Against the stone of buildings built before

“I miss you now, I guess like I should have missed you then.”

I’m listening to Tegan and Sara’s “The Con” for the first time since Kyle died. It’s easy to see what took so long. Memories are flooding in at rates it’s taken me nearly a year to be brave enough to feel. I’m choking from the chest and finally, I welcome it. 

“I was 19, call me”

The Con came out in 2007, the year before I first met Kyle. By the time I met her, it was one of 3 burned CD’s my best friend at the time and I would cycle through every night. I could almost bet it was one we played on the way to Peace-A-Palooza, where Kyle’s band Girl Named Kyle would be playing.

I was a music scene noob, and 99% of my circle was made up of lanky screamo guys. Seeing Girl Named Kyle on stage was a game changer for me in about a million ways. The band was talented and well composed, and Kyle’s voice was one for the books.More than anything, It felt new having the representation of a woman as a band lead, let alone a lesbian.

I was nervous in new ways when my friend and I hung out with the band afterwards. That night, Girl Named Kyle’s album was the 4th CD added to the rotation. I learned every word to it that weekend. 

“The feeling that I’m here again”

The next few years, Kyle and I would cross paths at random. It wasn’t until around 2012 when she re-entered my life. This time, it would be until she passed. 

PR queen and new friend Ciara asked me if I would do makeup for Kyle’s photoshoot, where she would be James Dean accompanied by a femme model playing Marilyn Monroe. I had never said yes to anything faster, and yet I remained convinced I was hetero. 

The entire photoshoot I was in awe of queer joy and gender play. I had always considered myself open minded, but the euphoria of being part of art like this opened up a  world both familiar and scary inside me. 

After this, Ciara, Kyle and I were a motley trio: crashing venues, coordinating garage sales and singing on practice room floors. This lasted until Ciara passed in 2016. Kyle was one of the only people who knew firsthand the depth of grief the loss of Ciara had for me. For this reason, I did the best I could not to discuss it with her. 

“Remember when I was sweet and unexplainable”

Kyle and I developed a close one on one friendship as well. She had gotten me jobs twice, once at Live Nation where my love for production became undeniable. But it solidified when I was evicted in 2013 and she invited me to crash on the couch of a condo she was renting from a friend. 

Every moment of our friendship welcomed me into my queerness in way I comically overlooked. Staying with her, I was introduced to a queer community. I was surrounded by attractive, talented lesbians and it was, most times, heaven But in platonic ways, of course…

One night, I found a pen imprinted with a buff man. I loved the irony of Kyle owning it. She gave it to me, and told me Tegan and Sara had given it to her when she worked with them. I’m not sure it’s true. I wish I still had it anyway.

“Call, and I’ll be curled on the floor hiding out from it all”

During this time I was in a deep depression, and refused to acknowledge it. Kyle and I spent our days on Adderall (hers, prescribed), finding new dreams to chase, and our night at open mics drinking Fireball. 

For a while, it was like an extended slumber party. Gossiping, dyeing each other’s hair, meeting each other’s dates. Our high’s and low’s seemed in sync to the extent where one day, we even found ourselves chasing a pig she impulsively bought around her condo parking lots.

But the stress I was repressing built regardless, until the night my body couldn’t take it anymore. I came home from a high-stress show I produced that had been double booked. Amidst the chaos, I accidentally doubled my dose of Adderal. My heart was racing as I exited Ciara’s car trying to play calm. 

Kyle was out, and for a brief moment I was scared to be alone. The night’s events ran through my mind along with the fact that I knew my time on Kyle’s couch was running out and I had no other plans. 

I ran to take a hot shower, where I fell to my knees. It was like the weight of the past month had collapsed on me at once, so heavy I couldn’t even try to stand. I crawled out out of the shower, onto the floor. 

The rest of the night was a blur. Kyle came home to find my slumber party had ended. Now I was sad and numb. 

She was determined to comfort me but clueless on how.I took my first and last  Xanax. Kyle offered to sleep on the couch so I would have a bed to sleep in. 

16 hours later I awoke curled up at the foot of her still-made bed, feeling only half attached to reality. Within 30 minutes I had quit my side gigs and packed my bags for Lakewood, to take a break from the city and stay with a friend in her mother’s basement. 

“I’m home now, I’m coming around.”

A few years later, Kyle ended up living in the same apartment building as me, managed by our previous manager at Live Nation. Every time we hung out I felt I was opening a time capsule. We stayed up late reminiscing on Ciara – 3 years after her death,  I was finally ready. A foreshadowing to my pattern of delayed grief. 

In time, the memories led to conflicting feelings. By now, I had come out – something Kyle had found less than surprising. 

We discussed my queer journey and the women I dated, and in extra vulnerable moments, addiction, and I was able to openly share my own struggles as well as my fears about hers I had held in for years.

After a few hangouts and amidst the communal depression that was lockdown, we grew close in new ways. Now and then we’d find ourselves intertwined in laughter, taking turns laying on each other’s arms.  

One of the last nights I spent with Kyle was about a year before she died. After she helped me install a lamp, we laid on my living room floor, singing every word to The Con. My 21 year old self was full force in my 31 year old body. I sang with my full lungs, and Kyle coached my vocals just like she had 10 years before in my Poet’s Row studio. 

“There’s a chance I’ll start to wonder if this was the thing to do”

Despite the palpable intimacy, I never crossed over into feelings of full-blown romance. She could be both a comfort and a dark place for me, and I, her. 

I distanced myself when things got too close, and our baseline connection seemed to remain strong. Still, she left a copy of Tegan and Sara’s newest album at my door for my birthday. Still, she picked me up at midnight  when I got lost walking home and a car began circling me. 

In her cup holder was a baby squirrel she was trying to rescue, wrapped in a small towel. I told her she as crazy, but she knew I’d help. We fed it and made it a warm bed. “Do you think she’ll make it?” she said to me with a desperation that I knew reached beyond the squirrel.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really hope so, Kyle.”

The squirrel didn’t make it. 

The last morning we would spend together, after our last drinks together, I awoke on her couch with a pit in my gut. The same pit I had when I ran away to Lakewood. The room smelled of old tequila, and Kyle had a darkness around her, the one I used to run from. 

She had been swearing over and over she would stop drinking, and I had promised myself over and over I would get better at helping her with it. I promised until I couldn’t.

I told her it was time for her to get more help and check into rehab. I can’t recall why the idea struck me so hard, but I know the words came from my throat before I had fully formed them. I knew her life was at risk, now more than ever. I wanted to help and run all at once. 

“I know, I’ll hold this loss in my heart forever.”

She went that morning. We texted once or twice. She updated me when she was out. I saw her in the halls a few times, where we exchanged a hug and I noticed she had lost the last few pounds that seemed to be holding her together. 

When I found out she was in the hospital, I told her I was here. I hoped she knew what it meant. I also sent her a music note emoji with a purple heart, the heart we used to remind each other of Ciara. 

She left me a strained voice memo ending in, “I love you, girl.” Our last phone exchange was “Kyle saved your voice memo.” I hope I told her I loved her too. 

I didn’t go to her funeral, something I both understand and sometimes, deeply regret. Instead, I cried by a river where Patty and a herd of deer comforted me. I cried in another friend’s car when “A District Sleeps Alone Tonight” played. I made her a light show on the ceiling that shares the lamp she hung, accompanied by all her favorite songs. And for a moment, I felt her. 

Now, I walk by Kyle’s apartment every day. Sometimes, I gently touch the door to say hello. 

My Journey to Queerdom

Had you told me 8 years ago I’d be spending this snowy afternoon listening to romantic music and dreaming up potential date plans with a woman, I  can honestly say I would have been very, very confused.

I never had one of those “epiphany moments” I’ve heard other queer-identifying women describe. I never fell in undeniable love with a female classmate or found myself envisioning marriage with any celebrity but JTT.

It was more of a buildup of ignored clues. I didn’t think there was a mystery to be solved.

All throughout school, I don’t think I knew of more than one openly gay girl, let alone someone who was bi/pansexual. If I was capable of liking boys, which I (mostly) was, then I was straight. Simple as that!

Who wouldn’t rewind that kiss between Sarah Michelle Gellar and Selma Blair 15 times and only play scenes with SMG in it after that?

It wasn’t a crush on that girl in English, I just wanted to be like her… gorgeous flowing hair, a perfectly executed tomboy wardrobe, a laugh that could cure disease. *cough* I digress.

I can, however, pinpoint the moment when I must have stuffed whatever inkling I’d had far, far down. I’d experimented with a friend in middle school. At first, we justified it by pretending the other person was the boy we liked. I found I wasn’t satisfied with that. I wanted what we were doing to be…well, real.

Although I didn’t have romantic feelings for her, I did want the physical aspect to continue and boy, did that scare her. It turns out that urge wasn’t consistent for all women after all. I had yet another quality to make me feel like an outsider.

A year or so later I was told by a friend that girl had expressed discomfort with me because she assumed I was a lesbian. I shrugged it off despite feeling ashamed for those feelings for the first time.

“Pfft, you guys know how obsessed with Zach I was.”

It wasn’t a lie. Things carried on and it was labeled a miscommunication.

From then on, I dove fully into a “boy crazy” persona. Some of it was genuine, some of it wasn’t. As I began being sexually active, I noticed that I was having far more sex than I was enjoying and most of it became validation based instead of romantic.

I thought girls were pretty still but now my casual rationalizing started to have a tinge of shame to it. I would switch my dating app preferences to “everyone” and quickly switch back in fear someone I knew would see.

I was ashamed. Women were being objectified and held to pornographic standards and here I was contributing to it. I’d still never fallen in love with a girl like I thought I had done with a boy so where did that leave me? A perv. A disgrace to feminism.

I started to ease up on myself a bit after college as my network continued to expand. I more openly acknowledged my attraction to other women and even began identifying a “type.” Slowly, I felt myself open up to the possibility I could even feel an emotional connection with some of them.

I’d constantly play with the idea of holding hands and cuddling in a theater. As quickly as the thought arrived, I was tucking it back into its safe place.

Eventually, it snuck out. Perhaps I should say, it broke out in explosions of rainbow and glitter.

Years ago I started volunteering at Girls Rock Denver, a feminist summer camp that prioritized LGBTQIA+ youth and found myself surrounded by badass rocker women who mostly identified as queer in some way. I had too many” girl crushes” to call it that anymore.

I recall coming home from one of our conferences on a new kind of high.3 margaritas into our flight back I loudly declared to my cohorts that I think I knew my taste range and it was definitely not just men.

They told me I’m good at vulnerability and we moved on. No moments of terror, no plane crash, no guilt thinking I’d deceived myself or anyone. Just a simply stated fact.

Once that declaration had been made, the world seemed to open up for me a bit, but not as quickly as I would have liked. I was locked in a pendulum now, swaying between “I’m straight but a perv” and “I’m so god damn not straight it’s laughable.”

Soon I started re-evaluating my dating patterns. I was locked in a pattern of dating emotionally unavailable men and being hurt over and over again. The only way I had left to fix it was to simply stop sleeping with them.

Eventually, the feeling that I was jumping into a void of loneliness shifted to the feeling of being my own best friend…something I thought was a cheesy cliché at best. Finally befriending myself could very well have been the final step toward accepting who I was.

Despite not having officially come out to everyone else and still experiencing serious doubts, I was far more open to the clues now and boy, did they come!

I finally caved after a woman who was so attractive it made my heart hurt put her arm around me and made a comment about hating to sleep alone. My palms sweat. I giggled nervously. Most of all, though I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her. What more was left to deny?

I decided to come out and start dating women. Like, real dates. The first one I went on was everything I could ask for…she was kind, smart, extroverted and yes, attractive. She asked me how I identified and I felt my face grow hot as I stumbled through terms and visibly panicked. She’d known she was gay her whole life and I felt like an imposter.

I’d love to say that after that I came to some sense of euphoric ease. That wouldn’t be even close to the truth, and I think I owe others who might be struggling with this an insight to the darker side of my experience.

From the start, I’ve been battling the biphobia of myself and others, queer or straight. The amount of stigma around it that remains in all communities has baffled and hurt me.

It took some intense therapy sessions to prove to myself I wasn’t a liar, that my experience counted and that bisexuality is a valid identity. That I, too, belonged in the queer community. It wasn’t that I wasn’t straight enough or gay enough. I’m just the right amount of both to be true to myself.

My dating habits didn’t just disappear…as my brother reminded me “wherever you go, there you are.” I’ll still need to work on declaring my needs and finding people who aren’t afraid of the open-hearted, feely person I am. People who can comfort me like I can them. Who see their own value and celebrate mine, too.

I’ve also experienced my first moments of being the target for homophobia. The indescribable weight of the hate you feel placed upon you by someone whose world you seemed to have ruined by existing. Angry yelling from drunk men on the street while I held hands with a woman, my date being harassed by a fellow Lyft passenger after he saw us kiss goodbye.

The journey isn’t over, as I quickly learned I’ll have to come out over and over again and deal with the heart-clenching feeling of not knowing how they’ll respond, no matter their gender or orientation. I’ll have to answer countless questions about which genders I prefer more and why. I’ll be asked to prove the value of my orientation time and time again.

So what made it worth it, you ask? Everything.

The feeling I got watching the blue and purple concert lights flash over the face of the woman I was seeing and watching her eyes lock with mine in mutual admiration. The first time I walked down the street holding a woman’s hand and feeling like I’d done it all my life.

Expanding my capacity to love and more than I even knew possible. Waking up next to a woman I care about, wrapping her arms around me and knowing the feeling I’m feeling goes far beyond sex. Sharing my story with teens and young girls who are experiencing the same shame cycles. The list goes on and has only been growing.

I wouldn’t take back coming out. For every snide remark, I’ve been blessed with 5 kind ones. I know some aren’t so lucky. My family, while admittedly a bit surprised, didn’t change how they treated me. My friends, a bit less surprised, were there to help fish me out of every hole of denial and guilt I tried to escape down. Even most women I’ve dated have shown less wariness than I expected.

As of the last few months, I declare my sexuality proudly to all who ask and some who don’t. I fawn over ladies (or men, or non-binary folks) as I please, and indulge guilt-free in connection regardless of gender. For the first time in my life I can truly say I’m proud of my journey and looking forward to the love that comes my way, in whatever forms that may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Healer

I have a hard time speaking about

Dreaming about

Writing about

You.

 

You’re a better poet than I am, anyway.

 

In fact, it seems you were born painting words with your mouth.

Shades of gold and green dance around you

As syllable by syllable

You make each moment your canvas

 

I imagine you arrived here quietly.

Solemnly,

Like an ancient monk who took a wrong turn on his way to the next life.

 

I bet you didn’t cry until you realized where you were.

 

Born into a world built to destroy you,

You decide to heal it anyway.

 

They hand you guns and bandages,

You turn it to sound and light,

Defying the elements in the best kind of magic there is:

The kind without tricks

 

I noticed you recognize the art in others and sometimes I wonder if ,

from afar

You can see the smoke signals from my stifled flames of desire, and if 

from afar

You can tell that every time I catch wind of you, I find them reigniting.

 

Adrift, pt 1

I. Adrift

The moment she felt the sand shifting beneath her, she knew the wait for the tide was over.

It was time to make a decision: turn back to the only land she knew, or dive.

Once those on the beach saw her turn away, eyes lit by the ocean, their alarmed calls for her to come back retired into worried goodbye’s.

She dove, bracing for the cold when it had already encompassed her. She began counting down her remaining breathes and for a brief moment almost lifted her head to swim back, but the tide that had called to her continued to draw her in.

This time her feet were not on the ground to fight it, but this didn’t alarm her. In fact, the powerlessness seemed to put her back at ease. It was familiar to her.

She cringed as the waters heaved and hurled, dragging her through coral and rocks, but was too numb to feel the sting.

She did leave with bruises, however.

Bruises that reminded her of innocence: long days as a child spent by the creek, too drunk on imagination to notice the bumps along her journey.

Bruises that reminded her of the loss of; freckling her thighs and serving as the last reminder of the greedy grasp of those she had mistaken for lovers.

As she examined the damage and prepared for the next wave, she felt the gaze of another upon her wounds. She hadn’t realized she was lonely in her journey until she felt a flush of immediate fondness for the floating stranger.

She reached to touch him. He accepted her touch, but as he stretched to return it, his wave pulled him just out of reach. Reach, pull. Reach, pull.

Before she knew it she was exhausted from treading water, and could only watch him float away.

Soon she realized he hadn’t even been paddling. He surrendered to the ocean and could spare no energy for her.

Was that how you survive here? Giving up?

She too began to float.

With rest came fantasies. She dreamt of a boat, simple and sturdy. One that would take her on these adventures that plagued her mind and demolished her focus.

She didn’t need anything fancy. Just something to serve as refuge from the harsh whip of the ocean, a dry place to put her feet, and the freedom to go where she pleases.

It wasn’t long before her visions were interrupted. She felt the bump of an unfamiliar object and flipped over to to find another presence. This one was tattered but proud, tightly grasping a piece of driftwood.

He explained his dreams to make it a boat, and she fell in love with how his eyes lit up as he decribed every board and nail.

“Grab on.” He offered the first words she had heard since she had begun her journey. They warmed her.

For a few precious moments she could feel the relief in her body as she let the driftwood do the work she had been struggling to. Each time she glanced over to be sure he was okay he smiled back reassuringly.

There was plenty of room for two. He promised.

Enough time had passed that she was tired…much too tired to swim more and needed much more than the support of one board. She began to have doubts that she couldn’t afford.

Now, her options were to ride on the driftwood dreams of a stranger or drown.

Or…

“It can’t be,” she thought, as she felt her toes brush sand. But it was. She had returned to dry land.

At first she was overcome with panic, “My journey!” she wailed to herself, “it had just begun!”

She tentatively lifted her gaze over the beach expecting to see the same line of familiar faces she had left behind waiting with an artillery of “I told you so’s.”

To her relief there were faces she knew, yet everything seemed to have the faintest glimmer of new hope.

Smiles had grown more genuine. Colors brighter, food more appetizing. The sunlight’s warmth came over, urging her to stay.

She turned to thank her captain to find he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. Although her heart was present, her sight remained glued to the horizon.

Perhaps he made the boat she dreamt of. Perhaps he was on his way back.

After days of waiting, she knew the feeling she had while she sailed back to land was true…the driftwood was made for one. His calling was to remain adrift and alone.

If a ship was truly what she desired in the end, it was time to build her own.

A Million Kinds of Love

They say there are a million kinds of love. I say that’s maybe half.

Right now a cat purring beside me and soon she will gently butt her head against mine to be pet and tell me it’s time to start a new day. Perhaps it’s nothing for her but company and a scratch, but for me it’s my first taste of love in the morning.

In an hour, my mother will text me “Good Morning, baby girl. Love Mom” and I’ll FaceTime her later to check in on her and the dog we got her on Christmas. Our service may drop. She’ll text me 4 times afterwards just to be sure I’m ok and tell me she loves me.

In 2 hours my roommates will meet me at the coffee pot. We’ll tell each other good morning and giggle about something funny that happened last night before going about pursuing our dreams in our own unique ways.

30 minutes later, I’ll be greeted by a one year old yelling my name and running to my arms. I’ll snuggle her as I sip my coffee and catch up on the weekend with her mother, who I’m lucky enough to call a friend.

If we’re lucky, we’ll get to go on an outing with a close friend of mine who also nannies a one year old and ogle over their cuteness together as if they were our own. I’ll spend the day with that sweet little girl and get to laugh about her newest tricks with her equally sweet parents again later.

While she naps, I’ll clean up, then open my laptop to do the other things I love. A bit of writing, a bit of working, and a whole lot of reflecting on this community I’ve been blessed with. That’s where my love for you comes in.

You, the mother. The father. The friends. The artist. The big dreamer. The comfort hound. The one hurting, and the one helping.

You, who I don’t see every day or probably even every month. You, who I greet with a smile or a hug in passing. You, who maybe it didn’t work out with. Whose life path leads them on journeys miles away from mine but I still feel close to me.

Perhaps you were a piece of my past or will be a piece of my future. Either way, you’re a piece of me now. I see you. I feel you. Even when I don’t realize it.

When I’m low, you’re voice is part of the chorus that tells me it’ll be okay. When I’m scared, you’re woven into the net that I know will catch me once I leap. When I succeed, you’re one of the hands presenting the trophy. When I fail, you’re the glimmer at the finish line telling me to get up and keep going.

Our brief encounters may be a drop in an ocean of memories but know that you have made your mark on me. Your story rings in my ears and the warmth of your smile is a lantern in the sea of light that encompasses me in times of darkness. For that, I love you wholly.

The Glow

I can’ help but feel I chose this life.

It seems  that from the moment my mother’s umbilical cord was unwrapped from my neck and the life was breathed back into me I was grateful to be here. Every recovered breathe and brush with death since has only made me celebrate more.

I remember other times this feeling has risen…8 years old: catching a glimpse of the sunrise in Estes Park and crying, knowing that if life was else it was worth being alive to simply gaze upon such miracles.

12 years old: noticing my life was very different from the people around me. Reflecting on the hand I’d been dealt and beginning to realize that it was time to not only be a healer, but a warrior. That my fate would be determined by me.

15 years old, in a new home and feeling fully fed and well educated but so, so alone; my fall into a new world cushioned by the warmth of this familiar glow, somehow burning brighter than ever…the nameless glow my mom has called my guardians angel, books have called my soul, friends have called my heart. A collaboration, perhaps.

No matter though, because I’ve learned it doesn’t need a name. I know because sometimes, when I’m lucky, I can speak to it. It soothes me to sleep by reminding me of the blessings around me. It wakes me up whispering clues of the journey before me. It reminds me that along as I’m here, so is it. If I continue to let it grow, perhaps it will remain even after I’m gone.

 

You’re More Than Enough: A Letter to Myself at 17

7/30/07

Reading my last entry should make me feel really sad at where I am now, but I’m feeling the emotion a notch lower than that. Indifference. Cold, empty, life-wasting indifference.

So- let’s update. 4 jobs down to 2. Quit Carter’s because I thought I had a back up plan. No such luck. Quit showing houses because I wasn’t fast enough. Which brings me to my second point- family approval? Hardly.

I never feel good enough for my own family, so I turn to friends, who lately I’m not comfortable with either. I wish I could collapse into my mom’s arms like I used to. I wish I could collapse into my own arms like I used to, but you can’t collapse into someone you don’t trust.

I don’t know my moral standards. I don’t know my passions. I know I’m made for great things, but even that seems to be rapidly fading. I’m needy and I don’t know my needs.

_____________________________________________________________________

10/14/17

Dear Ellie,

I wish I could pull you into the future, if only for a moment, to feel the immense amounts of love, support, relief, and clarity you’ll find in the next decade. The best I can do is tell you this:

1. You’re not a quitter, you’re a passion chaser. You settle for nothing less. Learn to focus this energy unapologetically on the things that have always driven you…community, music, activism, humor, adventure…all of it. This lesson won’t come easily, as you’ll find that leading an untraditional path requires forging many parts of it into the unknown. The abundance you’ll find on this journey will never cease to amaze you.

2. Family love is unconditional, family approval is fluid. There’s no perfect family where everyone pats each other on the back and laughs lovingly over family dinner every time little Timmy learns a lesson in growing up. Families are made up of humans in their rawest essence… just as they can be loving, supportive, and joyous they can be flawed, afraid, and judgmental. Hold fast to your unique journey, and they’ll be supporting you in the ways they know how.

3. You’re more than good enough for your family and friends…you’re perfect for them. Through these life lessons you’re learning, you’re teaching them. You bring strength in your vulnerability, joy in your vitality, and inspiration in your resilience.

4. I know you well enough to know I can’t tell you to “trust yourself” and that be the end of it. You’re a hands-on learner. For now, I want you to lay in your safe, cozy bed, let out the tears, then take a moment to realize what you have survived as a 17 year old…the chaos you have pulled yourself through with more wisdom than you even know you possess; the times that you really didn’t have anywhere to run to and still lived happily and enthusiastically, loving your very hardest. Journey through every moment that you deserved a badge of honor and give it to yourself. How could you not trust that super hero?

 

You say your purpose is fading, however I noticed that even at your lowest point you     couldn’t shake the feeling that you’re meant for great things. That was your light shining, and it’s the only eternal thing about you. If there’s one thing you don’t have to fear losing, it’s that. Let it soothe you to sleep tonight. Wake up tomorrow, thank it, and let it shine. Your needs will be met before you’ve even named them.

I love you.

Elle

Secondhand

She didn’t mind the secondhand,

Things already loved,

Or not

She didn’t mind the scent it left

When someone gave up

Or forgot

She could love the faintest glimmer,

Each crooked stich

Had charm

She didn’t mind a tear or two

If it promised her

Some warmth

When Chaos Comforts

Life is great lately. I live in a nice home with close friends who are motivated and supportive, have multiple projects that I feel beyond passionate about,  and my career and skills are progressing at a pace I can fully embrace. With this comfort comes an underlying sense of terror, as I recognize a feeling that has overcome me many times before during times like these…the lingering sense of missing something, like an old friend. Thanks to a little therapy and a whole lot of trial and error, this time around I have finally recognized this old friend I long for to be chaos.

Throughout my life, I have thrived in chaos. Last minute move? No problem. I have a bag of favorite things already packed, and I can make new friends quickly. School threatened to hold me back? No big deal. I always nail the testing and will be sure to attend the rest of the year. If not, I know some great online homeschooling programs I can dive into. No food? No fear! There’s hot lunch at school and I can go to youth group later. The list goes on and on, as when you are living on the lines of poverty, anything can become an emergency at the drop of a hat. Chaos was my only consistency.

Eventually, I was taken in by my brother and his family, who were doing very well financially, and this was when longing for chaos became most notable for me. They had a huge house with a million channels and a pool. I got a beautiful room with the bed I had always loved to sleep on during visits. Being grounded felt like a stay at a luxury hotel to me. Still, I had never felt more alone. I was surrounded by love and family, attending a quality school, had all the comforts I could dream, but I could never accept it. I kept it all like a wrapped gift that if I opened, would only disappear. It was fake. I resented it. Without chaos, where did my purpose lie?

In the middle of my senior year, I ran back into its’ loving arms. I moved out of my brother’s and couch hopped near my high school until graduation, then into the city where I spent countless days washing the scent of weed and old PBR off me before interviews for jobs I knew I would hate. Each day was an adventure, and I felt very much at home. Very much alive.

I can’t pinpoint an “ah-ha” moment, or when things started to improve. I suppose it was a combination of time, maturity, and constant reminders. I still long for chaos like my first love. Without it, I still feel alone at times, mainly when I am left to face my demons without distraction. Repressed memories often creep up and can debilitate for a moment.

Luckily, I have learned that this relationship with chaos is simply the inner child that is my subconscious feeling confused. I talk to her now in these moments…show her our comfy new bed, all the kids we’re helping, the people who love us, and the bright future we have because of all the times we learned how to save ourselves. I tell her she’s safe. That she won’t be hungry again. These days, she listens. She laughs. She even helps. These days, I have learned to focus this angst and longing into being a hero in new ways…taking healthy risks, loving everyone a little bit harder, and most of all, basking in the luxuries of self-care and creativity. If chaos comes, I will face it as need be. Until then, I thrive.

Enabling vs. Empowering

Rather than say I grew up with a “schizophrenic mother,” I prefer to do her efforts justice by saying I grew up with a creative, loving, and determined single mother, who also happened to have Schizophrenia. Through this upbringing, I gained a level of empathy that created a habit of falling in love with everyone I meet; especially once I know more about their background story and personal struggles. While this sympathy allowed me to forge many valuable friendships and a large network of unique individuals, it also landed me in scenarios that many people who love me would often call “precarious.”

Despite the cringe-worthiness of some of my past interaction with friends and strangers, I luckily have none I find regrettable. Each experience taught me the value of focusing my compassion on empowering instead of enabling. My friendship with one particular man named Brian was a pivotal piece in this life lesson.

When I first met Brian, I was people watching at City Park for an anthropology project. A tall, innocent-eyed homeless man around my age approached me. I don’t recall our initial conversation, but I remember being pleasantly comfortable with the interaction compared to other times when I was approached by strangers downtown.

I saw him again on the Mall Ride weeks later. He asked to borrow my phone so he could contact the owner of a stolen backpack he said he had recovered during an interaction earlier that day. I was curious to hear his story, and I invited him to join me at a bar nearby. The entire time I laughed at myself, because I knew this would be another “Life of Elle” moment, as my friends call it. I tend to live my life as if  I’m a character in a book, and this time was no exception. I was prepared to at the very least have a story to tell after our interaction. My plan was to chat, enjoy the rush of a new friend and a shift in perspective, and go on our separate ways.

Brian told me about his son back home he wanted to build a new life for before sharing some captivating freestyles. He mentioned his own belongings being stolen by another homeless man from the abandoned building him and a small community shared. Being admittedly less speculative than a young woman in the city probably should be, I offered to let him shower and sleep at my nearby apartment until we found him new sleeping gear and some clothes. I was working a catering gig for a huge week-long tour at a large arena downtown, and had plenty of leftovers that I invited him to enjoy.

One day turned to a few days, and Brian came and went from the apartment as he needed while I went to work, school, or out to party. Brian was easy to have around. He was polite and intelligent. I never felt unsafe in his presence, and I especially  never suspected he was housing a fierce drug addiction. Suspicions arose on day 3, when he asked me for $40 for “medicine.” I obliged, despite feeling like a suspicious mother turning a blind eye.

Later, some of my cash went missing. My bike he had taken to a friend for repairs was yet to reappear. At the point where I had nothing left to share, I knew I had to draw the line. A flood of emotions overcame me. I battled the feeling of regret the hardest. Why had I let myself down in a moment of opportunity? Had I accomplished anything but hurting us both?

After Brian left and the reality of my actions sunk in, the dreaded sense of regret arose. I knew Brian wasn’t inherently bad intentioned, yet with the missing cash and missing bike, I felt like my trust had been taken for granted once again. I messaged him on Facebook, a brief and unsatisfying note saying that my things going missing “sucked.” I couldn’t say more than that, really, because somehow he felt like an old friend. Despite my anger, I couldn’t allow myself to only feel bitter. I was worried about him. I didn’t received a message back from Brian. Until two years later.

Last year I received a reply from Brian. He told me he checked into rehab, and that he was sorry for what happened between us. My anger had long since subsided, and all that remained was curiosity. I was excited when Brian agreed to an interview with me, in which he explained his early start at a battle with addiction, the extent of his battle, and what exactly he was facing the few days he spent at my apartment. I learned he had started drug use at 11 when he felt he had no other means for outlet or escape. Things only worsened from there, until he hit rock bottom and realized he was betraying family and had no friends all in the name of chasing his next high.  Things finally aligned for him to surrender and seek help, and although the battle rages on, he is finally finding relief in life without drugs.

In the end, I am grateful to Brian for the lessons he taught me during our brief time spent together. Our encounter taught me that in order to truly empower someone, I need to focus on the cause instead of the symptom. I could feed Brian every bit of food I could find, but unless I had the capabilities to treat his addiction, my attempts at aide were only killing time.