I Was a Teenaged (and then some) Zombie.

I wake up as Ellen, knowing that today is the day it ends. My mind will leave me, my senses will numb, and by night's fall, I will be nothing but a snarling, drooling, lurching monster. I will never again hear my mother's voice and her prayers will do me no good. I'll never feel the soft fur of the calves in the field or smell their sweet breath. Today is the day I will die. Figuratively, of course.

With each layer of makeup, I become more and more detached. With the white base, I become more sluggish, movements slow and labored. The grey around my eyes leaves me feeling as gaunt as I become, hollowing my cheeks and cracking my hands. Green at my temples bring the decay, my body falling apart. Teeth grime and cough syrup-tasting blood and my transformation is done. Close my eyes. Open up. I'm not myself anymore.

I'm out of the cab and amongst my people. Glazed eyes take in the tattered clothes and crumbling bodies and the chorus of undead moans welcomes my arrival. One of us! One of us! Gooble gobble! Gooble gobble! Us freaks belong together.

And maybe it's my mind getting too deep into a "roll", but I can't out shuffle the idea of being dead. I'm back with the demons of my adolescence, a time where the black-tar vomit of too many pain pills was a friend and the idea of my heart giving out under too much fear seemed like a wonderful escape. And how I'm not that girl anymore.

But everyone relapses (which is a term I hate, because it makes it sound like I willing became an anxious wreck again) or just has a bad day. The brain hiccups, the serotonin levels dip just a little and things get a messy again. These are the days where I immerse myself in the walking dead, the people who I once envied. And, in some ways, the people I once was.

If more people did this - surrendered the need for control for one moment and just acted silly - would their be as many muzzles pressed against temples? How much skin would remain intact and how many pills would go unswallowed? The power of pretend is unfathomable to me at times, but it's there.

This play time is far from some FDA approved treatment. But when I wipe away the makeup and see my face once more, it works. I survived. That's enough.

The Weight of the World and Other Podiatric Burdens

Feet are not supposed to be pretty and mine are no exception. 

They are long and wide, lacking the daintiness which is considered feminine and beautiful on someone my height. My toes match, long and stubby all at once, like carrot sticks or the roots from potatoes. The baby toe on my right foot (the tattooed one, not your right) doesn't quite reach the ground, permanently tangled from a break a few years ago. The nails are dirty, visible even with the polish. When they're stripped, the surface always looks a little ruddy, permanently stained by years of lacquer. The heels are cracked, the balls are calloused, and the arches are bruised. They are scarred and marred and bruised and broken.

I have tried to make them beautiful. I have used lotions and pumice stones and keep the nails as trimmed and polished as I possibly can. I have spent hours in The Chair, hobbling away with a masterpiece on my swollen flesh. The tattoo helped, but, in the end, it still has the misfortune of being on the hideous canvas that is a foot.

Feet are not supposed to be pretty.  They are our support system and our guide, the part of us that is the most physically connected to our experiences. 


My feet are my two-part autobiographies.


The peeling skin tells of the pebbled paths I wander at night, of Alumni Walk during my first week on campus. How the dewy grass licked my toes and kissed my ankles and helped me find my way home. The scars sing the water's melody, of the crayfish that lurk beneath Chemung County creeks. The slick rocks send me splashing, catching my feet and leaving their marks behind. The arches hold bruises so my face and pride wouldn't have to, pounding pavement and initiating evacuations. Each purple and green tell the world how I survived and of how he'll never catch me.  


And my ship, the sails flapping in the wind, keeps the story moving along.

What's In a Name? [Workshop Essay]

I went back to Horseheads (speaking of names...) this weekend to celebrate my mother's 50th birthday. As part of the reminiscing, "we're-all-getting-older" process, she pulled out our old year books. While she sat getting misty-eyed over the aging Equestrians, I thumbed through all the messages people had scrawled across the back pages. All the phone numbers I never called, all the promises of continuing friendships that never happened, and all the names of "frenemies" whose faces had slowly faded over the course of four years.

My favorite message lies in the cracked spine of my freshman year, from a senior I knew only through mutual friends and over-congested movie nights. Friendly, but not really a friend:

Ellen,

You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that.

~ A

I'd laughed the first time I'd read it; my name is derived from the Greek word meaning "light" (as in weight, not  what spews out of a lamp when you turn it on. But, for the sake of this piece, we can look at both meanings). At fifteen, the sentiment was nice, and extremely appreciated, but it was just there, I suppose. A beautiful coincidence. But then, over the next few years, I found myself hearing it over and over again. Classmates said I "shone". Teachers noted how I "illuminated" new ideas. And friends told me how the days seemed just a little bit more bearable when I was around. 

What if there was something more to behind being "light"? Could something as simple and random as my name have any impact on what made me me? Did names impact the outcome of others, or was this a phenomenon reserved only for "Ellen"s? 

All the baby name books in Barnes and Nobles (and Waldenbooks and Borders...) and all the websites told me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes it went on to explain further; airy, gentle, uplifting. Deeper research lead to personality profiles for all the "Ellen"s of the world. According to Kablarian's, having the name "Ellen" guarantees these traits (I have bolded those which I agree with/would apply to myself):

- A friendly, approachable, and generous demeanor

- Good-natured, though prone to being blunt and sarcastic

- Naturally talkative, finding it easy to meet new, varied people

- Sympathetic to the plight of others

- Very firm in ideas, though needs encouragement to actually act upon them

- Respond quickly to affection and praise

- Artistic and creative, primarily in the arenas of music (especially vocal performance), sewing, or interior decorating

- Struggle with emotions

- Prone to depression, liver ailments, and diseases effecting the bloodstream

Other than pretty much being told I'm dying of leukemia someday, the list didn't seem half-bad. What really astounded me was how incredibly accurate this analysis was. But there are thousands of "Ellen"s in the world (it's an old-fashioned name, so that might be dwindling); what the hell could make us all so similar? It couldn't have been a shared history. I only knew two other Ellen's growing up: my great-grandmother, born the only surviving daughter to Slovakian immigrant farmers in 1907 and a girl five years my senior, the middle between a boy and a girl. They were the products of happy marriages, while my parents were falling apart.

Then I started to wonder how I might have been different if my parents had gone with some of the other names they had considered. Would a "Grace" still care about the needs of others? Would a "Paisley" still have loved to sing until her throat went raw? And would one more "Mary" in the family (if my parents had gone with it, I would have been the 4th) still feel anxious in a crowded room?

I'd like to think that, if I happened to be anything other than "Ellen", I would still be Ellen; not the name, but the soul that lives within. It can't be my name that creates me, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only "Ellen" that used REC and El Orfanato to help study for her Spanish speaking exams. I'm probably the only "Ellen" that pounds birth control and Prozac each morning with a 12 ounce Red Bull. I'm the only "Ellen" who finds romance in a funeral home reception hall. Onward and onward, forever and ever, amen...

Being one of the universe's "lights" is just an added bonus, really.

Nerds, Music, and Love in the Capital City.

I placed iTunes on shuffle and slung the thick strap over my shoulders, the Telecaster wobbling on my knee. He spun the drumsticks, fresh from the package and not yet chipped to his liking, between calloused fingers and paused to readjust the practice pad between his legs. It's not the one he usually uses, still laying haphazardly in the back seat of the Jag, but it does the trick. One pad to tap a rhythm, one hand to strum a chord. Perfect.

Skip, skip, skip. I love my music, but not all of it is jam-able. We play along to a couple tracks, blathering on about the woes of bar chords and missing high E strings. We pause to simply listen to some tracks, punctuating our conversation with hard cider and too-dark beer (he tastes like coffee grounds when he kisses me). One song inspires us to look up another, to deviate from the ordered path shuffle tried to lead us down.

He disappears into one of three closets and returns with a grey, pilled suit jacket, nipped perfectly in the waist. He fakes a limp on his way back to me and takes the guitar from my hands (I've had House on the brain for about a month). It makes me smile. My own curmudgeon doctor. As drummer's fingers, with their rigid angles, strokes over thick strings, he smiles at me.

"You should go as androgynous!Wilson for Halloween."

I kiss him, those disgusting wheaty lips, and I think I'm in love.

Viva la SlutWalk!

I'll be completely honest: I've caught a glimpse of a girl in a revealing top or a short skirt on a day when I'm feeling absolutely shitty about myself and found that word passing through my thoughts. I've watched the girls with stars in their eyes and liquor in their veins teeter on sky-high heels from the latest party and found myself thinking 'they're just asking for trouble'. We all have. We're all guilty. 

I'm by no means a societal expert, but I am an expert in my experiences. And my experience is telling me that we think these things because society has told us that it's okay. In high school, a friend of mine was involved in an incident involving her, a pair of shorts, and a boy who couldn't keep his hands to himself. When she went to the principal to address the issue, she was advised to stop wearing those shorts. The boy was never even called into the office. 

It was wrong then, but I just kind of assumed it would get better. Over time, people are supposed to learn from their mistakes and get smarter. Or something. How silly of me, of course it didn't change. I think it actually got worse. With every new sexual assault reported on campus, I kept hearing the same damn thing.


"She deserved it"


"She shouldn't have been drinking."


"She should've known better than to wear that."


Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! What about the guys who get raped? Were their tits hanging out too much? Or kids who are sexually molested? Their Cinderella nightgowns were too short, right? And let's not forget the girls in cultures where women can't drink/wear revealing clothing/breathe without someone else's approval. Totally their fault, duh.

Honestly, I was starting to lose some faith in humanity. And then, through the magical world of Tumblr , the phenomena of the SlutWalk was revealed to me. Women and men taking a stand against the absolute asshattery that is slut-shaming and victim-blaming in one of the best ways they know how. Taking to the streets, spreading the world, forcing others to address the issue. It's worked for Civil Rights, Gay Rights, Women's Rights... Sounds good to me. 


The movement started in Toronto, after a misguided (read: asshole) police officer offered the suggestion that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized". People gathered together with their signs and their proverbial balls on their sleeves, ready to fight to the good fight. "Sluts [heart] consent", "consent turns me on", "my dress is not a yes", and "causes of rape: [ ] alcohol [ ] short skirts [X] rapists" are amongst some of the absolutely brilliant statements being made. 


Rochester had their first walk on April 15th and I've been keeping my eyes peeled for the next one. I know a lot of people won't see the point in it, but every small bit of help makes a difference, right?

Music and the Fate of Modern Girls: Workshop Essay!

A couple years ago, for her daughter’s 10^th birthday, my boss purchased tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. I’d heard the name before and knew she was supposed to be some sort of country prodigy, but, seeing as I don’t listen to the radio much, I had no idea what any of her songs actually sounded like. As a lover of music, I’m willing to give anything a try. A nice Google search gave me a list of her singles and a couple rounds in piracy (rest in peace, Limewire) provided the material. All that was left was to get one step closer to being some mother’s “cool” coworker.

First up, “Tears on My Guitar”. A pretty voice, a fairly simple guitar line, but some of the most melodramatic lyrics I’d ever heard:

“He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar

The only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star

He's the song in the car I keep singing, don't know why I do…”

Whatever. She was in her teens when she wrote it. Every girl goes through that heartbroken, lovesick girl phase. I switched to something from a year later, “Love Story”:

“Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel.

This love is difficult but it's real.

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes".”

Maybe I was just crazy, but the entire thing seemed a bit… well, contradictory. A young girl trying hard to rebel against what is being told of her, yet relying on the words of someone else in the end. If she doesn’t have to follow what the ominous “they” say, why does she need to follow what “Romeo” says? Why does she need his help to escape from it. They couldn’t all have been this bad.

But they were. Every single one of them was full of the same, melodramatic, and downright demeaning lyrics. This was what young girls were being taught these days? That the only way to be happy was the find the right man, to have him whisk you away from all of your troubles, and to not be “that girl”, whatever “that” may be. It just all seemed so back asswards to me. Even her songs of supposed “empowerment” demean other women, those who fit into the standard ideal of what is beautiful.

No, not every girl is the “perfect” woman. But since when was it okay for these different types of girls to be pitted against each other? It’s hard enough to be a girl when you have society and the outside world at your back, but to have your own kind shooting you down, too? That is the message that we’re trying to give to our girls?

When I was ten, I had Gwen Stefani telling me that someone could be “Just a girl” and try and break from the norms. Destiny’s Child was telling me that I could make it on my own and that I didn’t need anyone else to achieve my dreams. The Spice Girls were even telling me that if someone wants to love you, they need to love every part of you (especially your friends). These were women who taught me to stand up for myself, dream as big as I possibly could, and then dream a little more.

I’m nowhere near starting a family of my own, and there’s absolutely no guarantee that I will have a daughter. But if I’m ever so lucky, I am genuinely concerned about who will be the good role model for her. I’m not looking for someone perfect (because who in the music industry ever is). All I want for my future daughter and the girls of tomorrow is to find someone who will give them the right messages.

Fairy tales are what you make them. You don’t need a man (or even a woman) to validate how special you are. And if you want to run away on your “white horse”, hold onto the reins for yourself.

Horror Fan: I'm Doing it Wrong

We file into the theater in an amoebic cluster, inappropriate jokes and raucous laughter echoing down the dark hallway. We are fifteen and sixteen and have finally been given parental permission to join the ranks of mall rats, and seeing the "scariest movie of the year" seems like the most logical way to kick-start our new freedom.

Even the poster intimidates us, so plain and yet so striking. A wide, bottomless eye stares out at me through a shroud of black, stringy hair. If not for the text spattered across the strands, I'd have sworn she was coming from the wall itself (in retrospect, it was probably done that way on purpose). I stare at the poster for what seems like forever, letting it all sink in and nearly jump in my skin when my shoulder is tapped. It's about to start and, like proper mall rats, we need to get front and center.

It's everything we expected and even more that we didn't. Violent deaths, houses with large, ominous windows, and plenty of dark corners for creatures to spider-crawl out of. We jump and assuage nervousness with forced laughter, and they tell me they'll never look at my cat the same way again. It's over far quicker than we would like it to be and we begrudgingly rejoin the ranks of obedient children.

I'll later hear that we all had trouble sleeping that night. Some swore they heard the low, throaty gurgle of the strangled wife, while others told me of the yowling boy that haunted their dreams. But, for me, it's different.  While the images had been beautifully frightening, I find myself overwhelmed no by fear, but by sorrow. They were fictional characters, but the anguish they felt was so real. How terrible an existence it must be, to be doomed to relive your pain for all of eternity, through no fault of their own. I pitied them, more than I had pitied the living (real or otherwise), and I shed my tears for them, like most would for the melodramas.

It is that bizarre reaction that keeps me coming back to the theaters, that strange desire to feel what they do. To watch these poor souls, forever trapped and lonely, and praying to whatever god will listen that I don't end up like they do. I no longer sit front and center, tucking myself away in the back row, where I can jump and yelp and even cry in peace.