Author’s note: I don’t like coming off this pathetic and depressing—I don’t. I know that’s been the tone of many of my recent posts, and I’m sorry. I also want to just let everyone know I’m fine. I’m ok. I’m okay.
Yesterday I got the results of one of my many non-degree-related “experiments”: the genderfuck. I was called into a photo studio to review some of the images taken of me following my pseudo-make-over, and as the studio sales girl flipped through the portfolio I was overcome with discomfort and anxiety. The images were hideous; they failed to capture the same Sonia who was mischievously marauding Adelaide days prior. Instead I found a monstrosity looking back at me through the film, a misshapen mass disfigured from years of testosterone poisoning and unfortunate genetics—neither female nor male, not human. Monster.
About midway through the photo slide-show, the sales girl asked me, “I’m just curious, are you changing your sex?” A lead weigh smashed through my rib cage and pushed me down into my seat. As my mind began to fog, I replied, “I hate to be rude, but that’s none of your damn business.” I tried to quickly rebuild my defences, but that damning blow had already been dealt. I hastened my exit, breathing hard as I walked back home. Slamming my bedroom door behind me, I crashed into my bed, screaming the words “Fuck” and “Cunt” through clenched teeth and heaving sobs. I reached for my hand mirror and started beating it against my knee, determined to smash the glass and use the shards to carve a new map across my skin, write the confessions of my monstrous self, lay my sins bare in blood for the world to see.
I don’t know how people like Amanda Simpson are strong enough to even stand in the face of the cruelty of others; I can barely keep sane with the voices in my head, let alone any derision from the world. It’s been a year since I last harmed myself—one hour in that photo studio and I was ready to through that year away, ready to reach for that razor again and mutilate my body until the world couldn’t help be see the monster I am—until I looked as broken and malformed as I felt, and the suspicions of other were confirmed: I’m a freak show. It’d be alright then; I would scarred, but it would be ok. I’d be the one doing the hurting this time—my choice. The old justifications felt warm and comfortable. Over the subsequent 24 hours I’ve had suicidal thoughts colliding across my consciousness: how long would it take for the question of my absence to spark the search to uncover my body—questions of how my parents would handle an international suicide, wondering how long it would take the news to break on facebook...wondering if those people would ever find out what had happened.
I had bought tickets to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs in concert and after weeks of patient waiting the show was upon me. Unsurprisingly, my suicidal ideation retarded my desire to go. I contemplated staying home, hiding under my covers, but was ultimately spurred on by past regrets. I walked the 2.3 km to the theatre, stood in line, and waited for one of my favourite bands to take the stage.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs in concert—Karen O in the flesh—is pure euphoria. Something happened to me, sitting in my seat in the balcony. I felt the vibrations of the guitar and drums pounding across my skin, penetrating down, rattling my bones. I felt Karen’s voice pierce my chest, pull apart my shattered rib cage and shock my heart into beating again. The lyrics and visual stimulants—Karen O’s legendary stage antics, the explosive lights, the neon and the glitter—swiftly diffused across my blood/brain barrier and took hold of my consciousness and ran. Something happens when the beat fills your flesh, the sights engross your vision, lyrics conquer your mind, and sound fills your ear canals—suddenly the waves of bodies between you and the stage, the atmosphere thick with sound canvassing the air between you and the band, the sea of electrons between your soul and the music—it all vanishes because you become one...one with the music...one with that blissful euphoria.
After the concert, I ran the 2.3 km back home, full of energy from the show, burning with passion and reanimated with the sound. The fears, anxieties, and depression, for the time, abolished, and in their stead was hope. Hope for reclamation.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs send out the message, “Don’t give a shit, and just be whatever you want.” I’m still wondering how I can be whatever I want despite the limits of my body (despite the seething self hatred that boils up every now and again), but I figure I’ll get there in time. And for your information, Mr. Mclean, music can save your mortal soul, even from its own tendencies to self-destruct. For this moment, I exist in the music, and I feel free. I feel: free.
Skeletons by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Love, my name
Love, left dry
Frost or flame
Skeleton me
Fall asleep
Spin the sky
Skeleton me
Wait, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Skeleton me
Skeleton me
Soon comes rain
Dry your eyes
Frost or flame
Skeleton me
Fall asleep
Spin the sky
Skeleton me
Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Love, don't cry
Skeleton me
Skeleton me
I have to admire your courage to have a photo shoot, i couldn't! an I was a photographer in ages past. My passport is reaching renewal and despite still having a picture of a terrorist in the old one I find it hard to face the critical gaze of a lens. No need for me to self harm, I did a lifetimes worth by falling face first onto broken glass as a child ending all hopes of beauty. Luckily few in this world are beautiful except in the biased eyes of their beloved if they ever find such a person so I just have to make do with what I have. Being ice bound and in the depths of winter I find myself a bit down so taking your example I am off to find some suitable resuscitation music.
ReplyDeleteCaroline XXX
The struggle hasn't lessened for me through the years, but overpowering it now is what it would do to my grandchildren...
ReplyDeleteThe photographer's failure to capture "you" is why only a certain handful of them obtain fame; they genuinely care about finding you, not the paycheck at the end of the week. They are a rarity and their gifts and talents worth every penny they earn.
When words and tears would fail me I used to retreat into music, playing, bending "blue notes" that could express all that I couldn't. In the years since my teeth haven't allowed that, it's harder, though the music of others can find it's way sometimes as do the powerful and magical words I find here...
I am grateful to you for them!
alan
Yet another testament to the power of music to revive and nourish our souls. I am so very, very glad you made the decision to go to that concert. And I'm glad that you're in my world.
ReplyDeleteBlessings,
Abby