do not think
you are safe because
you love her.

do not think
she will not stain her mouth red
with your blood too.

Madeleine Christie, Atalanta

The first tinges of earliest winter work their way into my skin. Sometimes, I am all right. I am awake. I am engaged. I am efficient. I am resolved. It does not matter that the hours of silence have stretched horribly on into days, into weeks, until a month has passed and I have shared the time with no one. It does not matter because I am fine. I promised that I would be, so I am. I am fine. For a month, I have done precious little other than endeavor to prove just how mistaken they were; just how capable, how fine, I am.

Other times, it has not been so manageable. I am lost and confused, abandoned and alone. I am the child who cannot find her father, who cannot keep a friend. I do not have an adequate language for what those times feel like. I come so tantalizingly close to surrender. On evenings when I see these people, I commence a ritualistic communion of sharp whiskey, cold showers, little pills that blunt the edges of my grief. I spend nights wandering through empty streets or emptying bars, entire days pass where I cannot face the sun. I have broken down a fair few times. Have retreated. Cried. Sliced my knuckles on shards of plaster. Written long, impassioned letters, nonsensical apologies and half-hearted farewells, tucked them away within a pile of birthday cards, polaroids, drawings, and memories, and burned them all in wordless exorcisms of a reality I cannot face.

Even at my best, my strongest, there can be no denying it: I have had a miserable time. Each day has dawned like a deferred suicide, faithless and forlorn, and there is no consolation that anyone can offer. I have tried. I have tried. So in the end, I have resigned myself to apathy, replaced my appetite and empathy and affections with stale packs of cigarettes and hours of painstaking academic work, with bitterness and solitude and some reluctant purgatory between devastation and disgust.

Sometimes, I find that I cannot withstand it anymore. So I recommence my wanderings, find a love to sell within the confines of dim vanity and a handful of stolen hours. I shivered, last night, back into the familiarity of an ancient, sacred art: those burning moments of sanctuary, of unfettered life, of knotted limbs and hair, of hands, of hips, of knees, of tense and tangled words. And suddenly, fleetingly, my life was shining again, my pulse was strong, its rhythm was welcome. I was laughing as I have not laughed in weeks, a cigarette locked precariously between my knuckles, ash dispersed across the stained mattress, as we moved in ways that I can scarcely recall, my heels pressed hard against his waist, the pleasure running hot and fast, like blood or breath or constancy. The teeth that I had sharpened on discontentment were good for something now, tearing sensation from the savage flesh of November, and my desire was a triumph, I was feral, I was alive, I had managed to recall some final, defiant echo of the willful, half-wild person that I used to be.

Always, the specter of his absence remains, when I try to feel in these ways. Yes, yes, I hate myself for it, but in truth, I have missed him quite sincerely of late. After all, was he really so much worse than what came after? Rejection, the silence, it is always the same– he was just more honest about it.

I am learning now, albeit slowly, what I expect from the people I care for. I have no patience left for weakness and apologies, for half-hearted defenses of others’ cruelty, for those content to watch mistreatment and the infliction of suffering so long as they, themselves, remain unaffected. I do not accept, should never have accepted, the professed affections of anyone who would sanction and witness my misery rather than defend me. Caccianli i ciel per non esser men belli, né lo profondo inferno li riceve, ch’alcuna gloria i rei avrebber d’elli.

If there is some other side to this, to all of the interspersed vitriol and cowardice, then I am having trouble seeing it. And is that really so surprising, so reprehensible? I challenge anyone to live as I have these past four weeks–cowering in my bedroom, too frightened to answer the knocks on my door, feeling unloved, unwell, unwelcome, unable to escape the radio silence as it cleaves my mind like a knife’s edge, abhorring my very existence–and not feel the uncompromised contempt that sustains me now.

What a wretch you all made of me. I cried. I begged. I crawled. Every night for the past four weeks, whenever I lose consciousness and vision, I am visited by the same nightmare: reliving my history as warm blood drips down my arms and from between my shaking thighs. I stagger through the silence, seeking respite. I see them, I call out, I implore them to answer, I tell them I need help. A lock clicks. My fingernails break against the door, leaving claw-marks of crimson and gouges in the wood. I wake up shaking. So now, I hardly sleep anymore–I lost that, too.

But not everyone was taken in. Just a week ago I spoke with a figure who could have said nothing, who could have remained impassive, who could have dismissed or ignored my pain, but he simply chose not to; he chose, instead, to care. I winced with realization at a single word he used, as he dragged the dark hair back from his eyes–“It isn’t fair. You’re being dehumanized.” Dehumanized. I loath those connotations, those undertones of victimization, but I could not deny or reject the phrase. He knew. He saw. And he was not the only one. I have felt alone, yes, but I have not entirely been so, for a handful of others have enacted those efforts towards empathy that their predecessors withheld. What a life I find, however fleetingly, however inconstantly, beyond the narrow binds of rejection. How many people have reached out to me since then? How many drinks and confessions and cigarettes have we shared? Reams of advice and tattered books of poetry, comfort and patience and moments of fleeting happiness, contentment, even belonging; in some ways, I think that I am finally found. 

And when I ran away again, it was into a wonderful haze of smoke and sunlight, into the company of a woman who knew I was still worth something. In the lilting taste of Spanish wine, in azure waters suspended in perfect stillness, in rich patterns of shadow across glints of burnished gold, in foreign tongues and flavors of thought, in haunting dreamscapes of lamplight and mist, in her lovely hands and softly burning eyes–I sat in silence, the resplendent city blazing far and bright below me; I chewed on the end of a cigarette and swore never to allow a person to hurt me again.

These people, these places, have loved me at my darkest. We share no history, no obligation, but they have done so anyways. Heaven knows what it means when strangers and strange places are kinder towards you than those by which you thought to establish your long-desired home. But there is, always, a world elsewhere. And I am finding it now.

There will be no more postcards, no more tears of consternation, no more belated explanations, no more prying eyes. You will not waste whatever time I still have. The photographs have peeled like raw flesh from my walls. The images and letters have all been burned away. The broken glass is strewn softly across the threshold of my door. The room has been stripped bare, reduced to a pale, watchful iris of exposure, and your scalding words and fabrications, the livid tapestry of accusation that you wove, are all I will keep to remember you by.

You should be afraid of me. I do not forgive you.

I was worth more than this, and you could not make me forget that. You could not drive me away from this place. You never had the strength, not any of you, to bleed me out. And you will never again have my yearning, my commitment, you will not even have my hatred. I will strive to feel nothing. But for as long as I live in this strange and violent place, this city of entropy and stone, I will remember what was done to me. And I am not the only one. My continued efforts to communicate, to survive, to heal, to hold myself accountable, have not gone unnoticed. I am a walking testament to deficiencies that are not my own. It never had to be this way–but this is the choice that you made.

So I accept it. I accept it all. I have no sympathy, no willingness to understand anymore. And I am not sorry for generating, on my own terms, the discourse that I have lately been denied. I have faced a month of silence, of denouncement, of ludicrously imagined false crises, of inexplicable narratives that would have damaged most people beyond repair. I have faced, for the first time in a long while now, a horror-show of instability that emerged not from my own troubled mind, but from the callousness and cowardice of others. I hope that they feel every promise they broke, every lie that they told. No, I am not sorry for writing this. For a month I have faced the wrong side of their whims; they can deign, now, to face the wrong side of my pen.

And does it really matter, anymore? Does any facet of me still truly care, except for,  perhaps, the part that bristles with frustration to remember that I ever believed that I deserved such degradation, such disrespect? I think that it is time to write of something else. I have done it. I have survived. The treatments must have worked, because even at my worst, I endured. And I have my work to show for it, and my writing, and the bonds I have forged with so many brilliant, fascinating people who I am so eager, so privileged, and so excited to know more fully in all the time to come.

I am alone now, they have made certain of that, but I will not always be. And I am ready, at last, to see this all for what it is: to condemn, to atone, to resist, or walk away. It took their every effort against my health to remind me just how badly I want to live fully, to be whole once more. On the underside of my ambition, my disillusionment, my contempt, there emerges the inscriptions of real possibility. I think I am finally awake again. I feel remorseless. I feel strong. The obscurity of my own regret is lifting. I am inexorable. Complete.

My father has taught me so well.

I’m with you. No matter what else you have in your head I’m with you and I love you.

Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden

A solitary drink in this, the most silent corner of a dimly lit bar. Alone with my scars and my shattered sense of health, of self, I listen to the world. It echoes in my lungs. I draw breath, exhale, watch the impact fade. No one notices me. Of course not. Why should they? When people call you something, even something distressing, something terrible, might it actually become true? Can they change what you are? Can they undo all of your efforts? It has come close. I do not know. I hope not. We will have to see.

But how I hate this, this baseless fear, this horror-show of accusation that frames my untethered existence. I am trying, oh god, I am trying, but I am too afraid to even leave the miserable confines of these four walls. I am blind and I am faceless, so utterly effaced. I cannot see or be or become. I can only retreat, shamefaced, until my next fatal error, until the next time I am forced to reckon with how very despicable I am found. They know how to hurt me, even if they do not mean to. It makes me hate myself. It humiliates. And how it hurts. How I wish I could be numb. Disappear. But I couldn’t, not even if I tried. Oh god, I always come back in the end. I make my life possible, if not, perhaps, desirable. I have been left and left and left, but I still linger on. I don’t leave. Not ever.

This want, this lack, runs so much deeper than a tangled set of absent limbs, a breathing constellation of bruised or burning flesh, the unbearable turning click of a lock, the people who will not come back or care. I have lived with this wretched, gutted emptiness for as long as I can remember. But what does it matter? Whatever else I am, or have been, or may become, I will not die before my time. The sin, you understand, falls not upon whatever events have taken place. It was my own incapacity to communicate how my love transcends, renders cold and senseless, my own suicidality. This is what devastates whatever is left of the me they used to know. Did I really fail so utterly to show this, the affection that might assuage such a fear? Did they really think I would leave them, that I would leave them, me? Do they really believe the things that they have said? I suppose so. And since I cannot change that, can I at least live with it? I must. I must. I owe myself as much.

Make no mistake, I feel wretched now. I feel like a calamity. I feel subhuman. I don’t feel worth. And yet, I came back, didn’t I? Haven’t I always? How couldn’t they know that? It must be my fault. It hurts, it hurts beyond all reckoning, I am an architectural nightmare of memory and bone. My veins are knotted, my limbs are malcontent, my knuckles bleed with pale exposure below the vicious skin. I never knew that I could feel this way. I really didn’t know.

But I cannot remain in such a state of disrepair. I will be alive until life takes its leave of me. I will never die by my own hands–no, not these. Not ever. I thought, by now, that much had been made clear. I will it say it once more now, I will say it for the final time. Whoever you are, wherever you are–if you love me, I will return to you. I will always be waiting. I will always come back. This place has let me fall so fast, these people have made a nightmare of me, or the person I thought I could be, half-burned. But I will always live on, I will always endure, I will never fade out like a pale and senseless thing.

Whoever you are, if you love me, I will find you. I am here. I am breathing. I am okay. Yes, I will find you. I will always find you.

Find me.

I praise the human,
gutted and rising.

Katie Ford, Song After Sadness

I am writing plainly because I have been feeling voiceless lately. I don’t like that feeling. The arts of loving, of losing, of coping with disappointment, have seldom seemed more relevant to me than of late. I am not happy; not at the present, anyways. The cause is quite simple. When I went home for the summer, when I made the decision to undergo more regular and intensive forms of care then I had ever experienced before, when I agreed to take higher doses of stronger medications, when I sacrificed elements and sources of my own comfort because I was told that it was in the best interest of those that I loved, I had a very different understanding of what I would be returning to when I arrived back at Oxford.

I thought that I would be re-entering an environment that, while rigorous, was nevertheless a space where I felt welcomed, supported, and loved. I hoped that the pastoral care systems would have improved. I hoped that I would not have to do such a large portion of the labor by myself. And I was absolutely certain that my friends would make time for me, be honest with me, accept me in full, at the very least regard me as I have always regarded them–as a person worthy of the simple human dignities of being acknowledged, being listened to, being treated with respect.

In almost all of these senses, I have been let down.

I am not a victim; but nor am I immune to the occasional feelings of alienation, worthlessness, and distress that accompany times and circumstances such as these. I am not despairing, but I certainly am disillusioned, disquieted, and discontented. Because everyone said how much better this year would be, everyone promised we would make it work. And honestly, the only difference I can really see is that I take more medication and attend more doctor’s appointments. So yes, perhaps I am more equipped for how bad such places and people can be, but learning to tolerate external toxins does not amount to “improvement” in my eyes.

The sad irony is that, in many ways, I am healthier now than I have been in a very long time. I know this to be true, because if my mental health had not improved over the summer, then I would never have been able to make it through some of the more devastating facets of this term. All of my work has been completed on time, I haven’t missed a single tutorial or class, I am eating regularly, I have met some wonderful and interesting people, I try to keep my room clean. I have been doing so much better than I, a chronically mentally ill person coming off of a deeply traumatizing year, ever could have expected to. I have so much to feel happy and proud about. And I feel like I have no one to share that victory with.

It really is not all that complicated. I never needed people here to try to explain my illnesses to me, to pretend to be my therapists, or to perform enormous, taxing, unequivocal feats of emotional labor. I just needed company. I needed to feel heard. I needed love. But the people whose promises lent me the strength to endure one of the most difficult periods of my entire life have simply not made good on those promises; the same can be said for the institution itself, with all its bits and cogs and shining multiples. So much of the illusion has fallen away. And I am working very hard to resist succumbing to a misinformed cultural narrative of what it means to be mentally ill in a competitive university. But I have found it to be tiresome and deeply solitary work.

I sometimes wonder if everyone feels this way, and I am just complaining more loudly, or allowing it to affect me more. But I have lived long enough, and worked hard enough, and considered deeply enough to be relatively certain that this is not all in my head. It is hard, it is really, very hard, to look at the people and places and things that you love, that you want to regard as perfect, that you want to love you back, and realize that they just aren’t doing right by you. It is hard to keep on clawing yourself back into standing position, and trying again and again. It is hard to remember that you’re worth something, when everything from a locked door, to an unanswered text, to the American presidential election is saying otherwise. It is hard to give your love and your trust to the wrong people.

But Christ, who is less of a stranger to that feeling than me?

And maybe you can’t know me now.
Maybe I’m just blood.
Whatever that’s for.

Alice Notley, Hemostatic

The misery of a week, now past, is rooted in pathologies of song. The sound of a piano along ridges of bone, a whistling melody, the wondrous tune of my discontent. A swift, sharp, movement of hands, left over right, an arpeggio along my skin. I knew better than to trust this–I knew better than to trust at all. And then, of course, not six hours later, a silence fell on me, spread through my half-healed lungs, until it hurt my jaws, my throat. I was nothing. Unanswered. Again. Again.

My father, my lover, all over, and over: I am never memorable enough. Not even to hate. Not now. I scarcely feel the absence; I hardly feel a loss. Instead there is a vitriol here, a kind of writhing energy, a thinly swallowed wrath. For I have worked my recompense, and then some. I have paid a thousand times for every hateful scar. My mind collapsed beneath chemicals and steel; I learned the worth of listlessness; I made these fragments whole. I spent the crackling autumn half-deafened by the screaming miracle of my health, my efforts at long last realized, if not complete. Has it all gone unnoticed then, unacknowledged–as worthless as the thing they’ve made of me?

Wake up, step through the front door. Keep your eyes down. Don’t recognize what was, if it isn’t anymore. Breathe softly. Speak less. Show them what you’ve always known. You have outlived worse.

Falling softly out of love with a girl I knew so long ago, with eyes darker than starlight and a mind that once sheltered mine, then falling back into love, and out, soft and sweet, with the static uncertainty of a detuned radio–I’m not bitter. I’m just trying. Realizing at last that I have not ever really been cared for. I saw it then, really saw it, yes, my last and greatest lapse of sanity: the city collapsing around me, the ancient cathedrals crumbling, the illusion undone, the buildings exposing blank concrete of bone.

I am alone. More alone than ever, I think. But it simply does not matter anymore. I go on. I go on. I go on.

Nor love, nor hate, how then? what will you do?
What, will you keep a mean then betwixt either?
Or will you love me, and yet hate me too?

Michael Drayton, Idea’s Mirror

What tangle of limbs, once forsaken, foregone, accounts for the foreign misery of one’s own self-loathing? Those tendrils of recollection, those sinews of remorse, when smoke curls from my lips and I eat air like essence, drink wine like holy water, drown myself in a life prescribed, a life not mine: my blood boils with unquiet desire until beneath my splintering bones, the nightmare starts. Commence, then, my manifest unrest: I am ready, as ever. Of course. A heart left bare in no one’s keeping, every piece wrenched back in savage indictment–even still, I writhe. I blister, always, or splinter like glass. I strive to live like my own smoke, insubstantial, exhaled. I kill and keep what is not mine: in gradients of redemption, redemancy, recompense, my muscles seize at the sun-scorched sky. What splendor, what valor, is to be found in this? I burn and sigh and slight my own regard. I disavow my own memories, my own efforts, my own love.

Even now, I recall glimpses of that which my remorse has yet wrought: those slipping, sordid whispers in the silence of the night. I see, so very clearly, that by which I wish to have been blinded: no dimly mirrored reflection, but myself, my self, and him, alive, when he told me what I wasn’t, what I was, and when I wondered, when I tried. There have been so many others since those strange, regretful hours: already, the touch and smell of him has been wrenched from my limbs. He is only a horror-show memory now. I am forgiven. I am clean.

I still, sometimes, find a moment worth living for. My body tastes like music then: soft and shivering with the pleasure of its own sensation, the hallowed, searing underside of every stolen touch, the warm and living movement of my strange, desirous skin. I must look so wrong, to all of you. So unrepentant. So unwell. The bruises are livid between my thighs: in screaming patterns of shifting weight, I ache. I sense my own suffering. The savage purples and the brilliant, snarling shades of red; my hair is shorn and uneven against my scalp, pale patches of skin showing through. I am so far from whole. I think I always will be.

But my scars are fading. So, too, is my wild, tameless fervor, my lovely burning melancholy, the rapture of my joy. I am trying to be quiet and good. I am trying to be normal and safe. I am trying to be better, but it just feels like dying. I resent this. Does no one else know the sensation? That insufferable boredom, tempered only by that which you fear becoming, the wrenches of discontent, the vicious onslaught of untempered disrepair? The rapid intake of each cold breath, the sheer helpless fear of this world? What is it, this longing, this lack of mine? This nameless want is easier, so much easier, to ascribe to some living soul, but I do not have that any longer. When I sleep, if I sleep, I sleep alone. When will all that utter emptiness, those ruptures in my soul that I fill with cheap spirits, and rough affections, and letters, books, words–my hallowed floods of text–fade into a memory I might withstand? What happened to me? And why?

Ghosts of this past year are returning still, in every form I know to seek. Accusations and atonements, arresting brown eyes and a guarded, despicable mind; a heart self-slain by such unfathomable apathy, and the memories by which I now make a name. I still taste blood upon my lips, his fingertips, our clothes; the specter clings; he haunts me still. It is not a question of affection anymore. This is not longing. This is the sheer consequence of what a single presence has done to me.

I was left in so much pain that day, a stricken shape of singed, sliced skin and twitching limbs. Not a person, not even a body: just a mutilated mass of misery made manifest, barely conscious of each hateful breath that I drew. Even now, I am unable to endure the very notion of his presence, never mind the physical truth. Mistake me not, I feel no loss, no sorrow: only shame and savage loathing and an ever-present, sickening fear. His memory will plague me until I learn why I allowed myself to be treated so in the first place. No action could have undone me more–not even the one that I made possible myself, in the dawn of that cold grey morning, when I wondered if he might find me down among the concrete, his bedside windows opened wide, his drapes imbibed with prisms of wind. I wanted so badly to lay it all to rest. But it never happened. It will never happen. It could never have happened. And so here I stand, still alive, seeking respite. It really isn’t going to get any better, is it?

I wake up each morning, try to keep it all under control: take the fabric of another fucking day into my hands, and piece together ways to render the time more endurable. I am working cautiously to build, from the wreckage of what I really am, something steadfast and worthwhile. But I wonder if it will serve me any better, in the end. Disparate and hesitant, desirous and afraid–sometimes it feels like I am dying as I write. And yet, I am alive because I choose to be. How many others can say the same? And the first month is nearly past–so very nearly past.

I wonder and I wait, as patiently as I can, for the nameless expression of an answer I still seek. But there is no end to any of this. And what becomes of us, we who wander the prisms of unrest, striving for a love we will not find?

The obscure moon lighting an obscure world…
Where you yourself were never quite yourself
And did not want nor have to be.

Wallace Stevens, The Motive for Metaphor

I am sitting on my bedroom floor with a half-lit cigarette and a pair of shaking hands, listening to childhood records and writing about the person I used to be. Someone shouts outside my window: I flinch, then cower. My fingers grope and probe at my own cringing spine. The ridges snarl like kerosene beneath my touch. My body is turning feral again, I can feel it–but I resist. This is what the pills are for, the little communion tablets, white as narcissi, the ones that tear me to seizing pieces when I neglect to take them. This how I live now; forgetting, sometimes, that I am alive.

Too many times this summer, I awoke in tides of fresh despair; when the chemicals consumed my senses, and my own mother’s name evaded me; when she seized me by the wrist, by those awful yawning sores, and asked me why? Even recently, I spent hours inconsolable, solitary in bed, for my father had forgotten my birthday. I am not exactly living a satisfactory life. I am aware of that. But who is to blame, really? When I wandered away from my history of toxins and unrest, the cradle of my childhood burned all away, and I found myself here, like this. Alone.

I was dead in the beginning.
I was not ready to live at all.
I was irreverent.
I was invalid.
I was impaled upon the world.

I thought the best way to live was to care for people, to love them in any way that I could offer. Such naïveté was, perhaps, my earliest mistake. On the eighth night of October, I woke up from three months of uncertain misery, felt that anger and life inside of me at last, took to task the person who denied me the respect that I was owed, who egotistically reimagined my trauma as a love for him that I never felt. And it hurt, it seared like few things I have ever felt, to see him before me, remorseless, and understanding that nothing could ever make things right again, not ever, and wondering how two people could share so much and change so entirely, and marveling that any man could fail to care even faintly, and knowing with such certainty that I would relive that moment in my nightmares and my dissociations and my long dark moments for so many years to come. I hate this feeling, I hate having to know such a flat, hard, faceless anger. To see how much time I wasted being so certain of my own lack of worth. I accused him of these sins directly, demonstrated his own fraudulence, marked every score on my skin where his arrogance had bled me out. He asked, with false repentance, what he could do to make it better. I told him never to look at me again.

I might never recover from the shock and the repulsion of that, his reimagining of my illness as some signifier of his own desirability. The sheer presumption, the complete delusion, the utter lack of care it must have taken to know me for six months and never have learned to know me at all. But that is not my albatross, not anymore. I will not cower at the presence any longer, nor retreat within a diazepam-laced haze as the daylight drips away. This city is mine now. You will know it when they scream my name in the winding streets, the voices imploring the waning pallor of moon. My name is gouged into the skin of this world, where stars shriek and bones plummet burning from the sky; wherever I walk, I feel it in the currents of the air.

You say that I’m not trying, but I am, I am. I spent a whole summer trying. I am trying, my god am I trying, and every day is easier and more difficult than the last. You say I can come home if I want to, when I want to, but I can’t, I cannot, for that home isn’t mine. You say let it go, your father left and what can you do about it now, and why punish myself for his crimes, but I don’t know, I’ve never known. I simply have to live this out. It’s not that I’m ready. It’s just that it’s time.

So I implore this place to be more gentle, this time around. It is a terrible thing, to be so exposed. To walk like an ingrate, my ribcage cracked and my heart flung open towards the unknowing world; to be whatever the hell it is that I am, and always wondering whether everyone else might prefer if I were to be nothing at all. Redemancy is a virtue that I have never known.

So let there be no more memories. No more sobs when you see the mangled skin of my arms. No more static silence. No more bandages and rust-red stains. I have drawn my last blood. It is finished. It is done.

I have vowed this all before. I said I would come back, and with scarcely a memory of the health I once held, I have. Know this now: I will always come back to you. I’ve never been less certain of what a year might hold. But let it come. Maybe this time I will not cry each night, when the bedsheets cling cold to my skin, and I am alone, and afraid of it. Just let it come. I know what I am, and I’m learning to live with it. So let it come. Let it come. Let it come.

Let them see that we were not heroines or heroes at all.
But we believed passionately in our goals and we pursued them.
We were sometimes strong and sometimes we were very weak.

Alexandra Kollontai, in Bolshevik Feminist

A girl I knew vaguely, half a lifetime ago, recently wrote a staggering piece on abusive relationships; in a wrenching turn of language, of honesty, of recollection, she chronicled the untimely horrors of adolescence, the toxins of mistreatment, the devastating fate of far too many women at the hands of far too many men. By this single, blistering essay, I was left inspired and silenced; compelled to speak, yet unable to do so; burning to write, but lacking the language. The piece itself can be read here.

The aftermath of the article’s publication saw an outpouring of affected, astonished individuals, particularly girls and women, who expressed their gratitude, offered their shared strength, described their own experiences, and left lingering clauses of admiration and empathy. Watching from my position behind a computer screen, I was struck by these events–both the piece and its reception–in a strange and singular way. Even in the throngs of my own mind, with all of its involuntary cynicism, I saw beauty quite plainly in this.

From one woman’s act of tremendous courage, her full reckoning with and articulation of an agony-imbibed history, there had emerged an invaluable source of caution and solace for women anywhere and everywhere, which in turn engendered a responsive flood of acknowledgement, gratitude, and love. I realized then how lucky I am to be surrounded, directly and indirectly, implicitly and explicitly, in precise and arbitrary fashion alike, by women who write and think and feel in such extraordinary, authentic ways.

I am writing carefully now. To reorient the brilliance and raw potency of this piece around myself, to detract from its shattering impact in any way, would be despicable. I don’t want to do that, and in fact, I likely couldn’t; Alana’s text breathes diatribes of admission and power that I simply am not equipped to equal. As such, what I hope to communicate now is not self-serving recalibration, but deferential gratitude: I hope to contribute something modest of my own to the ethos of this wonderful piece by echoing, however inaptly, its model of honesty and strength. I am trying to extend the parameters of my own mind beyond my basic understandings of gender, sexuality and human love, in order to interrogate the individual and collective implications of an article such as this one.

I want to know the beauty and force inherent not only in this single excursion of language, this gorgeous scattering of text upon a page, but also in the response that it has elicited: the selflessness and courage that reverberates now across the threads of a webbed nexus, some online community that, before my very eyes, has exemplified the concept and the triumph of women loving, protecting, and uplifting other women in the modern world. I want to understand how it matters, what it means, for women to nurture and inspire and adore one another, openly and uninhibitedly, at this moment in time. And then I want to write about it.

I think that the deeply personal resonance of this event, and the manner by which I perceive it, is as physical as it is political. For me, the terms “woman” and “girl” are deeply conflicted: they are desirous, unfamiliar, constricting, sensual, and sacred all at once. I am a woman, of sorts. After all, I was called a girl when I was born, and named a woman when men assessed and affirmed my erotic value. And I have been loving women for all of my life.

It all started around the eighth grade, hastily and half in jest, with one shared kiss in the late summer; a stolen moment of sweetness that lingered like rosewater and raw honey upon my tongue, and altered eternally the cast of my desires. In the lifetime that followed, I learned a thousand forms of forbidden tenderness. A letter slipped between the panels of a locker. A hushed conversation in a bathroom stall. A smile or a glance in a middle school hallway. Shorn hair like cropped silk; diaphanous pastel brushstrokes; soft fingers that ran, searching, along the notches of my spine. A disheveled apartment in New York’s East Village. A ringing peal of laughter, like rain, in the Oxford streets. Amidst these scattered, near-infinite moments, there emerged the first person I ever thought to love sincerely: and in one intrepid summer of insolence and affection, she seared herself onto my heart. We met in motion beneath the waters, while the fractured moonlight cast off its pallor and crystallized her skin. I lost myself to the salient curves along her waist, the parting of her lips, the taste of salt as it broke like a wave-crest along my tongue. And there have been others, since then.

But back in the beginning, it was all very different. I was a girl from a small, normal town, who did not feel a small, normal love. There were a few like me, then, but we all sought to hide from one another, from ourselves, even as something wonderful was unfurling inside of us. In downcast eyes, glancing skin, and gently stretching limbs, we all were afraid. Sometimes, I still am.

Five years almost to the day of that first, clandestine kiss, forty-nine queer people, largely of color, were executed in a nightclub in Orlando. And although I certainly did not share every experience or identity of those targeted in the carnage, I felt this loss directly: I buckled beneath the gore-smeared violation of a place where people who felt different, in ways both like and unlike the ways that I felt different, could come together and live and love and not feel quite so different anymore. The notion alone of this reckless hate in such a space was enough to physically sicken me.

So I shared the blinding horror and uncertain misery of that afternoon with just one woman: a figure still sometimes shrouded in allegory, for reasons that even now, as they lay forgotten across the vast Atlantic, wrench the raw nerves and contours of my heart. We received the news in a blinking disarray of text alerts and slowly unfolding coverage. We waited in silence for the nationwide address. Alone, together, in the bitter confines of my room, we saw the president on our computer screen, confirming those forty-nine dead. We watched a national, cultural, and spiritual catastrophe unfold. We lit cigarettes. We held each other. We both cried.

Three months later, I lay back on an artist’s table as another woman, dark-eyed and steady-handed, preformed for me a burning art. In the searing rise and fall of a needle against my skin, imbued with the scorching, writhing intimacy of the carefully applied ink, she emblazoned upon my shoulder that old symbol of resistance: a small triangle in holocaust pink. Its impression still whispers with the potency and pain of those hours spent learning of the horror in Orlando: that wonderful girl and her gentle embrace, my tearstained countenance, our grief.

In this rough and uncertain reality, girls love girls because they can, because they must. Because this world can be beautiful; but too often, it is callous, unassuming, and cold. Of course, I have loved men too, in many different ways: I recall now with soft, confused tenderness the young man with the sad, shadowed eyes like pale winter morning, and the cruelty of his chrome-tongued successor. I think fondly of my friends and my brothers. I grieve for my father.

But to love another woman is a hallowed art: a practice sanctified by generations of camaraderie, self-preservation, and quiet, transgressive desire. And of course, it is not an exclusively romantic or physical act; nor it constrained to any single “female” identity. I know and cherish multitudes of women who are neither lovers nor figures of desire: we are merely joined, all of us, in the terrible beauty of our difference. Womanhood, as I conceive it, is not a question of physical terminology; thus, the word, “girl,” as I employ it here, is not meant to be exclusive or binding. I hope it can be read as just one of many terms used to signify and celebrate those who have practiced, for centuries, the art of affection, of tenderness, of solidarity; who have been those certain kinds of children, those bent and branded things called girls: raised to be girls, afraid to love girls, or living in bodies that made their parents and teachers call them the wrong names.

I still see them all now, down in the city streets, luckless or genderless, queer or unwell, ignored or abused, shattered or blank-faced, with hearts like gaping mouths, with memories that bite like pale tongues of fire, with entire universes of cautious hope contained in the depths of their eyes. I want to protect them. I want to be their mother, their sister, their brother, their lover, their friend. Not their father, of course, for I have had enough of fathers–but I long to show them some better, more blameless life. I want to love and live for them in all of the ways that so many women have loved and lived for me. This, alone, is my womanhood. It knows no definition by which it may be condemned or constrained.

Those who have known or cared for me, as a lover, or a pupil, or a classmate, or a patient, or a friend, or merely as a fellow woman, have made my mind something closer to whole. A thousand names flood my tongue. The pages I turned in a childhood closet as I came to know that I was neither alone nor forsaken: Barnes, Lorde, Woolf, Bechdel, Sappho, Rich. Every girl who has shared my bed, or calmed my soul, or read my writing, or cut my hair; who steadied my shaking hands or consoled me when men taught me all the worst parts of what I am, and what can be done to me. The ones who wrapped my arms with bandages, played my guitar, wrote soft-edged annotations in the margins of lent books, let me wear their borrowed clothes, made me laugh, made me feel, asked me questions, told me stories in the night. These women took the shattered parts of me, and soldered my skin together with their own hearts–they kept me alive when the surgical knife could not.

And so I have come to be, fully, that which I always was: a girl who loves girls in this strange new century. And we are not writing, or speaking, or loving, or fucking, or living, or dying, for you. We are for each other. We are for ourselves. In our shared and varied affections, we desire and astound. Our learned affections break the binds of known convention: we ring out through the silence with insurrectionary love. The blinding cast of our hearts subdues an expressionless stillness as, echoing, astonishing, aspiring, we express.

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard

I stumbled outside in a blinding thrall of whiskey and rainwater, defenseless, indefensible, and blistering to the core. The howling world all but deafened me, the wonderful wetness pooling in garlands on my lips, my hair streaming out in tides of burnished red, like the dust that shrouds these mountains at dawn. I lived fleetingly in the bliss of an autumnal tempest, face upturned towards an arcane moon, my bare skin drenched and dripping as the rain soaked through my clothes. It still hurts, it always hurts, but this was not the savage scorch of summer, when the sunlight sinks talons into my chest. My body was shivering wet, and when I let the memories come, they felt different. I was not suffering, but mourning. It was not like missing a real thing–a thing with a pulse that might return to me. It was like missing something already dead. I knew then, really knew, that there was no coming back from this.

I wonder what it feels like to be loved irrevocably, without ultimatum. I know that he has been cared for in this way, for it was I who sought to do so. I am not ashamed of that. Not anymore. I am allowed to feel this. A longstanding subject of trauma and abuse, I am allowed to be angry with such inhumanity: such willingness to mimic the horrors of my history. I am allowed to write. To recall. To seek meaning. To stay breathing. To hold such people accountable. Because I am tired of blaming myself. I am tired of hurting myself. This is not some barbed romanticized lament; this is simply an acknowledgment of the damage inflicted upon me by one careless, pulse-bearing occupant of this earth. I would still give anything, anything at all, to chalk it up to some misunderstanding. To move on with the memories unmarred. But to do so now would be to degrade myself so thoroughly that even I, presumptive masochist, could never attempt the act. Plath wrote once that every woman adores a fascist; but I will not deify my own deserter twice. The fact that I could survive him does not mean that I should have had to.

You know who you are. You’ve known for a long time yet. So know now that while I loved you, and often have, I do not forgive you. What you have wrought upon my flesh is not forgivable. You knew who I was, what I was anticipating, how this would ruin me. You did it anyways. You watched me face the gallows and senselessly, knowingly, you added misery to the act. You are not clean. And hell, if I could not love what mutilated me, then how could I ever endure my own self? So you are spared, once more, the filth and consequence of your own actions. But nineteen scars along my body now belong to the arbitrary silence of your still-living soul; and those nineteen jagged marks are more than you are worth.

I know that I lost nothing useful in the end. Nothing real. Just a fiction that took whatever I had to give, and offered precious little in return. All I ever gained from your positionality within my life was that which I, myself, projected upon the presence. The health that I would have sworn you had inspired in me was, I know now, mine all along. Yes, it was me–it was always me. The brilliance of sensation, the way my body sprang to life like a miracle: I am it, for Christ’s sake, I am everything. You could have been anyone, for I alone made my revival possible.

But there was a time when this did not hurt at all. Oh, how I remember you: this body recalls what it once loved. Whatever else has happened since, you did care for me. And why should two souls share a half-year of such affections, only to squander it all with clinical apathy? But that was your choice: it would never have been mine. I’ve seen enough already of such beautiful, barbaric acts. I knew that I was ready for an ending, but I could never have prepared myself for this. Twice now, in one lifetime, I have loved something that would just as soon have allowed me to die. Heaven knows how I waste my own time like this, when I have so little of it to spare. But I relent. I will not seek answers that aren’t worth their own telling, will not endeavor to make sense of this any longer. You have rendered yourself well beyond what I am capable of comprehending or caring for.

May whatever satisfaction eluded you in our time together be yours now. But know this: as surely as I once cared for you, and as surely as I have bled for that mistake, I know that you will one day read this, and feel things I don’t understand. Don’t want to understand. Don’t care to understand. And even if you don’t–it will not matter in the slightest. Because someday, when your luck runs out, you will remember everything. 

That first night in the bathroom dim with cigarette smoke, when you drank in every half-formed phrase I offered. Later, my body wrenching with the tremors of a terror long deferred, until you took my face in your hands and moved with consecrated patience as from above you I glanced down. The mornings of our first connection, sensuous and calm. Kubrick films on a dormitory floor. Haunting strains of melody in an imprecise, minor key. My blood upon the bedsheets. How you always held my left hand in your sleep. The hours of affection, lying beneath you, both of us laughing and so alive. When you ran your fingers through my hair as I played your piano in the evenings. How I wrote, well into the dawn, with your sleeping form pressed against my bare heart, and tried not to wake you when I climbed through the window to smoke and watch the sunrise. The first night of spring, when I began, at last, to succumb to the specter of my illness, and you held me in silence, amidst a growing stillness, and I was safe, and simply cared for. The reckless nights that followed, chasing shadows upon the moonlit canals. The days when your absence made me wonder and wait. The time you were uncertain, even afraid, and allowed your head to fall against my chest like you had never been held before. How I wept with joy when, at last, my muscles did not spasm in pain any longer. The last time you saw me, my form all starved and burned and beautiful, and you had already undone me once, but we tried anyways, tried to say goodbye, tried with champagne and empty promises to amend the history we had forged and tarnished as one. The last steps I took down that narrow, winding staircase, towards home and solitude and blank hospital walls, as you watched from the threshold of the door. The empathy and uncertainty; the lovely and meaningless words that you wrought. 

Remember yet? Remember now? Remember me? And on it goes. I scarred and killed and cried for nothing. This all returns to what it was, as though it always wasn’t. Too many people have been forced to watch as I compromised my own efforts towards recovery, worsened my already precarious health, sacrificed the energy that I needed so desperately in some brutal, senseless struggle to come to terms with what you never even bothered to explain. Now, it is time to stop trying. Nothing can alter what a body remembers; and no one, I swear, knows this better than me. So I am wrenching out every trace of you: I refuse to suffer the consequences of your cowardice any longer. I will abandon this, still contemptuous and completely alive, while you share the past with our formless, foreign horror. I expel you like an affliction: your name will fall no longer from my pen or from my lips. Your value is utterly spent.

No flesh, no heart can stay open forever: and my wounds, once gaping, have closed off like an iris. I am sure that your bruises, those gorgeous impressions I once wrought with my teeth, have faded away as well. So go on living, for as long as you can, some life like a viper; low and imbibed with the venom of what you cannot face. But you are no serpent, you are mere flesh. You cannot shed your own history so easily.

Even now, kid, I am a part of your skin. And I do not envy you that.

Suicides are always judged as if they were admissions of defeat, but one can take the viewpoint that their having lived as long as they did is an accomplishment of a kind. Knowing herself suicidal as a very young girl, Virginia Woolf resisted—made heroic attempts to attach herself to the exterior world—as did Anne Sexton—as do we all. Why not concentrate on the successes, the small and large joys of these lives, the genuine artistic accomplishments? After all, anyone and everyone dies; the exact way can’t be very important. 

Joyce Carol Oates, The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates, 1973-1982  

Our culture does not speak openly of suicide, or of the presently suicidal. Such content is an unnamed notion in the periphery of our lives. The ever-present threat inherent within many an errant phrase or earnest intention, it is seldom articulated as an ongoing fact. The term “suicidal” itself is, in our collective consciousness, always temporally bound. One might commit suicide, or attempt suicide, or have once been at risk of doing so, but the chronology is diametric. Linguistically and culturally, the phenological application of the phrase “suicidal” to existence implicitly anticipates that word’s own ending—logically, one either recovers from their depressive state, and so ceases to be suicidal, or one commits suicide successfully, and so ceases to be any number of adjectives, “suicidal” among them.

So, to exist in our society while wanting to die (or having tried to), and while the quality of that urge is still latently or consciously present, is nothing short of extraordinary. In a culturally enforced narrative of health and redemption (where “recovery” is medically possible but entails a total expunging of the death impuls),  or in the artistic spectacle of failed annihilation (where the Plathian miracle-skin rises, like Lazarus from the ashes), or in the self-inflicted deaths and subsequent deification of figures like Hemingway, Wallace, or Cobain, there seems to be no place for those of us who are both and neither.

Yet we do exist. We are quite possibly everywhere. We are the margins and ruptures of everyday life. We are not immediately ‘at risk’ of dying; nor are we ‘threatening’ to die (though, to be clear, such terms are reductive, accusatory and pseudo-clinical and should serve solely as a comparative cultural function herein). On the contrary, we hold down jobs and places at universities. We have stable relationships and we sometimes start families. We are, or can be, suicidal the entire time. I know this as fact because I am one such person.

To write this terrifies me, because I am unyieldingly afraid of how it will be received. ‘Suicidal’ is not a term that I want ascribed to me. ‘Suicide’ is not a notion that I want to be associated with. I am not tragic or irreparable or incapable of a worthwhile existence. I do not wake up in the morning and hate being alive. As a matter of fact, I hardly hate anything, and my life least of all. I am filled with love. I love my family. I love my friends. I love writing. I love music. I have ambitions. I want to be around for a long time yet. But this does not change, and can never change, the biological circumstances that have rendered my unmedicated mind incapable of sustaining life on its own. Consciously, it wants to. But it cannot and never could. I am not always depressive in the clinical sense. But, like a diabetic needs insulin, I need serotonin to survive, and my neurochemistry does not produce adequate amounts on its own. I cannot live without it. Because without it, I will want, and possibly try, to die.

In a strange, depersonalized way, this can make me feel like I have become public property. To be medicated as I am medicated, and for the purposes that I am medicated, makes me not entirely my own. I carry the diagnostic hypotheses of others in my bloodstream. Their concerns and convictions, actualized as pharmaceutical reality, begin to slow my pulse, strain my libido, and alter my neurochemistry. Sometimes, they take my own consciousness away from me.

This is my relationship to therapists, doctors, and surgeons. I am the walking measure of their success. I am the body that they have been tasked with keeping alive.

They posit; I disprove.

They prescribe; I ingest.

They instruct; I live.

In this very physical sense, I am more alive than anyone, because I am living somebody else’s idea of health. It isn’t me, not entirely; but then again, it is, because it is what I have to do. And I can do it. I am happy to do it. It could be so much worse.

But it also accounts, perhaps, for the foolish stabs of pride I feel on the rare occasions when diazepam cannot calm me, or sertraline cannot elevate my mood, or lithium cannot balance my mind. In those moments, I remember that somewhere, beneath all of this medically sanctioned self-cannibalization, some small part of my body is still fighting to exist on its own terms: the terms of my birth. However begrudgingly, however unwisely, I sometimes catch myself cherishing that. Because one of my greatest fears is that my autopsy will be marred by some throwaway line about “recreational” use—when, in truth, there has rarely been anything at all recreational in my usage. Usually, I am just trying to do all of the things that most people take for granted, like quell the tremors, or calm the sobbing, or get some sleep. Yes, the medications scare me. They always have.

Oates surmises this better than I ever could. In the introductory quotation of this post, she describes the astonishing, herculean triumph of a woman like Virginia Woolf, who bound herself to the wonder and grief of existence for fifty-nine long years, suicidal the entire time. When she finally moved towards her own death, alone at the bottom of the sea, can it really have mattered whether such an action signified the tragic lack of timely access to contemporary chemicals, or the sheer relief of a body that, having labored under a single illness for its entire lifetime, finally managed to find some semblance of peace?

For me, this post, this extended meditation on suicide, is the farthest thing from a threat. It is not a warning sign. It is not a cry for help. It is a plain assessment of what I, and my doctors, have always known. The potential health risks that accompany any failure on my part to walk, as Plath once wrote, “carefully, precariously, like something rare.” Mine is the dream of a normal death. My goal is to maximize any model of health that allows me to find fulfillment until I meet, someday, with a bodily and spiritual ending that does not occur by these same hands that I use to write, and create, and make love.

In writing this, I hope not only to illustrate my own state of being (which is, by comparison, an exceedingly manageable one), but also to shed some light upon the reductive cultural views that frame the suicidal human condition as dichotomous and deeply flawed—a triumph if it results in a “natural” death, or a failure when it does not. It will never cease to astonish me how fundamentally incapable we are of reckoning with the notion of the suicidal body as anything other than a temporally restricted subject. Healing has never been, and never will be, as simple as that. Many of us will engage in long, full, promising lives without ever foregoing our medical status as chronically suicidal. This can be done. In fact, it is done more often than any onlooker might expect. But for us, such life is not a gift, but a hard-earned and double-edged victory.

So, it certainly seems, as Oates has written before me (and far more coherently), that to negotiate a lived suicidal existence, for any measure of time, should be considered a triumph. Such a life requires tremendous strength, endurance, and loyalty to the ones who love us: an irrevocable passion for our “attach[ments]…to the exterior world.” Regardless of the nature of one’s eventual ending, and in stark opposition to common belief, I am of the conviction that the possession and articulation of the suicidal condition is neither despondent nor self-serving. On the contrary, it is tremendously selfless—an honest, committed, and ongoing act of courage.

Perhaps even of love.