Dear Tiny;
I wish you knew how much Mia and I were alike; and I am sure -- like you said, we are also different. But the parts I did see in her; consumed me too. How could she be so inconsiderate to both of you? How could I be so rude; as I also did not clean up after myself. My poor husband; my poor past roommates -- I did not want this to continue. So, I began analyzing. I perceived it through compassionate eyes. She hurt you, I can see that. And she is completely unaware of that! Just too self-absorbed to notice that she is her own worst enemy. She’s like a magnet for attention; some call that trait a black-hole. She acts like a little girl; begging for her projected parents to notice her -- clean up after her, fix the problem for her. Me too, Mia. Me too. Her broken pieces resembled aspects of things I hated about myself. My heart breaks looking at her; there’s no denying the pain. She stares straight into it every morning as she is putting on her mascara; one eye at a time. We are always looking for our problems; searching for a flaw to identity with -- you know, those of us with a piece of granite wedged into the foundation of our being. The lens on my camera was smoggy; there was something I wasn’t seeing. There is something you are not seeing.
I once asked you and Anna, “Have you ever had a psycho roommate?”
I watched a few YouTube videos on the topic with a failure to recognize my own stories. You looked at each other; stared at me with emotion -- almost questioning if you should confess it was currently happening. I know about insane roommates. Once a girl named Joann cried outside my window all night long; that girl had stamina. Threw a lamp shade; got kicked out of the program. It was sad seeing her go -- I felt her pain. The loneliness, the abandonment. I was a senior; she was a sophomore. I was just ending my round of treatment centers; I am not sure what happened to her. I saw she got pregnant on a facebook picture; gave up her baby for adoption. I ran into her at a restaurant in Asheville, South Carolina; she was the hostess. I knew who she was immediately, “Joann” I spurted out? I hugged her. I had Townes in my arms; William beside me. I felt like I was a veteran, seeing a fellow soldier. Leaving home was difficult that young; my identity warped by therapists and what they wanted me to say to “be better.” We both were writers. We both dreamed of living in New York City -- in those days I too dreamed of being a starving artist. She loved reading her life story to people; I loved reading my diary entries to friends. We were a little bit the same; a little bit different. I too left programs and had wounds similar to hers. Why do I write? To heal; to see the purpose in my pain. I scoop up the congealing flesh and rub it on paper to feel better. I am sure she still writes; we must. Or we die...
It is a bit dark and that’s about how I feel about healthy self expression now-a-days.
I’ve had a lot of crazy roommates, actually. One held a knife to her neck shortly after throwing ceramic dishes across the room. Another ran around the house trying to light it on fire; the police were called. A few of my friends went on suicide watch periodically. My favorite crazy roommate was named Rachel Bryd. She was a witch; and at this specific treatment center -- we were allowed normal amounts of privacy. She also kept a journal; wanting her memoir to be called, “from the hip” and she explained why. “When you are in a duel and you shoot from the hip -- you are cowardly.” I guess, she thought of herself as a weakling. I thought she was powerful. She was the one who told me that I’d never be attractive with my hair cut-off. “Some people just don’t have the face for it.” I remembered that. And I thought of her when I snipped it all off. I thought of her the day afterwards when I stood in the mirror horrified -- at my face. It’s dehumanizing, unwomanly; who am I without my hair? I chopped off my security blanket; my best feature, what made me beautiful to look at fell onto the floor. Who am I when the world stops objectifying me? Who am I when I stop defining myself by the image that stares back at me in the mirror. I am bigger than that -- is my breath not just the spaces between the atoms? I am consciousness; I am human -- as all the others before me. No better; no worse. I still have two arms; and two legs -- I can rebuild myself from here.
Rachel just came out of a lockdown facility; they said she had borderline personality disorder. We scoured the cow pasture for magic mushrooms together -- “wanna run away?” She said to me.
The highway was just beyond the fence; I just wanted to go home. She wanted to go to Mexico. ”Maybe, Later.” I said. The truth was I knew too much about serial killers and their love for female runaways. Her eyes didn’t care. Once she took pieces of my hair, I gave her my fingernail cuttings and we crafted a ouija board. We cut ourselves and molded it in with the playdough we stole from the craft room before sticking it to the cardboard. She swore up and down she wasn’t moving it when it kept spelling out our other roommates name -- K,T,K,T. Her name was “Katie” and she was fucking spooked. She was as white as a ghost on her top bunk; just watching us maneuver the planchette. Then it flew off the altar, across the room; just after the spirit said her name was Rebecca. We got our handmade ouija board thrown in the trash after that. Whaling after our therapist removing the hidden board -- ”my blood was in that clay” Rachel sobs. That was before they found our pencil back razors we used to cut our toes. Those were wild west days; I knew her for seven weeks. And we shared our whole life stories -- how her and her brother used to have sex, how she used to snort meth. She wanted me to lick the insides of her labia minora; and I fell in and out of love with her. Courtney, her bunk mate, stored her blood from her self-inflicted wounds in a small glass jar under their bed. I asked them a lot of questions about why they are who they are; and as most crazy people do -- they answer.
“Have you ever had a psycho roommate?” I smiled as I asked you all that question; and a little voice chirped in the back of my head -- u h h h y o u a r e t h e c r a z y o n e. It was just that I never lived up to my ideal crazy roommates. I just had depression; functioning after treatment took energy. Life was grey; and I only saw in black and white. I spent a lot of time on social media -- embarrassingly so. I made fun videos, sometimes. Made ‘to-do’ lists and did nothing all day. Could barely clean up after myself; smoked. ismokedallthetime. I hated that about myself, that was my shadow. I’d tell myself, “It’s fake; it’s not real. I am just lazy.” Only to have the weight of gravity fall a little bit harder; more difficult to get out of bed. I had dreams ahead of me; when I arrived at graduate school, I made it to the base of the mountain. I became aware; and had to find tools to begin climbing. All of my friends who arrived at the base around the same time as I; had tools in their belts. They began to climb. It felt like I didn’t pack a pair of spare underwear on a trip across the world. I had to search for clothing, had limited cash and I wasn’t going home anytime soon. Why didn’t I have the tools? I guess for the same reason I didn’t pack underwear. For the art of the story; god damn I am a sucker for hell of a time. I am not sure if I went mad in graduate school; or I found out I was sane the entire time. The power I said I didn’t have; I had. My tools were invisible and with me the entire time. The meek will inherit the Earth; and I hope I take down an empire with my pen. That would be one hell of a virtual ride; you know, if you believe in the simulation theory of reality.
I lost my faith in the God of the Bible recently. It’s made me see the world from a completely different vantage point; and I cried.
Because I was facing death on my own terms; making my own decision as to what was right or wrong based upon my aim. I believe in our bodies ability to heal; and that’s what I want to focus upon -- vocationally. Spiritually I got to choose and indulge in the dark arts with a bit more joy in my step. I do not believe in the God of the Christian Bible; wow, I said it. Confessed it online -- “spiritual damnation”. I used to think about the burning pits of hell eating my flesh. No wonder I was an anxious child and teen. Sent to the condemnation of hell, or my mother’s love and approval. I really tried hard to believe. I do not. And I am learning to validate that myself. I am letting go of my mother’s expectation of me to sit alongside her in the 144,000 in the upcoming apocalypse.That was a tough mental transition. Letting go of one’s childhood religion is tragic and emotional. My identity was wrapped up in some faulty belief systems. It was a sad funeral; burying myself that is. When I gave birth -- I went to the gates of heaven and hell. It wasn’t peaceful coming back to earth. I used to be chased around by trouble and jinxes were written on my car. My wild woman era was filled with unconscious superstition. Black cats followed me around; and I rose from the dead. I am now the mother. Only one more death till the trinity is completed: maiden, mother, crone.
Massage school was the worst; I slept all day -- and watched a hell of a lot of television. I loved all the series about serial killers, crime and punishment. I did not do the dishes whatsoever and Law and Order: SVU was a favorite. I was really lonely after treatment. And really dirty. It felt a bit like it does now; trying to figure out -- where do I go? I’ve lived in the shadows for a really long time; hovering, shrinking away in a warm bathtub. All while dreaming of better days; the nights of my prime, plenty of disposable income. I lived with a family; they were paid to house me. I could barely function. I was on tons of meds; looking for a way out. I’ve been in similar valley’s before -- I am a warrior, I know my way. I am learning the way around my mind; I am learning how I work. I have psychic wounds -- no one can see them. They are invisible. It was in my struggle that I found out my true calling; greatness was thrusted upon me -- the day I left for wilderness. Oh! That fateful day. I used to be fixated that I was “sent away”; what if I was “sent ahead” instead? I needed to rewrite my narrative; focusing on the facts that lead me to my optimum potential. The highest outcome for my life is my aim. Religion kind of faded away after that point; I cried. It’s like finding out Santa Clause isn’t real -- the veil of childhood rent.
My mother thought it was her job to keep everyone safe; sometimes I feel like she just made it worse. I think that’s all I really wanted to tell her. Life isn’t a permanent cage of goodness, love and rainbows.
I ask, ”where was my strength from a healthy, perfect childhood” and I remember that destruction creates some mighty fine works of art. And of course there were happy times; those were the days I wanted to crawl back inside of -- the ones where my mother and father were still together. The ones where the pain inside my chest was not quite as heavy. I saw myself in Mia; her lack of awareness, consideration, and her inability to escape it regardless of the consequences. Life moves on; I cannot live that way anymore. I need to build my own life; not worry about co-signing other people’s things. Was the power in me all along -- it is inside Mia. All she had to do was move and create positive momentum. Trauma is the sinking anchor that as captains we can pull up anytime. Our cracks act as reflections in the diamonds we pulled up from inside the depths of our being. I am rooting for her; that crazy roommate of yours. I am a fan of all those crazy roommates -- including myself. I miss Rachel. I think I am feeling myself again; I am not sure if that is considered sanity or not. It’s me. It is real. I feel more in control; like I am finally getting into the driver’s seat of a very fast moving vehicle. My childhood was an undercover sting operation for my pen. Didn’t I tell you? I was going to take down an empire with my fingertips.
And I'll remember the next time I ask, ”where was my strength from a healthy, perfect childhood” that destruction creates some mighty fine works of art sometimes. The strength is right here. It's been here all along.
And I am a might fine piece of work.
I hope this letter finds you well,
@laurabell
