not because of the passage of time or embarrassing drunken revelries (though there is of course quite the history of those), but because New Year’s Eve was the last time I ever saw my brother alive. This was six years ago, and I was living in Virginia at the time. Despite being without the indispensable luxury of a vehicle (due to yet another of the many accidents in which I totaled a car), I found a way to get to the town my brother was living in at the time so that I could usher in the last year before the grand apocalypse with my only sibling who was just about my twin, only mentally ill. He had attempted to kill himself one year prior by setting himself on fire; he thought it was the most aesthetically pleasing way to die.
I have to take a slight pause for a very funny aside- as I’m sitting in a café writing this, at this very moment a song with the refrain “Don’t Try Suicide” is blaring on the speakers. I love the macabre sense of humor inherent in the universe. This song is now being followed by “Another One Bites the Dust”….okay, universe, I get it. Don’t worry, I had no intention of going into self-pity land, I’m merely telling a story….but thanks for the not-so-subtle reminder.
This particular New Year’s was spent hopping from one party to another to a predictably endless refrain of Prince’s (he is being called Prince again right?) 1999, with my brother and I bouncing perfectly off of one another as only siblings can do and enjoying the company of the only other person we knew who shared our own particular brand of quirkiness. It was shaping up to be one of my favorite New Year’s ever, as we returned to his house somewhere around 6am.
And then it became a garish demonic nightmare, which haunts me to this very day in sneaky surprise ambushes or in the quiet hours I lay alone pondering the sale of my soul to a devil I don’t really believe in for an hour of sound sleep. I have neither the inclination nor the need to vomit up the painful details from their heavily guarded hole in the center of my torso that I hear whistle when the wind blows through it, almost knocking me over with vehement force. These events are not occurring at this moment, therefore there is no need to relive them. Plus I’m not that brave and not that much of an exhibitionist as I sometimes lead people to believe.
The last words I ever said to my brother, whom I loved fiercely but not quite unconditionally, were “You have no idea how much you’ve fucked me up in my life. You have no idea how much you’ve fucked up my life.” Then I proceeded to drive my borrowed car, heavily intoxicated, to the nearest gas station where I emptied all remaining fluid in my body through my poor abused tear ducts to my two terrified parents. Unfair as that was, I didn’t know whom else to call in that moment. I implored them to come pick me up, not wanting to attempt the hour long drive drunk as I was, but found myself incapable of staying one more moment in that beautiful mountain town I had always found such peace in. It took two and a half hours for me to make my way across a 70 mile expanse of highway, and this feat was only accomplished with constant reassurance to myself that as soon as I arrived at my parents’ home they would put me in a mental institution where I would remain (hide?) the rest of my days.
I never spoke to my brother again, despite numerous pleas for help; some in the form of heartbreaking musical compositions played on the piano or clarinet into my deaf ears via voice mail.
On the Ides of March, as a well developed sense of dark irony runs in the family, my big brother went wandering in the snow with no coat and no possessions except for one state form of identification and wandered intentionally into the path of an oncoming mammoth 18 wheeler. I later was told by a well intentioned but very mistaken friend of the family, as I lamented for the umpteenth time the fact that the funeral home refused to allow me to even hold his hand to say goodbye, that the impact reduced him to a pile of body part debris scattered across the highway and collected in a giant trash bag. I’m so glad I know that…wow, that’s so much better to imagine than a little anger and regret over not having seen the body. Thanks!
So New Year’s Eve can be a bit tricky for me to navigate. It’s interesting, but I think for me it’s harder than the anniversary of his death, or his birthday or any other holiday. This is partly because I’ve always been superstitious, and believe that how you usher in the New Year dictates in part how the year will be played out. My nightmare New Year’s led to a nightmare year, replete with panic attacks and unimaginable depression and hopelessness, the likes of which I pray to any Gods, Goddesses, and Universal energies who may hear, I never come near experiencing again. Likewise the beginning tentative steps of ascension to relative normalcy stemmed from a wonderful healing New Year’s the following year, spent in Paris with my loving amazing cousin holding my hand throughout the journey.
This year, I found myself obligated to be away from home New Year’s Eve, as a close friend’s wedding was scheduled for the first of January halfway across the country, and the already expensive flights were $300 more to arrive on Saturday as opposed to Friday. The New Year’s fear and anxiety returned with a stronger than ever vengeance yesterday, and I spent a goodportion of my already unproductive workday quietly crying at my thankfully hidden stupid day job desk. I lingered at work more for a lack of direction and an overwhelming sense of loneliness than for the much needed hours. When I finally emerged onto the street, to the utter loss of awareness and the familiar wind boring through the hole in my stomach, I was encouraged by an unsuspecting but wise M to go to the public recreation center I just joined and work out. Thankful for direction, I complied with my orders and found myself feeling better and better the more in touch with my body (and the less with my unquiet mind) I became. And I came to remember that one of the fundamental tenants of my personal doctrine is belief in the power of choice- shit happens across the board, it’s a part of life…but the beauty and hope is the power we have to shape our lives, despite the shit, through the choices we make. The fact that fucked up shit is an equal opportunity offender and occurs with such regularity that a certain level of acceptance is necessary to survive is just a footnote; the real story always lies in the choices we make, not the ones we don’t.
My epiphany is thus- what better way to usher in the New Year than to choose to enjoy it? How wonderfully simple and empowering! This New Year’s is about the simple self- awareness and centeredness I wish to retain throughout the year. It’s about remembering wherein my deep reserve of strength lies, and trusting I will always be able to access it.
And in this moment I think a wedding is the perfect way to reclaim and reaffirm my hope for finding my own love, whether of self or a relationship that actually works, in the coming year…at least that’s how I choose to see it.
Happy New Year!
I have to take a slight pause for a very funny aside- as I’m sitting in a café writing this, at this very moment a song with the refrain “Don’t Try Suicide” is blaring on the speakers. I love the macabre sense of humor inherent in the universe. This song is now being followed by “Another One Bites the Dust”….okay, universe, I get it. Don’t worry, I had no intention of going into self-pity land, I’m merely telling a story….but thanks for the not-so-subtle reminder.
This particular New Year’s was spent hopping from one party to another to a predictably endless refrain of Prince’s (he is being called Prince again right?) 1999, with my brother and I bouncing perfectly off of one another as only siblings can do and enjoying the company of the only other person we knew who shared our own particular brand of quirkiness. It was shaping up to be one of my favorite New Year’s ever, as we returned to his house somewhere around 6am.
And then it became a garish demonic nightmare, which haunts me to this very day in sneaky surprise ambushes or in the quiet hours I lay alone pondering the sale of my soul to a devil I don’t really believe in for an hour of sound sleep. I have neither the inclination nor the need to vomit up the painful details from their heavily guarded hole in the center of my torso that I hear whistle when the wind blows through it, almost knocking me over with vehement force. These events are not occurring at this moment, therefore there is no need to relive them. Plus I’m not that brave and not that much of an exhibitionist as I sometimes lead people to believe.
The last words I ever said to my brother, whom I loved fiercely but not quite unconditionally, were “You have no idea how much you’ve fucked me up in my life. You have no idea how much you’ve fucked up my life.” Then I proceeded to drive my borrowed car, heavily intoxicated, to the nearest gas station where I emptied all remaining fluid in my body through my poor abused tear ducts to my two terrified parents. Unfair as that was, I didn’t know whom else to call in that moment. I implored them to come pick me up, not wanting to attempt the hour long drive drunk as I was, but found myself incapable of staying one more moment in that beautiful mountain town I had always found such peace in. It took two and a half hours for me to make my way across a 70 mile expanse of highway, and this feat was only accomplished with constant reassurance to myself that as soon as I arrived at my parents’ home they would put me in a mental institution where I would remain (hide?) the rest of my days.
I never spoke to my brother again, despite numerous pleas for help; some in the form of heartbreaking musical compositions played on the piano or clarinet into my deaf ears via voice mail.
On the Ides of March, as a well developed sense of dark irony runs in the family, my big brother went wandering in the snow with no coat and no possessions except for one state form of identification and wandered intentionally into the path of an oncoming mammoth 18 wheeler. I later was told by a well intentioned but very mistaken friend of the family, as I lamented for the umpteenth time the fact that the funeral home refused to allow me to even hold his hand to say goodbye, that the impact reduced him to a pile of body part debris scattered across the highway and collected in a giant trash bag. I’m so glad I know that…wow, that’s so much better to imagine than a little anger and regret over not having seen the body. Thanks!
So New Year’s Eve can be a bit tricky for me to navigate. It’s interesting, but I think for me it’s harder than the anniversary of his death, or his birthday or any other holiday. This is partly because I’ve always been superstitious, and believe that how you usher in the New Year dictates in part how the year will be played out. My nightmare New Year’s led to a nightmare year, replete with panic attacks and unimaginable depression and hopelessness, the likes of which I pray to any Gods, Goddesses, and Universal energies who may hear, I never come near experiencing again. Likewise the beginning tentative steps of ascension to relative normalcy stemmed from a wonderful healing New Year’s the following year, spent in Paris with my loving amazing cousin holding my hand throughout the journey.
This year, I found myself obligated to be away from home New Year’s Eve, as a close friend’s wedding was scheduled for the first of January halfway across the country, and the already expensive flights were $300 more to arrive on Saturday as opposed to Friday. The New Year’s fear and anxiety returned with a stronger than ever vengeance yesterday, and I spent a goodportion of my already unproductive workday quietly crying at my thankfully hidden stupid day job desk. I lingered at work more for a lack of direction and an overwhelming sense of loneliness than for the much needed hours. When I finally emerged onto the street, to the utter loss of awareness and the familiar wind boring through the hole in my stomach, I was encouraged by an unsuspecting but wise M to go to the public recreation center I just joined and work out. Thankful for direction, I complied with my orders and found myself feeling better and better the more in touch with my body (and the less with my unquiet mind) I became. And I came to remember that one of the fundamental tenants of my personal doctrine is belief in the power of choice- shit happens across the board, it’s a part of life…but the beauty and hope is the power we have to shape our lives, despite the shit, through the choices we make. The fact that fucked up shit is an equal opportunity offender and occurs with such regularity that a certain level of acceptance is necessary to survive is just a footnote; the real story always lies in the choices we make, not the ones we don’t.
My epiphany is thus- what better way to usher in the New Year than to choose to enjoy it? How wonderfully simple and empowering! This New Year’s is about the simple self- awareness and centeredness I wish to retain throughout the year. It’s about remembering wherein my deep reserve of strength lies, and trusting I will always be able to access it.
And in this moment I think a wedding is the perfect way to reclaim and reaffirm my hope for finding my own love, whether of self or a relationship that actually works, in the coming year…at least that’s how I choose to see it.
Happy New Year!
posted by Le Synge Bleu at 1:29 PM
1 Comments:
Your post made me cry....
But then again, I was crying already. Ha ha.
Kisses to you. I wish you all the best in the coming year.
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