The Lost Girl
I remember the girl who always gets in to shit. Sitting in the corner of the dressing room, hunched up with a backpack vomiting shoes and make-up and fake tan and thin, lycra slivers of dresses.
“You not working?”
She looks up and her eyes are dull, shadowed, tired.
“Got suspended.”
“You got suspended? Whaddya do? You punch’d a guy again?”
She waves a hand listlessly as if to brush the question off like a fly.Melanie stomps up, pulls the ironing board over, starts to butcher her dress into a semblance of acceptability.
“Hey girl. You wanna go out sometime?”
She addresses the question like it’s an option, a flippant, enticing prospect, but really it’s a desperate plea. She starts to talk, her words running out like viscous phlegm.
“…Cause I’m stayin’ in a hotel with my girlfriends – I don’t live here – and they’re drivin’ me crazy. They’re promoters, we can get into the clubs for free if we go out tomorrow, I really admire you, movin’ over here and startin’ on your own with nothin’, we should hang out sometime…”
Melanie’s face is pockmarked with huge craters defining a landscape of acne, filled in carefully with thick wedges of Maybelline. A sweet girl. Lonely.
“…I heard you got suspended, that happened to me when I worked at my last club, I got so drunk I kept forgettin’ who’d bought me drinks, so I’d go and give a guy a dance an’ the waitress would turn up and say ‘Who’s gonna pay for this drink?’ an’ I’d forget who it was…”
Mercedes, Lola, and Giovanna rush up in a mist of perfume.
“Girl! Don’t leave us! You can’t leave!”
The girl looks up, takes another cigarette, flips a lighter, inhales.
“Got no choice. I don’t wanna leave you guys either.”
She’s popular, the girl. They like her because she looks out for them. If there’s a guy, she’ll sell a double dance, call another girl over, make good for them. If she gets a drink, she’ll share it. If a girl’s under-age, she’s the first one at the bar smuggling drinks to them. She’s fun, she laughs a lot this girl. She’s fiery and she says ‘cunt’ loudly, so the rest of the strippers gasp and giggle. “Geez, I’m so fuckin’ horny. Masturbated three times today. I just want my guy to come along, push me against the wall and fuck me hard.” The girls will screech when she says this, fall about laughing, because for someone so tiny and sweet, the incongruity of these words is hilarious, and she knows it. She’s a tomboy with a pretty face, never wears jewellery, popular because she’s fun. The management are divided. Half of them want to fuck her, the other half want to string her up from the rafters, because she’s different, that girl. Creeps them out. No one knows where she’s from, what she does in the day. No one asks. Sleep, perhaps. What they all do in the day. Shut it out behind luminous lids filtering light like onion skin.
The girl met a friend today, from long ago, an NYC guy.
“God you’re so different. You have this Philly wall around you. You’re so blunt.”
The girl just laughs, takes another sip of vodka.
“So you’re in love now?”
“Yeah. This woman is amazing. First person who’s come along and actually done something for me, picked me up, instead of the other way around. You know, I’ve learned that it’s OK to say you need someone, you want warmth and love and affection. I feel so…”
“If you say ‘blessed’ I’m gonna fuckin’ hit you.”
“I haven’t changed that much! But you…”
“I get worried. I think I should give it up. Go get a real job. Move home. But then I realize that the only time I feel like I shouldn’t be doing anything else is when I’m writing. It’s not really an option. I’ve suffered and now it’s helping me make sense of things.”
“I get it. You don’t need to explain. One more drink?”
“Yeah.”
When I look at the girl she’s doing it all wrong, I can see that. She’s too proud, too stubborn, she yells if someone yells at her, she stamps her feet at injustice, throws herself headlong into situations, cares too much, cares too little. She’s tough and it’s not just a shell – she is tough. She’s also gentle, unbelievably soft, naive. Pathetically naive. She’s unforgiving – she looks at those who haven’t suffered with a prejudice borne of pain, her own. She’s isolated, because the fire driving her rages out of control, in contrast to the trimmed wick of other people’s candles. She keeps it all locked in, her personal contradictions, saves it for the word. Honest, incapable of lying. Offensive, social niceties saved for a rainy day. Seductive. When she talks to you, leans in confidentally like she’s known you for years, your anger melts, and you warm to her, and it flits across your mind that she’d be great in bed, fuck! push that thought out.
She’s sitting on the empty stairwell now, trying to get away from the chaos of the dressing room, not ready to go home and leave her aborted night in the Emerald City behind. I pass her and walk on. She doesn’t look up but she knows I’m there. She’s smoking, depositing little piles of ash onto the cold concrete floor, swirling them around aimlessly with a cigarette butt. When I come back later, she’s gone. All that’s left is her dancer name spelt out neatly in ash, over and over, as if she were trying to convince herself:
dixie dixie dixie dixie
Warped Tour 2011
I went to Warped Tour in Camden, NJ. It was a shit show.
Check out my adventures HERE.
I Don’t Know Why
My mother married my father when she was 30. She scooped up some prominent D.C. attorney and swore from then on out, she’d be the perfect wife. 2 years later and 36 hours of pain, I made a lazy entrance into this world. 21 months later came my sister. It was the 2 of us at first. Thick as thieves.
My father was a big-shot for one of the largest companies in the world. Life was plush for me. We saw my father on weekends mainly. He was always too busy traveling the world, putting in late hours at the office. He moved us 4 times when we were kids. Uprooting our happiness for money.
My mother slaved to be the perfect wife. She stayed trim and beautiful . Always wearing the latest fashions. She molded us into the perfect daughters. Kind, considerate, perfect grades in school. Our family was cookie cutter perfection from the pages of Southern Living.
I was small, maybe about 7, when I heard my mother weeping from her boudoir. She slammed the door in my face. I pressed my ear, hard against the door. Listening. My father cheated on her. Found someone younger, different, who knows. My mother stayed. “He’ll be back she said.” And then my brother came along.
Happiness disguised in a baby; a false excuse for perfection. Babies don’t make things better and it’s a shame to people who have them for that reason. Either way, I was 8-years old, living in White Picket Fence, IL. Me, my sister, and my baby brother. At that point, my mother became too consumed in saving her marriage, she forgot about us. Forgot about my brother. I woke up at 5am every day and got ready for school. Fed my brother at 6, put him in his day crib, and caught the bus by 7am.
My mother was the modern day Betty Draper. Too obsessed with being the perfect wife, having the perfect children, that she never really let us get to know her, to know our father. I wish I could say my childhood memories were full of joy, that life was perfect. It wasn’t. Country clubs and Mercedes don’t mean that life is wonderful. They don’t mean anything.
When it was time for me to go to college, I couldn’t bear leaving my siblings. Leaving them in a war zone that wasn’t a home. You see, my mother gave up her life for us, for marriage. She could never divorce my father and start a life of her own because she had been out of work for so long. So used to a life of privilege she could never have her own.
I won’t bore you with the details of how I got to college from there.
I did a brief stint at an all girls Catholic college. My mother’s choice, of course. After my 3rd semester, my sister was diagnosed with a rare brain disease. A rare form of Hydrocephalus to be exact. Countless brain surgeries later, I dropped out. I moved to Arizona to help my sister be studied at the Barrow Institute. After 6 weeks, the doctors came out empty handed. So, we left.
I intended to go back to school, but then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.
That moment, that sharp sting of shock will fill you forever.
I dropped out of college for good. I was there for her side for every surgery, for every heartbreak. Between my sister’s 9 brain surgeries and my mother’s 15 surgeries, I had mastered the art of sleeping on hospital room chairs.
My father really made no presence in any of this. Was too caught up worrying about his own life, I suppose.
I tried to be there for my baby brother, I tried. God. I tried. He attempted suicide twice in that time. Kids do that these days. He’s 17 and still has never given me answers. He’s 17, but he’s so deeply damaged inside, I cant save him, the anti-psychotics can’t save him, nor the anti-depressants, anti-anxities, anti-feeling anything in this worlds.
I started stripping. To make a life for myself. To provide an income to someone who was actually unable to put in 42 hours a week. I had to run a dysfunctional circus. There was no time for education or careers for me.
I don’t talk to any friends from then. From my white collar childhood. They look down on me. Whisper, “Oh, that poor girl, that poor family” in between breathes at their country club socials. We don’t want your sympathy. We don’t want your help. We did this on our own. To be honest, none of the girls I ever went to school with would have survived this bullshit. Im still here. Standing. I may not be perfect. But God I fucking tried.
My mother never really let us know what was going on with her cancer. Just that she was sick. That breast cancer showed up and she’d kick its ass.
If only that were true.
My mother went through mastectomies, breast reconstructions, thyroid surgeries, surgeries upon surgeries, treatments, prayer, I just cant remember it all. Its been 5 years. 5 horrible years of pain.
It seemed to have dropped off for a while. Last Christmas, she announced her cancer was back. I knew that it wasn’t good.
I tried to just help. I tried. There’s no helping. Cancer isn’t a fucking battle. She didn’t choose this. She didn’t want to fight this. It happens and there is no way out.
I’m sick of your fucking pink ribbons, your sympathy, your prayers. GO FUCK YOURSELVES!
Your false sympathy and 5k marathons aren’t here now. They aren’t helping us. They don’t make my mother feel better. Or give us hope. They make us depressed. They make me cry. They make me hate you. If I ever had the chance, I’d ram my brass knuckle ridden fist up Susan G. Komen’s pink ass.
My father left last month. Decided it was too much disgusting ugly, too much hard for his life.
It makes me sad that my mother is spending her last few months alone. She grabbed my arm in the hospice the other day, she tugged on it and said, “I got married and I’m dying alone.”
I guess. That’s the hardest part. I try not to stop to think. The thinking parts are the times I drink too much. Consume too many drugs.
So, here we are. My mother weighs 70lbs. I left my job to help her. She refuses it most of the time. Wants to be alone while she dies. I go 4 days a week to help. Most of the time I drink. Do drugs. Get lost in the city.
My brother and sister depend on me now. To be strong. For them. I’m the matriarch now. I’m in charge. That fucking scares me.
I spent all night drinking vodka out of the bottle and blowing lines of cocaine with my sister.
I have nothing more to say.
I’m too numb to feel.
Something good will happen tomorrow.
I’ve been saying it for 5 years now.
I keep saying it.
I don’t know why.
Grasping All The Broken
I’ve grown a lot since Dixie days of ‘yore. I can stand on my own two feet now. Well, financially anyway. Have I changed? Not by much. I’m still looking for love in all the wrong places. Still putting on my tough girl façade. Not letting in the boys because deep down, I am still scared. Perhaps, the real me and Dixie are the same. I can’t seem to find the answers.
I let dates and boyfriends pass me by. Not really anyone seems to matter. In all the days and months that have passed me by there hasn’t really been one that ever has an impact on my life.
I managed to stumble upon one. He wasn’t like all the other ones. He didn’t “babydoll” me, flash around money, or tell me how amazing I am. He told me the truth. He told me I wasn’t perfect. That I was flawed, that deep down, I had scars I tried to hide. He saw all these things, but still talked to me.
I was embarrassed at first; embarrassed that he saw all the damage inside. I scrambled to cover it. To hide it like I did from everyone else, but there was no fooling him. It’s like that dream you have where you’re 15-years-old standing naked in your high school cafeteria. He saw my ugly. My wounds. The vulnerable girl I always kept a secret.
He claims the first time he met me I was Dixie. Not the real me. Maybe I was fake. Maybe he was right; maybe I had become smitten with him and had to become Dixie to protect myself. In case he wasn’t real. In case I was just hurting myself.
We don’t know each other very well. We both admit it. But, Christ, he somehow was able to see all the fucked up parts of my life. In that mess, it made me care about him even more. If someone could take the time to gaze into my fucked up haze, then just maybe…
Who am I kidding? I’m sure he is the lucky one; the one that gets away without having to see the train wreck happen. Maybe he read the ending before the book started and didn’t stick around for what’s in the middle.
I had played out our departure in my head earlier in the night. I had planned to thank him, to tell him how I really felt. That I liked him. That I cared about him. That I understood his feelings too. Oh, but, alas, that is never the way things go. For me, they never go as planned. Always some morphed picture of the idea I once had.
I’m actually not certain I will see him again. Not sure that after all the excavating of the burial grounds inside me he found anything worth keeping, My feelings and gratitude go out to him anyway.
Tonight, I’ll go to sleep without knowing if anyone will be able to understand me. That anyone can solve this mystery.
I just don’t think anyone can grasp all this broken in their hands.
Hello again.
I’ve been home for 15 minutes now. Let the door slam behind me sharply after I walked in. Something I have gotten used to now. This incessant loneliness. 1,200 square feet of emptiness. I’m ok with it, though. I’m ok being alone now. Not like before.
I stopped writing. Stopped caring. Stopped letting people tell me what was going through my head. I had privacy. Only letting people judge me from my tweets. In my tweets, I didn’t have to divulge how awful life has gotten for me. How my struggle has become a bit of a rough ride. Prepare for turbulence. Stay in your seats.
In reality, I don’t share the facts of how bumpy my ride in life has gotten. I put that Dixie smile on, nod, and smile. Perhaps I prefer hiding behind this mysterious mask of the internet. Well, I do. I’d rather pull out that false persona I used to slap on everyday and tell everyone, “I’m ok”. That’s what she would do. That’s what Dixie would say.
Deep down, I don’t like burdening people with the dark hard parts of my life that exist. Mainly because I don’t want to see the people I care about feeling one slice of their hearts in the kind of pain I’m in. Maybe because I’m used to living in my former stripper celluloid lifestyle of plastic and happiness. Maybe because I really do care. I’m not sure I know.
Friends applauded me for leaving the world of stripping. Moving on to a new job. A job that society accepted. Even though I was clothed, I’m not sure it was much different. I had to get up every day and put on that Dixie act for a fashion house. Nestle up to designers at fashion week and pretend I cared. Pretend that my life depended on the latest line. It’s the same as stripping. Its an act.
I don’t care about that shit. I don’t care about my rapport with a fashion house anymore. I don’t care about landing new accounts, networking, creating new relationships because none of that really matters to me in my heart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m obsessed with fashion, but just not willing to pour my soul into it for a paycheck.
I think what it comes down to is that no matter what, there is still that longing feeling inside me for something more. For someone to call my own. Even though I may not have much of a family left, I so desperately want my own. I just don’t believe that there is a man out there strong enough to be mine. Strong enough to love the dark parts of me; even the scars that cover me now.
WinWin
I sat down with XXXChange of WinWin and had a nice little chat.
Echo
Went to the Echo & The Bunnymen show with Mr. Richard Brian Penn, Jacob Miller, and The Russian.
Bullshit Optimism
I’m sick of the “everything happens for a reason” bullshit. I’m sick of hearing “when one door closes another one opens.” I’m sick of the forced optimism and fake consoling of my co-workers. I don’t want to see life like I’m reading bumper stickers in traffic.
On top of my broken heart, my mom’s cancer is back. Well, not back, it’s everywhere and she isn’t expected to live the long life she had planned.
It makes me sad. Sad to know she has so much suffering ahead. To know that she’ll probably never get to see me in a white dress or hold any grandbabies. I’m sad that I won’t have her anymore. She’s my best friend. Even on the days I want to strangle her with the chain on her Chanel bag, I love her, even her Manhattan tough girl criticisms.
In the last 6 months, I’ve lost the love of my life, my best friend moved away, and now, my mother is dying.
Anything I ever love goes away in the end…
But I can’t live like that. I’ll try to hang onto that bumper sticker optimism people feed me. I’ll keep hoping, that one day, I’ll finally catch a break.
That one day, I’ll really have something I can hold onto.
Turning the corner…
“What a piece of shit.” Julio lashed out sharply while bathing fries in a plate of ketchup.
I was hunched over the table, my lips pursed tightly around the straw in my soda, eyes fixed down staring at the beige table top.
“You know you shouldn’t be drinking that shit, Dixie.” He said, trying to change the subject.
“You shouldn’t be eating those fries.” I said, smartly.
He grinned for a moment before changing his tone to a serious one. One, I had never seen from Julio.
“You know.” He paused. “You know, you’re stronger than me. I couldn’t go through the things you have been through and still smile and laugh as much as you do. You’re the strongest person I know. I don’t know anyone who could have suffered through that and kept their head held high.”
I forced a slight smile. Appreciating his compliment, but feeling the sear of the burn in my heart from those dark days. I squirmed in the black leather booth in the restaurant.
“Boss.” He looked at me right in the eyes. “You deserve someone better than that. Someone that can love every part of you. The damaged and the good.”
I laughed. “Ok, Julio.” Half believing there is someone better out there for me, half of me still swilling on regret.
Julio made me feel good. I am strong. I know that I am and for the first time in my life, I believe it.
I’ve turned a corner in my life.
I am anxious for what lies ahead.
Valentines Day Sucker
When you’re little, Valentine’s Day is full of excitement. Mail boxes made out of red and pink construction paper perched on your desk. Waiting patiently until the end of the day to see what’s inside. Boxes of conversation hearts scrawled with boys’ names, cardboard cartoon cards, you dig through until you find your favorite cherry flavored suckers. This day is your favorite holiday until you grow up and become the sucker.
It’s funny how life foreshadows itself.
You wonder if the prince charming you dreamed of when you were 5 really exists because the more and more you love, the more and more you get hurt. Another day, another night going to sleep without him. Every part of your being moves on from the hurt except when you’re alone; that’s when your soul aches. The darkness is a sore reminder that every part of your heart loves him. He wasn’t a prince charming, he wasn’t rich and famous, but that part doesn’t matter. You’d wait for him and wait for him. The truth is, you’d probably wait for him until the day you died because you fell for it. And that truth makes everything else look like a lie. The lie that you’re happy and that you’re the tough girl, the girl that never ever gets hurt, but he was the one that broke through those walls and took over your emotions. And now, you’re the one standing there with your heart in your hands. You’re the one standing there looking like the sucker.
But now that you’ve grown up, you’ve learned. Things aren’t perfect, things will never go the way you want them to. And in your life lessons, you remember that no matter how long you would want to wait for him, things don’t change when you hold on, they change when you let go.
Maybe, one day, far far from now, that boy will find this, he’ll read it and know that there was once a girl that loved him more than anyone could love. Because that’s just who he is, a boy. Like the ones sneaking valentines into your mailbox. Not a man who chose you out of preference. Maybe he’s married now. Maybe you’re married now, but even though you’ve moved on in your life, your heart will never forget him.
