Eskimo Sister Blues

March 7, 2013 at 12:10 am (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Last night I went to a punk rock show on the bad side of Cherokee street. After dark, the little mom and pop taco stands shut down and the salvation army shutters its store front. I do not dare walk alone on this street for fear of being accosted by roaming droves of wild men, throwing me lines like, “where your man at”, and, “what’s your sign?”. If I’m lucky, one of these wanderers offers to “throw me my number”. Not once have I responded in a positive manner to these people. I often wonder if that works for them in other areas of their lives.

I start the night with half a bottle of Seagrams whiskey and a bowl courtesy of my friend Kaj. He had come dashing to my rescue earlier from the clutches of West County. I was in a strange way by the time we made it to the venue. The car ride over from his apartment was peppered with talk of an egg salad orgy in a whiskey fever. I said in earnest, if that was the weirdest the night gets, I will be disappointed. We roll up to mushmaus completely wide eyed and bushy tailed, looking for any excuse to act badly. The venue is about 45% cleaner than when it was inhabited by its former tenants. There is noticeably less garbage smell. The room is fitted with giant bay windows and hardwood floors. There’s some sort of colored film over the fluorescent ceiling lights. I sit alone on the floor against the wall, drinking my 54 oz diet coke and Seagrams concoction. I didn’t really feel like running around and being social in the state I was in. I sat there and watched as the place started to mill about me. People drunkenly swerving about like some sort of sad spectacle. There’s a hum of chit chat punctuated by ear splitting guffaws from drunk girls. My social anxiety lessens as I stare at what it means to be young and hip these days. Yes, this is my grandfather’s Lacoste sweater and no, you can’t have it.

Kaj leaves me to babysit his backpack full of beers as he goes off to schmooze. I awkwardly check my facebook and laugh at peoples’ attempts to woo one another. It’s maybe eight o’clock and I hate people already. I should stay off whiskey I decide. The lights dim, people congregate, punk rock happened. Austin pacing through the crowd as he bopped along to his garage made hits. The drummer Kyle did his best Meg White impersonation while dressed as the Tommy Lee Jones Two-Face. There was broken glass everywhere. I vaguely remember someone picking it up and eating it. Things got hazy at some point, but that’s to be expected.

The next band, Dad Jr. eventually is given the green light to set up their stuff. For some reason no one can explain, Zach is bleeding upon arrival to the show. Some one apparently gave him a teddy bear to wipe it off with. They ended up throwing the blood covered animal around for a while from what I gather. I also was informed that the whole band ended up with splatter on them somewhere. It’s not a party until someone gets hurt or humiliated right? During act 2, Zach also was waving around a large QT similar to my own. Prior to this, Zach had talked about peeing on stage or at his shows many times. I see the yellowish liquid sloshing about in the cup and instantly kno where this is going. I retreat to the back of the venue, hoping to avoid the splash zone. Zach takes a swig of the piss cup. A girl in front pleads with him to let her drink from the same cup. He tries to warn her. She says she doesn’t care what was in it, Zach shrugged his shoulders and handed the plastic piss vessel to the broad. Zach watched with a look of shock and amazement on his burly viking face. The set was ended with a thorough thrashing of equipment and general chaos.

Another band plays, they rock, I dance drunkenly with my Eskimo sisters. As we stood there, the three of us, Grace just says,” Am I going to be the one who says it?”. I reply, “oh you mean the fact that the three of us are Eskimo sisters?”. She lets out that trademark cackle and nods. I shake my head. I try to explain how it’s no good, that there’s something bizarre about the incestuousness of South City. I yammer on about how I have had my share of bad experiences. I think no one ever has the balls to say what they want at this age and I find this the most confounding.

I know it’s hard to accept guys, but I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you to pay my way, or pick me up, or tell me how pretty I am. These things are nice and I do appreciate them, don’t get me wrong. The fact is, I don’t want a relationship right now. I want to have a guy I can call at 2 am no questions asked, no bullshit spewed. I don’t want to play these games with you sirs. I don’t want to be wooed unless you really think you are man enough to handle someone as amazing as me. In my experience, the guys who I like end up being misogynistic trash. I don’t want to compete with you, I don’t want to have to bend over backwards for you, and I certainly don’t want you to put me down. It’s that weird alpha behavior that people think is ok that makes me want nothing to do with relationships. Oh yeah you’re cool, I get it. I’m cool too. I’m not trying to dominate you or emasculate you because I know more about a band than you do. I’m not trying to pull some power trip on our date so why do you think that’s ok? Is that what you think women want or is that just how you are? Does it make you feel good to tell me how inferior I am to you in whatever way? That’s not what I want to sign up for dear readers. I want some one t treat me as their equal. I get it, I’m great. This comes off as narcissistic, I know. The fact is, I know I’m worthwhile. I know that I am a desirable and interesting human being. I like that people recognize this. I don’t however like being put on some sort of pedestal. I am not fit to be worshiped. In fact, it makes me seriously uncomfortable when people are over the top towards me. Can’t we just be friends who laugh at each other’s stupid jokes and lay in bed naked watching netflix all day? Why does interaction with the other sex have to always be some big to do? Are these standards really that hard to measure up to?

I get uncomfortably drunk after Bruiser Queen finishes playing. I walk outside and follow Kaj back to his car. I play look out as he pisses on some dark shop front. I drunkenly knock him back. We do that weird drunk glare thing. You know the one I’m talking about. I hear more glass breaking in the background somewhere. We leave back to the apartment. This is the point in the night where I want to fight/fuck/kill something. I am full of social contempt. I want to watch the world burn, as cliche as it is.

We make it back and another six or so people show up. Kaj disappears early on. I try to go find him and just end up kicking him in the chest a few times while he laid in his bed. I sit back on the couch. The conversation is going no where. I watch as Zach plays grab ass with some ginger girl on the couch. I have no idea who she is. I am bored and feeling spiteful. I see Adam talking to Gabby. I guess I’ve got another sister to add to the family. I crash hard on the couch, boots still on.


Permalink Leave a Comment

Steenie’s First Admission to Behavioral Health Inpatient Care

February 6, 2013 at 7:05 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , , )

This is the first post I am going to make of many detailing my time in the hospital. I spent four nights there total although it felt like weeks. This is for people who want to know what happened, I’m too sick of talking about it to explain anymore.


My mom keeps telling me I’m minimizing my suicidal feelings to the cops. She wants me to be admitted. She called an ambulance about twenty minutes ago and an officer is asking me questions. “Is there anything we should know about in this bag? Marijuana, cocaine?” I laugh at him and tell him there’s nothing that fun in there. I’m sitting in the back of the ambulance, an EMT is taking my vitals. He keeps asking me if I want to kill myself. I tell him, it’s fleeting. I show him the bruises on my legs that had blossomed into bizarre patches of brown and purple. I told him I did this. I want to be admitted.

On the drive to the hospital, he asks why I feel this way. He’s looking for an answer for my behavior and I don’t have one to give him. I tell him I can’t get out of bed most days. I tell him I have fits of panic and can become inconsolable. He tells me sometimes you have to just deal with it. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. I laugh.

He asks if I was on any drugs. I tell him no. It’s the truth. I understand a lot of mental health problems are mimicked by drug use. This for once is not the case. I am genuinely on the bottom of things, looking up. I’m trying to find a way out. I claw at myself. He tells me that drugs are a crutch and that I need to control myself. I cry quiet tears the whole ride to the ER.

The cops walk me into St. John’s. They carry my bag for me. They insist. My mom crawls out of the front seat of the ambulance and follows us in. We have to wait for a room to open up. It’s busy.

I am admitted to patient observation room 20. The TV is behind plexiglass. There are no hanging wires in this room and there’s a toilet underneath the sink. A large beige shutter hangs over the sink, I guess in case I’m deemed at risk and they’re afraid I might try to drown myself in the basin. There are also cameras situated in the top corners of the room, adjacent to each other.

The nurse walks into the room. She’s skinny, about my age, seems nice. This all may be due to her being new to the job still. I’m glad she’s relatively civil to me. She’s the only one to not bruise me while drawing blood throughout this process.
She tells me to take off my clothes. She continues to stand there. I ask, “you have to watch me?” She nods. I make some sort of joke and swing my hips at her.

I’m watching some commercial for the Hobbit after the nurse leaves with all my earthly belongings. I’m staying calm by jotting notes down. A cop is sent in to listen to my statement. I tell him everything about my crazy. My tantrums, my anxiety, my weeping, my fleeting thoughts about everything. I tell him about the fight with my mom that led me here for the second time. I tell him the battery of bruises are self-inflicted, that I have a history, “fleeting suicidal thoughts”. If i am to be admitted, if it’s not based on merit it will at least be based on principal.

My mom writes down the playbook of psych meds in my note book, coaching me. She tells me, “don’t take the depacote or the lithium.” I nod and laugh. She leaves to smoke a cigarette.

The nurse comes back to take a blood sample. She accidentally snaps me in the face with the rubber tourniquet. She looks horrified. She tries to apologize profusely. I continue to shake my head and laugh. If i were in her shoes, this would be the least of my fuck ups i’m sure of it. She laughs nervously.

I am required at this point to piss in a cup. The nurse pulls out the weird toilet and tells me to try. I am successful. I’ve never been more proud of myself.

My arm is already developing a bruise from the blood sample fiasco. I can feel it pooling. My eyes are dry and my head is starting to throb. My mom is back in the room now, arguing with the insurance lady. The lady is talking too loud.

A younger guy comes in, asks another barrage of questions.
My $14 nail polish chipped I noticed, I am unhappy.

Dad shows up eventually and looks ragged. He tells me he just finished working a double. I can see the stress in his face. He doesn’t say much. He talks to my mom about his schedule, they jibber jabber for a while. He hardly speaks to me. I instantly feel awash with guilt and shame. He is exhausted and I have dragged him out here to be present for my first world breakdown. I hate myself. He’s falling asleep in his chair. He doesn’t deserve this. I am a selfish brat.

I settle on watching Robin Hood Men in Tights while I continue the intake process. I make a nurse fetch me a sandwich. It’s been hours. It tickled me that I could just ask for something and someone would just go and get it for me. The sandwich itself reminded me of elementary school cafeteria food. Plain turkey on a roll. No cheese. I could have gummed it. My eyes are still dry.

Both of my parents and I are waiting for a bed to open up so they can move me out of this room. All I hear is the background noise of sword fights and my parents furiously tapping on their phones. I want to grab them and throw them against the wall. I want to smash their toys into pieces. I wish my eyes would quit this nonsense. I’ve already put half a bottle of eye drops in them. The bastards.

It’s 12:30 AM. The security transport van ran out of gas. I am still waiting to be moved. My mom is talking circles. My dad is sleeping in the chair. There is no such thing as time.
My mom went out for a cigarette and she comes back in waving he arms about and yelling. She somehow managed to get into a confrontation with the security van driver while she was outside for those five minutes. She is in a full tizzy. I shake my head. Typical.
The nurse tells my parents to follow the van over to the psychiatric unit. The security driver couldn’t wait. The dick.

I make it to the proper building and the nurses at the front station take inventory of my belongings. There’s a strange clockwork orange vibe as they carefully check through each of my items. I try to not giggle in recognition. I am the anti-hero of this tale. I am the bastard brat who gets everything they deserve yet the reader feels a strange sense of empathy towards me. Love me, I’m awful.

I’m not allowed drawstrings and my notebook is confiscated. They’re scared i’ll tear out the binding and garrote someone. The nurse responsible for me sequesters me into another room and asks me more questions. She seems tired. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes. I walk back out to the nurses station.

I am given an ambien. I turn around from the desk and a petite woman with an Amelie hair cut is standing in the middle of the common area stark naked. She has a lost look in her eyes. I try not to look at her directly. I stare at the floor instead. I grab my notebook from the nurse and finish my thoughts.

A short man appears and approaches me while I’m sitting and jotting down details from the night. He
tries to shake my hand. I am unsure whether I should touch him or not. His eyes are electric and he scares me.

This place is strange but not in the way I was prepared for. I’m still processing my surroundings. Hopefully this ambien kicks in soon so I can tune out for a few hours. it’s almost 2 am. People are up and pacing. They make me nervous. I am not ready for this 8 am wake up call.

Permalink 3 Comments