Nobody was going to make me feel good enough if I had decided already that I wasn’t. I am very stubborn, see. 

Over the past few years, I have started to change my own mind. 

The thing is, to do this I’ve had to accept that the way people have hurt me in the past has not been my fault–that I do not deserve to feel afraid or unwanted or burdensome–that this isn’t my life’s default. Their treatment of me was not a reflection of my inadequacy, but instead something of theirs that they had not yet dealt with.

I was joking with a coworker the other day, “God that lady hated me.”–speaking of a customer who gave my wild hair and bleach-stained shirt a kind of disgusted look. “I can’t imagine anyone hating you.” she said back. Sincerely, too. She said it sincerely.

This shocked me. I cannot imagine seeing me this way–as an unhateable person. My first thought was to respond with an appropriately dark, self-deprecating half-truth. Something like, “I have like, two decades of experience, so I know for a fact it’s possible.” But I didn’t because kids, deflection doesn’t make friends. 

Thing is, I don’t hate myself. I hate feeling like I’m not enough. I hate that I used to put myself in situations where I was being made to feel inadequate. I hate that my past is blotchy–stained with clear images of how hard I was to love. I’m angry. (And, I suppose, dramatic. Oh well.)

I’ll elaborate on these situations, mostly to make it clear they weren’t West-Elm-Caleb-y. Speaking of him though (just for a moment I promise, dear reader) my thoughts on the matter are as follows: if you take a stance simply to be a relevant part of an online conversation, you’re a turd. 

I’ll say no more so as to not cross into hypocrisy. 

Anyway. These blotches–these people who chizeled their way through my sense of adequacy–left no aspect of me untouched. 

I was criticized, constantly. 

My eyebrows–too bushy. My hair–why is it always fucked up? My legs–too big, then too small, then ugly knees. The way I walk–uneven steps–too hesitant. My “attitude”–too cautious, too careful. My teeth–gapped and too big. My body–too thin and short. I was called “Skeletor”, regularly, by someone who had also said “I love you.” I was called stupid so regularly that I really started to believe it. 

I was told by the same person, “You’re lucky I think you’re pretty, because you’re a crazy fucking bitch.”

It’s hard, ya know. To stop believing those things when they come from someone who had once worked very hard to gain your trust. Someone who was kind at the beginning–someone who used their trustworthiness and your vulnerability (this was about 6 or 7 years ago) to tear you down from inside. It builds, slowly, until suddenly you’ve denounced every part of yourself. 

Four years ago, I hit what I imagine to be the lowest low I can manage–both physically and emotionally. I had taken myself to such a place that there was nothing left to denounce. I had lost, conceivably, everything. 

It was from that point that I began to pick up the pieces I had been told repeatedly to cast aside–I could go no further down, and so there was nothing left to lose. I picked them up, looked at them, and decided, no matter how I felt about them, they were all I had. 

It took years to fit them all back together, and sometimes it is still very hard.  I am happier now, however, even in the sadness that often takes days to fully move through, than I have ever been. This is because I’ve realized I do not need to denounce any part of myself. That my worth is reliant upon being exactly the person I am, not manufacturing what I imagine to be perfect.

I am now with a man who does not tear me down, but who encourages me to be exactly who I am. God, he’s great. My friends, also, see me. My writing, my work–it reflects who I am instead of what I imagine to be some distorted version of perfection.

My worthiness, it seems, is inherent to being myself. The further I get from that girl, the less I can give to anyone else. 

Dear reader, this lesson was incredibly hard-won. You do not, like me, need to tear yourself apart to find this to be true. You can, and I am confident of this, believe that your worth comes from your specific imperfection, without losing everything. It is my hope that you believe this, too. 

I love you.

X. Allison

Here’s some recent poems. If poetry isn’t for you, no sweat. It’s not really for me either. I’ll see you soon.

–

–

Death, Film & Food: All of Which Are Bad in LA

from start to finish, my nose is ugly

I will do nothing to change this but laugh 

I prefer my art like my pizza

which is, I think, the only way to become a New York Poet.

I once wrote and tossed screenplay–a labored, worrisome thing 

worth exactly $1. available at 3 am.

it’s poetic genius really–to build a city for angels.

to make it one, idling highway. 

I often think of Earthquakes–how hollywood
will buckle and the city will fall at an angle

finally getting its good side.

–

–

Feels like this. 

He said it’s always both. 

That the zoo is not so bad. That we’d come back to break the locks. One day, it’s always both. Before I left 

I drew my name. On the mirror—in the corner. An even seven letters. Just below

where his eyes would go—where blue eyes would go, instinctively. The same blue stuck still to my blouse. Now stained now dripping through. I take it off to meet his eyes—

a liberated zoo.

–

–

Catcall

At the very least–

A man was nice to me.

The best view I ever had in a strip mall.

Moving between idle cars and the revelation 

of my body, I think, I might wear some color. 

I might wear a red color. 

I use red as reference–

as data. 

It is wholly uninteresting–as I am

Uninterested, completely, in it. 

Color has done nothing for me in years.

Selfish. Garish. 

Unbearably needy. I’d prefer it 

gone if this would mean nobody could see me 

weaving 

inside still traffic.

The best view I ever had in a strip mall.

Black and white and jaded. 

Should I wear red, I ask,

Would this make traffic go?

–

–

I Think Of Arches

You draw an arch on my abdomen

Starting at one hip, brushing

My belly button. Finding the other. 

Under your left index finger, a world 

You’re explaining where it ends or maybe

It’s beginning. It doesn’t really matter. 

I have decided already 

That I love you.

You say,

I love that you stop using contractions 

when speaking seriously.

I respond, that’s a funny thing to notice.

And the world between

my hips arches 

into yours. I like a straight forward poem. 

One that tells me good morning, simply

That smokes two cigarettes

While my hair dries

I believe perfection comes when we

–the writers–

Do not try to hide the meaning 

behind the sound our voices

Make. Our words, simple as they are,

Are enough to turn me over.

–

–

Reassurance

Repeatedly asking other people to tell you that everything is—

A heightened sense of fear and lack of— 

Which can manifest itself in the need for—

These symptoms may be less prominent than

physical symptoms, so you may have to—

Treatment may consist of

Years and years. Treatment may consist of 

Years.

–

–

Humbles

My father sent me a quote–a text message, which I’m prone to ignoring.

“Some people can be given a single weed and only see the wildflower in it. Perception

is a key component of gratitude, and gratitude, a key component of joy.” 

I thought about this–how that wild

flower is prone to ignoring weather’s apathy. 

Not as an act of triumph but out of necessity. 

Like how prayer for roadkill humbles 

the one it does not help.

–

– 

What’s Mine

I

I put on headphones and wander around for hours and it feels necessary. I need to know the place where I am living, and I need to keep moving. 

I listened to St. Vincent, as her music is my current fixation. Beautiful and jaded in the ways I like to imagine myself. I listened to Rattlesnake four times in a row, hoping something would sink in. 

I often wish my job could be to walk around cities, looking dramatically downward. But that is neither a good, nor service. It’s just for me.

The space my body occupies while walking feels like mine too–whereas my house is crowded with people–with sounds that don’t belong to me.

My body in motion feels like it is more mine than it is when I am still, in this house. Does this make sense? 

II

Color and I have a pained relationship. I have bad eyes–what’s called “visual snow”, and this makes walking in low light almost impossible. My vision is always

cloudy.

This is frustrating in that it obscures everything just enough to make it less beautiful,

but not enough to really inhibit my doing anything. Color is another reminder that I cannot see

reality. “I don’t care much for color.” A ridiculous fucking statement. 

If color feels like mine though–that is when I love it. The stain on my light pink pants–the red welt on my shoulder from carrying a heavy backpack

too far. These colors, hard-won, are mine. 

–

–

I love you so much.

Truly.

Take care.

x. Al

It is currently 2am. I have to wake up in exactly 4 hours for work, and honestly, this is hilarious to me. I can’t sleep, so I thought I’d try to write to you. 

I wish we could hangout, ya know. I’m a barista now. I can get you free coffee.

Just something to think about. 

I’ve been having a lot of anxiety attacks lately, which is why I can’t sleep. When people ask me what this feels like, I tell them, like a migraine. 

If you’ve had migraines, you know that you can lose parts of your vision, or that your vision can be altered in a big way–tunnel vision, difference in color or texture, spots appearing–all sorts of fun. And it tends to be different for everyone. 

If you ask someone to describe this sensation–what it feels like to have their vision distorted in this way–the answers you’ll get will be analogous. Like, they have a hard time describing something so personally abstracted, so they’ll compare this feeling to a different one. 

And this is true of all pain to some extent. 

“What does the pain feel like?” Is the question we ask. “What is it like?” That’s the way we understand. That’s the way we empathize. “Relate it to something that I’ve felt.” 

“It feels like I’m being poked.” 

“It feels like a punch to the gut.” 

But how does it feel to have your vision distorted in a way that only you can see? I could tell you how it looks–like a black dot in the middle of my field of vision. I could tell you it’s disorienting. But still, this feels shallow. It’s hard to get at with words. Even analogy. 

I’ll give it a shot anyway. (Don’t I always?)

It’s like a strobe light in an otherwise dark room. You see parts of what’s there–what’s true–but instead of this being helpful, it makes it harder to move. 

You start to wish everything was dark, because seeing nothing would be better than this half truth.

Seeing part and not the whole, and feeling helpless as to which parts you see and when, is how an anxiety attack feels to me. It’s like losing part of your vision, over and over. The light doesn’t help–it can’t because there’s not enough of it. 

When I was maybe 11 or 12, I went to a haunted house with my parents and sister. It was exactly what you’d expect (people jumping out, weird, chainsaw wielding bearded guys) except for the last room. The last room was walled with mirrors, filled with smoke, and completely dark apart from a single, incredibly bright strobe light. 

I could not breathe–I could not see to move. I let go of my mom and sister, who until that point I had been using as a chainsaw shield, so that I could attempt to feel my way out, but I couldn’t find a wall to hold onto. 

What I later discovered was that the way back to the previous room, and the only way out, only opened from the outside. We could not be let out from inside.

We were at the mercy of whoever was standing guard. We were trapped until someone let us out, but after a few minutes, they would. 

I didn’t know this at the time—that waiting was all I needed to do. So instead I continued to grope for a wall, eyes open, becoming even more afraid and dizzy and lost. 

The solution, I guess, would have been to close my eyes–it would have been to wait. Trust that it would end, rely on what I knew with certainty to be true. What I could feel.

This is why we hold ice, or push hard against a wall when we feel we are dissociating. This is why we shake our heads, hands, legs, feet, whatever (well maybe not whatever) when we’re having intrusive thoughts.

We are trying to hold on to what is certain about our experience–what is real without having to double check. We need to anchor, somehow.

Wishing for the dark hasn’t done me any good–It’s its own kind of horror. Apathy is only nice in theory. 

Eventually, after enough times through the horrible, mirrored room, I’ll learn that the door will open. 

I’ll never get my 20 bucks back though. Shame.

I love you.

Always will.

X. Allison

Often my thoughts are either poison, or are beginning to turn. It’s like they’re fermenting–a jar in the closet of some hippie who doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing. It stinks, it’s wrong, and nobody wants it. My thoughts are fermenting and I’m drunk on their repetition. 

If that analogy didn’t land, here’s another: Still water doesn’t scare most people, but it should. This is where toxins grow and change. Without moving, still water will bite deeper than any current. 

Whether you look at anxious rumination like DIY kombucha or a puddle, it doesn’t really matter–either way, you swallow and you’re fucked. 

The best way I know to stop these fermenting thoughts is to change where I am. If I am in bed, thinking in circles, I’ll take a walk. Sometimes it’s midnight or 20 degrees, so I’ll sit on the porch with a blanket. Two blankets, fuck it. I’ll take a book to the kitchen table. Anything to change my surroundings. 

I had a therapist, years ago, who would make me walk in straight lines down the hallways of his office. After four steps he’d yell, “STOP! Reroute! Reboot!” I’d stop, turn completely around, and walk in the opposite direction. 

He was a crackpot, absolutely. He called me “Chopin” (presumably because I resembled a corpse?) Crazy dude, but he knew something in his very strange, mostly unhelpful way. Not about my musical prowess, and it’s a stretch, sure, but once I realize I’m fully fermenting in my own shit, I stop, and change my surroundings. 

And it helps–taking a walk helps. 

Asking someone to take a walk is the most romantic gesture I can think of. Asking someone to be next to me–to walk next to me. For a very long time this is what I needed–for someone to be always there. Now, in the wake of closet kombucha, I take walks alone. 

It’s romantic, me and me. She’s kinda hot, but oh man is she fucked up–less so though, now that I’ve gotten to know her.

This may be overearnest as a sentiment, but I do not count being sincere as a fault–though I have many. And I count them. That’s a list for another time, dear, sweet reader. I want to keep at least a little allure.

Damn, post jar-in-the-closet-fermentation, allure may be a lost cause for us. You know all my least sexy secrets. Good thing there are so few of you.

Allure aside, I walk to disrupt still water. I listen to music. I read. I write nonsense. Doesn’t matter. I’m walking in straight lines down hallways and I’m out of my head. And it helps. 

I love you, ya know. 

I hope you know how much.

X. Al

Dear reader, I know everything is incredibly hard, and I am absolutely here with you. I hope we can feel empowered to share our stories when and if we are ready.

For now, however, I’ve been taking breaks to go way back.

I thought we could take a tiny moment away from what is scary right now, for a little vintage beef. Some ridiculous old painters do the trick for me, so let’s hit it.

George Hendrik Breitner was alive for the tail end of the 19th century, and the beginning of the 20th. Known for his realistic style, Breitner painted en plein air–French for “outdoors.” Sexy, no? And brave. You know that 19th century plein air was still pretty stinky. 

He painted street life–particularly the women of the Jordaan district. Breitner would request that girls and women from the “lower classes” pose for his nude paintings, of which there are many. He takes a particular interest in two of his models, sisters Lise and Marie Jordan. He marries Marie eventually–a story that is, of course, a movie waiting to be made. Probably starring Keira Knightley. Probably really boring but worth it for the sex scenes. 

Breitner saw himself as “le peintre du peuple”, French for, “I’m just like you. It’s totally cool to take your shirt off.” Breitner’s nudes were brutally criticised (hard relate) as they were painted too realistically. Much like Rembrandt’s, Breitner’s nudes did not resemble the common ideal of beauty (actual goddesses) and his critics deemed his work a moral failing. Naked bodies of real women weren’t art to Breitner’s critics–to them, he was making amature porn. But hey, some people are super into that. He was finding his audience, and I respect that.

What’s more, Breitner had public beef. He came into contact with Van Gogh in 1882, when they sketched together in the “lower class” districts of The Hague. Breitner, ever the painter of the common folk, felt uneasy when Van Gogh’s primary interest in these neighborhoods was recruiting models. Though massively hypocritical, this marked the beginning of their feud.

When Breitner was hospitalised in April of that year, Van Gogh visited him. Breitner did not return the favor when Van Gogh himself was hospitalised two months later. Van Gogh clapped back at this obvious snub, giving an absolutely savage account of Breitner’s paintings, describing them as “resembling mouldy wallpaper.”

Mouldy wallpaper. A brutal hit to the ego. 

Breitner would get the final jab however, saying of Van Gogh’s work after his death, “I cannot enjoy it. I honestly find it coarse and distasteful, without any distinction, and what’s more, he has stolen it all from Millet and others.”

The heat from this burn can still be felt in certain regions of The Netherlands. 

Dear reader, there’s no moral here. Just some dead painters clapping back. 

I hope you’re well. I know things are so hard. 

I am here if you need me.

X.

This summer, my roommate Shivani and I watched a movie together every week. It was the kind of thing you do without thinking, and then miss for the rest of your life. 

She would pull out the projector and I would hang the sheet on the wall. We had spots on the couch and did not deviate—our butt creases were PERFECT by August.

We watched Midsommar and Hereditary in one weekend, then swore off Ari Aster. 

In all honesty we swore back on Ari Aster the next week. 4 minutes of one of his short films–4 minutes was all it took to make this separation final. I needed a lap around the block and like, a warm cookie. Immediately. I worry about that man actively.

We’d spend at least an hour after every film talking plot, finding hidden meaning, recounting gore–the severed necks. We’d have nightmares about cults, and break those down too. Then we’d pick another one. 

The summer went on like this. We watched Promising Young Woman, and talked about our experiences as all three. We watched both seasons of Barry, and started planning our big break: Noho Hank: the musical. She gave me a stage name, certain extremely specific musicals were my ticket out.

Noho Hank: the musical never got written, but man oh man did we talk about it. It was a prequel to Barry–the story of how he got involved with the Chechen mafia, fit with weird, angsty, punk music. It would have been hilarious, which is easy to say having written exactly none of it. Either way, dreaming about something with someone who is equally as excited as you are–that hits every time. 

She moved to a different city at the end of the summer–I knew it was coming but didn’t prepare. 

The kind of close that you get with someone when you live together, especially during a pandemic, is really something. She’s seen me with my acne cream on–she’s seen me cry. She’s seen me cry with my acne cream on and then have to reapply. Clearly she’s brave, and has impeccable taste. 

I miss her a lot. I am a sentimental bitch all the way through, and so I spend maybe too much time reminiscing.  I’m okay with that though, I’m okay with missing people.

I don’t know that there’s some profound point to this, dear reader. I think if I were to give it one, it’s that missing people is kind of dope–at least more dope than sad. I miss people–they miss me–we’ll see each other soon. 

Oh, and the shit you’ll miss happens without you noticing. That’s it, I think. That’s all. 

I love you.

Take care. 

If failure, like everything, is a spectrum, that might make me feel better. For my sake and yours, we’ll say it is. 

I think of my body as it’s reflected–of my fondness for quantum mechanics and the book that told me kindly that we create the world through perception. If I could, I would perceive a world so complete that I could walk across its length without being afraid. But the reality is, I am very afraid.

I’ve been thinking about why. 

To combat, or I guess lean into, what is painful about being in my own head, I’ve been taking a lot of walks. 

I do not mind all the walking, but I do not know what it means to be existing and writing inside of failure. 

Aren’t I someone? I ask–presumably someone–and wait for a response. Aren’t I? I find answers walking by. Faces concealed by hair but smiling–assuredly smiling. 

They must be smiling.

Looking for something in me. The filling–the inside. They pick away until, I fear, they’ll find it. It will fall, ugly and dripping. Right there on the sidewalk. 

I will have to stop, then. Concealing with my hands and body some kind of imperfection. Shoving it away. 

If being someone, like everything, is a spectrum, I think that’d make me feel better. But it isn’t. It’s not–I cannot be half a person. I cannot be, kind of a person. 

Even though there are a things about me (the alleged person) that I feel are wrong, I cannot take away the fact that I am already someone. 

That we all are. It’s just true, you know. 

Why does this feel so important to say? Did everyone know this but me?

I am not ashamed of being now inside the spectrum of failure. I think nearly everything important exists there–in the possibility of total devastation. I know that fear is a byproduct of giving a fuck, which is incredibly inconvenient and entirely unavoidable. 

Annoying and uncomfortable as this might be, It is important to recognize that right now we are, already, worthy of seeing ourselves as entire people.

That fear is not a character flaw to be squashed, but indication that we cannot be kind-of-people.

That we have a whole person under our control–that we have to take care of them. This is intense, you know. It’s a lot of work to carry on living, but we do it. Sometimes even happily.

I’ll keep walking, and let you know if anything else seems important enough to share. 

Talk soon. 

I love you,

A.

For this–my writing here–to matter to someone, it requires an interest both in me and in my story, which are decidedly different. Me in that my voice, my style of writing, would need to be something people would enjoy, and my story, the factual events of my life, would need to be interesting or beautiful or useful somehow. At least this is what I tell myself.

I am trying to believe that wanting to tell a story, and for that story to be the one I hold closest, isn’t bad or wrong. When I look closer, when I really examine why I want to write my story here, I find that it comes at least in part from wanting–that a reader might choose to really understand what I’m saying. That they’ll learn from my mistakes or something. I can’t tell if this is selfish or inspired, but I’d like to say both without judgment. 

I have started to think that there’s no use in debating whether or not this kind of writing is self-indulgent, because we are going to do it anyway. I’m aware that we–at least many of us–leave some version of our stories for people to find on social media. A tweet or post of the perfect thought or moment looks a lot like storytelling. For several reasons, I really don’t care to write about this. Social media posting feels less authentic–it can be so fucking postural. I do it, don’t get me wrong. There’s value, I just don’t want to write about it.

There are other platforms out there where storytelling happens too. 

Listen, I really do believe that to write about life is necessarily to write about our lives. Further, to write about a place is necessarily to write about our experience of that place. So really, when we leave reviews on Yelp or Google, we are leaving our story for people to find. We are constantly telling our story, and I don’t think this is self-indulgent. I just think it’s true.

I went looking for examples of Yelp reviews. I wanted a cross section of the platform–five stars and one star reviews–mediocre experiences–all of it. What I found was that people on this platform are, for the most part, deeply sincere. Whether that result is some top tier wholesomeness, or a scathing letter to the hostess, the writing is genuine. That counts for something. 

I write here to you, dear reader, because it feels good to get the words out. I want to share my experiences–for them to be helpful. Is this narcissistic? I don’t know. I just really don’t want anyone to put themselves through what I’ve put my body through. I don’t want anyone to starve because they don’t feel capable of being in the world. I want to give a voice to that fear, and to quell it somehow. But of course it isn’t all selfless. I’m talking to myself too–getting the anger and fear and realizations out so I can look at them. Sometimes they look like shit, but at least they’re there.

I think this is what Yelp does too. It is trying to be helpful–and sometimes it is. Regardless though, it is always for us, the writers. 

We tend to tell our stories because we want to change something. It could be the attitude of the hostess, one person’s perception of their body, our own emotional state, or a combination. 

Dear reader, I hope this is useful. If not, feel free to scroll to the next. Someone else is already telling their story too.

Alright. I usually take to the floor in times of despair–I’m dramatic and I need a straight spine and an uncomfortable place to have uncomfortable thoughts. 

Here I tend to lay with my discarded, nighttime sock—one I had peeled off and tossed from bed some hours earlier using only my right, big toe. 

Often, In these moments I am hurting, unable to sleep, and deeply impressed by my dexterity.

Not tonight though. No. Tonight, I am here on the floor with purpose. I feel okay. Good, even. I feel like I could stand to laugh at myself. 

And not in disbelief or embarrassment either. Just because I can. 

So, dear, sweet reader. For your reading pleasure and mine, I dip again into the cesspool of self-doubt and revelation that is my twitter drafts. 

What an odd thing to collect–nearly unreadable shit deemed inappropriate for my fondest, waking nightmare. Oh well. 

Here:

–

Furniture made for me? I don’t wanna bespeak about it. 

“Remember me when you publish your first book!” First of all, that’s incredibly optimistic. Second of all, I absolutely will not. 

Too-Pretty-To-Be-Sad Teen Pop Sensations Are Channeling A ‘The Front Bottoms’ Level of Messy Codependency. The People Love It.  Must Be Stopped. 

Half Your Age plus 7 Wonders of the World: a travel guide for age-gap relationships. 

I hope you meddling kids are happy. Or sad. Good luck finding an accurate state of being now that you’ve ruined the word “liminal” 

when Steve Burns said “you look great by the way” I know he meant my 4 grueling years in treatment and subsequent recovery or maybe that I dyed my hair

Can’t hang. Busy at the letterpress shop then going home to my softest blanket.

Oooooo!!! Scary poet!

I’ve lost 144 chess games to the same man. I must really be in love (I am) or really bad at chess (that too) 

–

That’s all for now. It’s not much. More to come.

I love you.

X.