The All-American Nomad's College Life, Excerpt 7:

"Monsters"

Never speak ill of the dead.

Raised by a recovering Roman Catholic father, I have spent my life conditioned to forget the past downfalls of the deceased as he does—the caustic-tempered friend who committed suicide, his domineering mother—they become figurative angels in death.

My own forgiveness haunts me like a particularly hard-to-ignore ghost. Once upon a time, in boredom, in fascination, in extreme attraction, I got involved with a guy who introduced me to some of the more esoteric aspects of life. It was fun, for a time; we had a good run. But gradually, the longer I stayed, the more I got to see that the things I loved about him—his extreme honesty, his constant search for fun, his reliability to be there when needed—also were the things that showcased his downfalls. His alert blue eyes sunk into hollows surrounded by flesh so purple and tired-looking it appeared as if he’s been punched by someone with particularly large fists in both eyes. The leg next to mine jumped and twitched, just like his fingers. Calls would go missed, be returned later, after it wasn’t important anymore.

I started out very naive, and turned jaded quick. One day, I looked at him and realized I had no idea who he was anymore. I came back from a vacation to find him gaunt and tired and morose. I started turning away as soon as I saw the straight-edge and straw come out, not even waiting anymore for the moment when he bent over the table. I wanted to close my ears from the sound of that strange, wet snuffling.

Not one who should be pointing fingers or condemning anyone, but I hated it. I hated the subversive behavior that always kept my heart pounding a mile a minute; once the thing I loved most. I hated the red rawness that appeared around his nostrils; the gray sheen of his skin; the sweat. I hated not being able to get in touch with him, either physically or mentally. I signed myself on board thinking one man was captain, only to find out it was a completely different other. One, I loved. The other, I despised. The problem was, any given day, I didn’t know who would show up for active duty. If today was a day I could depend on someone else, or if I would be running to catch up with the show, picking up the broken pieces and trying to stick them back on before it was noticed.

To this day, say the word “coke” to me and watch closely what happens in my eyes. It’s a purely visceral reaction, one unlike most others I haven’t yet been able to master. Maybe it’s one of my truest reactions. Watch them snap wide with one blink, distrust and hatred appearing right before the lids meet, gone when they open again. Say “coke,” and I am as sure I will lose you as I lost the him I adored.

Me, who can’t remember the majority of a solid year of her life, lost to smoke, who slept amongst the empty bottles in high school, I know too well the siren call some things can have. I trace out lines between the substances—ok, understandable, uncomfortable, definitely not ok, I’m leaving right now—and wonder what sense, if any, these delineations make. My reasoning surely makes no sense—opium destroyed the entire Chinese Imperial world, and yet, because it comes from a flower grown in my own flower beds at home, I am tempted to give it an “understandable” when I should be saying “Get it the fuck away.” Chemicals I don’t trust—anything made by man therefore has our immense margin for error. I don’t panic if it’s organic, but at the same time, I’ve learned I can live without it just fine if need be. Or maybe that’s a lie. Maybe right now, clean overseas for a month, I want that back in my head and my bloodstream, the little floaters of “everything’s gonna be alright.”

In the end, I try to reconcile the good times with the not-so-good, and realize just like human error, human need is not infallible. In the end, I realize we all need a little bit of escapism and mental adventure. We all have some less-than-stellar habits. It does not define who you are, as some might think, but it does color your character and how people remember you.

For me, I still cannot speak ill of the dead, but I can speak ill of the powder-white nightmare that follows it. I still remember vividly the nightmares I would have—finding the twisted captain tucked away somewhere in my house, a monster in disguise of someone I loved and trusted, cooking things up in my own oven, chasing me into corners, forcing me to fight back. I would wake up crying, moved to tears by the images in my mind of burying my balled-up fists into that familiar and beloved form, again and again and again, listening to his yells. When I jumped ship, it took awhile, but they stopped. I found myself in the calm between storms. I took time. I mourned. I thought long and hard about where and how I can judge, or if I should even judge at all. I made peace, or so, I thought.

Two months ago, the nightmare came back again. All it took was that one word, and I woke with a start in the night, from a dream in which your dual twin appeared, gaunt, all the charm and comfort gone. Twisted, nasty, snarling at me with need I couldn’t relieve—I relived the nightmares, in a new form.

That night, I couldn’t fall back asleep, even though I could look over and see that it wasn’t true, at least for now. I lay in the partial darkness of the room, waiting for the monster to slide under the door, burrow deep in your nasal passages, take hold, and destroy again. I expected to see it raise its ugly head before my eyes, right then and there, summoned by its name like a demon. I didn’t dare try drifting off again, for fear of returning to the dream and waking you, sobbing and racking my body in my sleep. I wrestled with my demons until dawn.

You slept on. I sent a plea up to that particular angel.

XOXO