The first time I blacked out from drinking too much was October 9, 2010 during my freshman year of college after being set up on a blind date to a dance. The blind date part was intentional–that was the entire point of the dance, everyone was being set up. I remember the guy. In fact I actually became pretty goods friends with him a year later…after we managed to forget or at least ignore that I made out ferociously with him on in the dining-hall-turned-dance-floor and then three months later had a spectacularly miserable fling with his suitemate. But I digress. Though I can’t remember much from that night–I didn’t even manage to get out of the pregame before blacking out–the memories I do have, be they snippets of a strobe light through a hazy fog of alcohol or clear, crisp images of running away from an RA through freshman campus, remind of how much that moment SUCKED. The worst part wasn’t realized until the Monday afterward when someone I barely knew at the time started reminding me of things I didn’t even I know did. Of how I made a fool of myself. Given myself a fake name and run barefoot, heels in hand across the cold grass and then nearly passed out over a railing threatening the vomit of a century. Yelled loudly about how I never throw up and how, no, they don’t need to bring me a trashcan. Of how I tried to make my date constantly touch my boobs. Of how I berated a friend of a friend telling her she wasn’t cuter than me. Sometimes, I wish I could properly remember that night, but most days, I’m just glad it was my freshman year of college, that everyone was in the same haze of alcohol-induced idiocy, and that I can laugh about things I don’t even remember.
Author Archives: mashedupmemories
Sometimes I Write Bad Sexual Poems
This is one of those times. I don’t mind though, because the sex was nice and I was happy in that moment and this poem will always remind me of that.
Legs
your body is the reason
I wish I could draw.
The shadow in your thigh
that crevasse, the creation of
your muscle tensing
as my fingertips bite
into your flesh. How my thumb
skims that ridge, feels the tension pulsate
through the heartbeat in my hand
as you arch back, push
your chest against mine. A growl—
born from the flexing of your
foot as it stretches, tight enough
to make me feel a rubber band
about to burst, coursing through the rugged
ribcage that pounds beneath me. A crescendo
erupting, a language only I know, like
gravel and salt and crashing tides
that coat my neck, melt
into my skin.
The House with the Comforter
When I was little my brother and I used to play our own version of House. There were never parents. No, parents had too many rules. Nobody cooked either. Food wasn’t a necessity. Nobody was a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. No one went to school or cleaned their room. Most of the time we weren’t even people. We would argue over who was the dog and who had to be the cat. Sometimes, one of us was the baby. Just the baby and the pet. They took care of each other, they didn’t need anyone else to make sure they made it ok. We would throw the extra guest room comforter on the family room floor and crawl underneath. It was thick and suffocating and covered in a garish 80s floral print, but we didn’t care. It was just us, in our world, talking in grunts or barks or high-pitched meows.
Now, he sleeps under his striped comforter and I under mine. He yells at me if I sit on his bed, and my bedroom is at the end of the hall, door always closed. That old 80s comforter has long been donated. I learn about his world by stalking his facebook posts, reading snippets of his blog. He doesn’t even know mine exists. Now, only my dog hangs out under my comforter. He doesn’t understand my human barks.
Self-Perpetuated Loneliness
I was originally going to write about fear today, but after receiving an email from a friend and coming to a startling and sad realization, I’ve decided instead to focus this post on loneliness.
I used to think that I was the only person that felt lonely without reason. Reason being something concrete and measurable, like having no friends, or no confidant, or no one who would ask how your day was going or if you wanted to grab a cup of coffee before class. I used to think that loneliness was all in my head, a concept I fabricated when I was frustrated or on my period and craving chocolate and surprise delivery of deep red roses from an anonymous admirer. But now I think loneliness is more like a blanket that covers the entire world, and it really isn’t loneliness at all. It just this big sheet of warmth and comfort that we can drag down from this metaphorical sky I’ve created and wrap around us. It’s like the rainbow parachute from preschool; we all grab a corner and lift it up in the air, hovering underneath it as it rises above us, casting multi-colored shadows over our circle of friends and lovers and families. Sometimes though, just like when we were little kids, afraid of the dark, we cocoon ourselves inside of it, all alone, in the hopes that in someway we will be protected from those who can break our hearts, stain our spirits.
My friend calls it self-perpetuated loneliness. I’d never thought of it that way. Self-perpetuated? That sounds like I’m the only one doing anything wrong. Are you telling me that there is really nothing for me to be afraid of? That I’m purposefully swaddled in these sheets, shuttered out from the world by my own volition? But when I think of it, that is exactly what loneliness is: self-perpetuating, “prevailing without any external agency.” If loneliness were anything else, it couldn’t exist. It would mean that someone else would be in that blanket with you, fighting for the covers, sharing body heat and maybe even conversation. No. Loneliness must be self-perpetuating because it comes from the idea that everyone outside of that blanket is in this together, and only you or I or he alone here is lonely.
Loneliness seems so easy to overcome when I look at it this way. Just share the blanket, right? But it so much easier then it sounds, because if you share, then they know that you are lonely and that there is something wrong with you because how could you not have a hundred friends in this billion person world, and how can you feel isolated when there are parties every weekend and Girls-Drink-Free Thursdays at the bar across the street, and how can you be sad when no one visits you in your fifth floor dorm, when really there is no elevator and what do expect from college kids who have a pool table in the basement?
And it’s not just that loneliness is this creature that nobody talks about. It sneaks up on you. You don’t even realize that you’re in the blanket all by yourself until you’re sweating through it, unable to move. By that point it feels too late.
I know what this is like.
It’s my surrogate suite. My best friend’s suite, and my old best friend’s suite. The four other guys they live with, not my best friends, just normal friends. I drink here a lot. Normally it’s more festive than this, but today I’m sitting on their beer-coated floor, nudging away old pizza boxes, guzzling cheap strawberry champagne out of a Heineken mug. No one who actually lives here is present, but their door is always unlocked and I often wonder if its more for my sake than theirs. They really are good friends. They each have their purpose. Oh god, that makes them sound like utensils, not people. But I don’t want them to be people today, I want them to be objects. I want to sit in the middle of their common room with noise-proof headphones blaring Ingrid Michaelson invisible to them as they walk by. Because this is how I feel. They know nothing of how I feel. They don’t know that the boy to whom I never gave my heart managed to break it. They don’t know that I hate myself for this. They don’t know that I cry on benches across campus. That I cry in their basement. In their bathroom. A part of me wants to tell them this; a bigger part wants them to figure it out on their own. I cry more when I realize they never will.
This was the last bout of self-perpetuated loneliness I had my sophomore year. At the end of that scene I finally wrote a letter to my best friend explaining all of the horrible things I was feeling. He wrote back, and now, even though I can reread what I wrote to him, it just doesn’t seem as painful or serious. We need to share the blanket if we want to stay warm. And we need to know that sometimes people leave our blanket tent, and that doesn’t mean we are alone. It just means that someone else is going to come in and join us.
Remember
As far back as I can remember I’ve had a desire to be remembered. Remembered isn’t even the right word. Anyone can remember me; my name, my height, that time they ran into me on their bike, that time I ran into a tree on my bike, that time we took a bat to the vet because it had run into a bike. But these are just events, statistics, random facts that give insight into who I am around other people.
What I really want is for people to understand what is going on in my head. I want people to know me (I don’t want to say “as I really am” because the cliche is so dramatic and unnecessary) but I want them to know me beyond what they see. I want them to know how I think, how I process ideas and events, and above all, what I remember.
Memory is everything. Memory defines history. Memory creates our character. Memory decides how we live our lives. Anything that we have ever remembered shapes us in some way, whether we acknowledge it or not. It may affect us subconsciously, or it may be on the surface of our minds at all times, determining how we act, what we say, how we view people.
This blog is a humble attempt to cement my memories. It is futile, I know. Ultimately, everything will be gone, memory perhaps the first to go. But I’d like to think that somewhere along the line of my life, I will be able to look back on this blog and remember how I felt when I was twenty, or recall how I perceived an event that happened in high school while I was in college. I’ve noticed that as people grow older they certainly grow wiser, but their perspectives change, and with these changes comes a loss of ability to remember how one thought when they were younger. I think I fear that above all else; the loss of connection to the person I used to be.
Hopefully, through this blog I’ll be able to prevent that.
Mashed Up Memories 