the martyr diet

delayed rebellion, self-implosion and what comes after

Young women in general are sheltered, up until a certain point in life. Coming out of this shelter was anything but graceful. I felt forcefully pulled by the arm from an unassuming ignorance about life, from the meadow of the nymphs, into a harsh reality, and what’s worse, into the cruel and horrendous things the world can do to women.

The tools girls are given are how to check for breast cancer and how to not get raped. There has been historically very little encouragement for us to plumb the depths of the soul — I mean yes, you can read the philosophy books and watch the movies about wars, resilience, death love and most importantly bank heists, but you really do have to stomach a lot of misogyny to get through these things meant for lost men, and that’s not really any way to feel “seen" by a work of art. It’s an imperfect world, where the things that *have* helped me form a sense of self have also been hostile to my station in life.

I was lucky to have stumbled into the quest for meaning because I was a friendless kid who hung around the library. I picked up books I wasn’t supposed to read. Like, Notes from Underground, at age 15. I think I’ve always been jealous of the fact that young lost men tend to find each other, or they find gurus, while I was rejected when I sought mentorship and inclusion. Not only did I feel insignificant in the sweep of life, as anyone who is existential does, I felt insignificant in my personal interactions.

It is actually the role of the parent to provide security and safety. A shelter. I don’t resent that, at all. But if you want to grow as an individual, you can’t live in that structure. By that same turn, it is then the role of the child to rebel and test boundaries. There was something specific about Minnesota and my upbringing that made this impossible. I felt distinctly responsible to make something of myself in the service of others. There wasn’t room for fucking up. So, I didn’t push it.

That is, until much later. I assumed self-implosion and self-destruction were the same thing as rebellion.

The shitty thing is that it didn’t occur to me to destroy myself in a fun way. Instead I would find ways to devastate myself… limerence, self-hatred and self-denial. I made myself hard, ironic and cynical. Being earnest was dangerous because some people wanted to eat you alive.

I am only now, in my late 20s, trying to undo a lot of this pain. It’s tricky because it was all I had for a while. Fear and pain fueled my artistic practice and painting and poetry were outlets for the intense rage and sorrow I felt in my solitude. It’s hard to look back on your work anyways… but I flinch at the things created by a hand starved for beauty and kindness.

the incorrupt corpse of St Cecilia, patron saint of music, my namesake

When fear and pain drive you, you naturally feel resistant to healing. Every time you want to create, you pinch yourself into bleeding. You don’t think you’ll know who you are without it. I see it clearly in other artists. The musician who clings to death, who emphasizes his depression in all arenas of life, because he only understands how to swim in the pool and not the ocean. There is color and odd beauty in this exploration, I admit. But there is no valor for the martyr who chooses to die for nothing at all. Yes, you are sad, but what do you stand for?

The thing is, I found, joy starts to get at you.

In small pieces! The sun does shine most days. You do find the embrace of other misfits, even if it’s just over a cigarette on the lawn of a party neither of you want to be at. Those conversations kept me alive while I was in the maw, while I was repressed. When you get your first few rations of joy, of connection, you start to realize you’ve been surviving off of saltines when you could’ve been eating that really good fucking bread from Erewhon the whole time. And then you don’t want to just eat saltines anymore.

This is the really good bread from Erewhon

Suddenly I was being driven by a singular goal to stay away from pain. The call of joy was all I wanted to listen to. My sophomore year of college I brought my mother’s 1970’s set of Grumbacher oil paints (which were no doubt full of all the really good toxins that actually make pigments fucking amazing while killing you slowly) to my apartment. I would paint right on the floor, security deposit be damned.

I printed out poems I loved and copied them by hand and stapled them to my wall. I memorized The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and produced this self portrait with the yellow smoke that licks its tongue into the corner of the evenings in mind. I would bike for hours and hours on end until I’d collapse, delirious on endorphins, into the grass by Lake Michigan. I wasn’t always happy but I felt sustained.

In my own being were the devices to bring me toward the good life. I felt the expanse of the world.

My arrival into California was a part of that same chase. I was in love. I was loved back. In a true, deep, spell-binding way that makes your friends think you’re stupid.

And even when that ended, I continued to carve out a beautiful life for myself. There was a lot of ambition but I have to say it didn’t feel intentional. It just felt like I couldn’t tolerate suffering any more. I kept walking away from feeling bad until I found myself in a beautiful apartment surrounded by birds of paradise and palm trees.

Just yesterday, while I was dealing with a fit of hanxiety and a Big Fucking Broken Thumb, I walked over to my neighbor’s, and Avina and Ben gave me two thick slices of the MANA that is The Really Good Erewhon Bread as well as some coffee with half & half. I love them so much. I love this life so much. We’ll get to that though, maybe in part 2.

Because what I’ve been grappling with, lately, is a new type of dilemma. Without fear or pain as motivation, it’s been hard to follow through and create. Lots of ideas, but no patience. I’m not running from anything anymore! I know the peace and glory of this time in my life cannot last forever. I know that fear and pain will find me, again, but I don’t think they will rattle me backwards.

The inertia of comfort has compelled me into total stillness. At times it feels like numbness. Mostly I am trying to stay busy, but it’s boring. I keep having to push myself out of the thick blanket of ease and convenience — I really have to hype myself up to pursue it, whenever I find myself longing to engage, to create, to go into the world and experience something. That’s not really a way to live. Why am I turning the most beautiful things about life into chores?

My inkling is that this is a good problem to have. I probably have a choice for my motivations moving forward. In the absense of fear and pain, what will move me?

Right now, I’m not sure. This morning I woke up, threw open the windows, and sat on the floor and listened to the birds. Normally I check twitter. Maybe that’s something.