Category: Metal

Categories
Ink Metal

I Don’t Like Peas with My Mashed Potatoes

I am a notoriously & horrendously picky eater.

If you ask me to name one place where I can just order something off the menu as is, no substitutions or modifications–I don’t think I can. I’m mulling it over and nothing comes to mind. Even our favorite place to grab dinner on Friday nights makes me a special-not-on-the-menu dish because well, I’m a fussy eater.

One thing I am not picky about (and you shouldn’t be either) is human rights. We are all beautiful, breathing creatures why should anyone be denied something simply because they are different?

Most of my time spent on social media lately has been spent scrolling and sharing. I’ve not spoken much because people are callous. Callousness doesn’t usually bother me, but anymore it is like a cheese grater against my soul; eating away at my hope in humanity. I share articles and information in effort to be more than just a performative ally and to avoid complicity.

Performative allyship is a fancy way of saying you’re going through the motions of being ally. Your actions have no concrete substance in lifting up the community you are aligning yourself with. It could also be doing grand gestures, such as large donations to charitable organizations, but still making the same kind of marginalizing comments & decisions, all focused on the ‘look at me, look at me.’ Performative allyship is just that: a performance.

Complicity is the by product of inaction and silence. We are in age where you cannnot simply say, “I’m not taking sides.” Neutrality defaults to complict oppression. Our marginalized communities need active support and allyship beyond “I stand with you.” This is not to say when you participate in Black Lives Matter protests or Pride Events, you take over and make it about you. But rather you listen, take direction, and ask how you can be supportive.

If you’re not at an event another way to uplift the community you’re supporting is to call out bigotry when you see it or hear it. Your racist grandparent drops a slur? CALL THEM OUT. You let them know that kind of language is not ok and it isn’t funny. It’s small and may not feel like it makes much impact, but it does. Remember your allyship should not be conditional nor require recognition.

Despite my bisexuality and being in the LGBTQA+ community, I have a lot to learn. SO MUCH TO LEARN. Particularly, with the Trans Community. Their struggles have been heavily exasperated by the J.K. Rowling debacle. I never would have thought I would be writing a piece critical of one of my favorite authors.

Harry Potter the title a lone used to bring a smile to my face. Now, it creates panic and confusion as I watch JKR’s rhetoric unfold. If you are unfamilar, JKR has some rather inflammatory, transphobic viewpoints regarding the ‘validity’ of transpeople, which she has shared via Twitter. It’s heartbreaking.

In effort to ‘explain’ herself, she published a lengthy piece on her website. With even more harmful and damaging information to the trans community.

Many of us are experiencing difficulty in separating the story from the author. Hogwarts was supposed to a be place where people gathered because they were different. Many fans found inclusion and solace in the hope and happiness of the magical world.

Fortunately, the wonderful actors & actresses who brought our favorite characters to life have let us know they feel the exact opposite of JKR. And remind us that even though JKR has abandoned us; the love, lessons, & magic we picked up along the way will not.

Traveling around the world has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many new and interesting people–including trans people who I’ve been able to ask the hard questions without judgement in an effort to learn how to better support them as powerful people aim to erase them.

I can’t say I’m absolved of wrong doing. I know I’ve had transphobic thoughts and have said things I am not proud of. For that, to the trans community: I am sorry. I am human and can only hope to learn today to be better tomorrow. Thank you, trans friends for your understanding and patience with me as I learn and grow (especially when we are drunk in Mexico.)

People matter. That’s all there is to it. All people do matter.

However, that’s not the point of the Black Lives Matter movement. The point is a particular community of people have been mistreated and unfairly targeted for too long and it must end–now.

Besides, even if it was about saying Black Lives matter more than someone else, the argument of “All Lives Matter” is a pile of rotting garbage. Here’s why.

If all lives truly mattered, there would have been more outrage at the people seeking refuge, but instead were caged.

If all lives truly mattered, there would be more done to protect the disenfranchised, but instead we arrest them.

If all lives truly mattered, I would not be writing this post.

Instead too many people want to cherrypick which lives matter, much like a lot them want to cherrypick religious doctrine.

How little empathy do you possess for your fellow human at your failure to see their mistreatment and why they are fed up with being mistreated? And want to dictate what humans are afford what rights? My brain spins out of control at the insanity of it all.

Yet when your coupon is denied in Macy’s you terrorize the retail staff?

Again, I’m not perfect. Nor will I ever claim to be. All I can do is apologize and continue to come to the table with an open heart and open mind to be and to do better by my fellow humans. Apologies without actions are worthless, I do what I can to back my apologies with words.

I’ve noticed when people find themselves in a position where they know they cannot sustain discourse, they default to name calling. Usually, I see it with men aiming it at strong women. But more and more I see women throwing the stones at other women.

I have a friend with a larger platform than mine. We’ve both endured some hard shit. Simalarities exist, but largely it’s different. Does that mean someone has had it worse than the other? No. We’ve both walked through the quicksand without a rope and managed to survive.

As she has become more vocal on her stance on human rights (honestly I don’t know how much more vocal she can be), the hate fire has really started to rage. Some of it has been down right ugly.

The most common response to her activism has been, “stick to what you know.” I just shake my head at this comment because I think they have to be brand new to her platform. My friend, like myself, is an underdog and fights hard alongside other underdogs. So if they really knew her morals and activism they would understand–this is what she knows.

While I may not like peas with my mashed potatoes or veggies in general, tbh–

Human rights are not produce at the supermarket you can carefuly select what you want and prepare to order.

Categories
Ink Metal

At the Intersection of White & Privilege

The last couple weeks have been difficult for everyone to process. We’ve been dealing with unprecedented changes in our social behaviors with stay at home orders and navigating the changes at orders are lifted. Then George Floyd was murdered on video and for a small moment the world was united in outrage; resparking an international conversation on privilege.

This conversation struck a nerve and forced me to think about what privilege truly means in the current age. It no longer only relates to economic status and our thinking needs to expand beyond boiled down definitions.

I’ve struggled most of the week trying to find the most accessible definition of intersectional privilege. I’ve scrambled my brain and consulted fellow writers for great, home run analogies and in the end they all fall short; either too cliche or cheapened the concept. Sometimes the best writing device is restraint.

Intersectional privilege demonstrates we have all have varying degrees of privilege based on a multitude of factors. Recently, the quiz ” How Privileged Are You?” from Buzzfeed has regained traction. The original publish date is April 10, 2014 and six years later it is more relevant than ever. I know Buzzfeed is not always the best source for reliable content and many of use it as a time-waster; however, this quiz showcases the extensiveness of intersectional privilege. If you have not taken it, I highly reccommend that you do. It sheds a lot light on the different factors one should consider for intersectional privilege.

My results of the Buzzfeed “How Privileged Are You?’ quiz.

White privilege is the unique luxury passively discussing whether or not we are ‘actually‘ privileged. If you think about any hardship you had to endure in your life, being black would have made much more difficult to overcome because of instutionalized & systemic racism.

When we as humans are presented with new information, challenging our belief system we instinctively react defensively. Our gut instinct is to protect what we believe to be ours because change and challenges are hard; especially if you are someone who struggled your whole life.

Confronting your own privilege can be difficult because you have to examine every piece of your life and think about the ways it could have been harder for someone else because of something that was different. It’s scary because you know how hard it was for you and fathoming more difficulty is uncomfortable.

We are witnessing history unfold before our eyes. We have opportunity to change the way water flows. We have to shed our fear of discomfort and do what is right for the marginalized, specifically the Black Community.

The post may feel clunky and not nearly as poignant as my other commentary. It’s a difficult topic to write clearly on when you have the advantage of taking a bird’s eye view of the problem. Saying I empathize with the Black Community is a slap in the face to them, despite having handled my own challenges.

Instead, I stand in solidarity. I will use my privilege to try and educate others that privilege is more than the wealth you’ve accumulated. It’s about opportunity and experience.

I want us to get it right this time. Where do you want to stand?

When attending a protest, please follow these guidelines. We have been the perpetrators of oppression, we cannot lead this revolution.
Categories
Ink Lace Metal

Revolutions Aren’t Pretty

You say you want a revolution
I don’t think it means what you want it to mean.
You want:

quiet
meek
and demure

But let me tell you something.

When it comes, it won’t fit in your box.
It isn’t breakfast diner eggs made to order

Revolutions are:

loud
messy
and the voice of the broken.

Feel the anguish in the devouring flames.
Hear the despair in the rally cry.
See their vision for stronger tomorrow.

Neutrality is lethal and.
silence strangles.

A revolution is coming, so you better gear up because
it’s not gonna be fucking pretty.

I’ve been fortunate to have most of my social media connections be united in outrage about the murder of George Floyd. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I have seen so much unity not just within our country, but throughout the world. However, like many things, the unity was only fleeting as it crumbled under the weight of anguish, despair, and deafness.

The protests are absolutely warranted. I am not normally one to agree with violence and destruction, but my mind began to change once I saw the pressure led to the arrest of Derek Chauvin. I’m still not sold on cities being devoured in fire and chaos in the midst of a recession. However, peaceful protests aren’t working and more forceful pressure is needed.

People of color and other unheard minorities are fed the fuck up. Their frustration has boiled over and the fire in their hearts now spreads through our cities. If you’ve never become so angry you want to throw something or break something, consider yourself lucky. I definitely have more bark than bite and generally don’t engage in confrontation if I think it will escalate physically. Really, I just like to run my mouth–my partner calls me a chihuahua, but have on occasion lost my cool and broken things in the midst of a tantrum. And those tantrums are nothing compared to the injustices people of color have witnessed & suffered.

A revolution has been long overdue. There are enough good police officers out there, but too scared to do or say anything about the pervasive bigotry within their profession it makes the lot of them look bad. This is how movements like ACAB (All Cops Are Bad) start. If you don’t take a stand for the silenced and disadvantaged, you’re by default siding with bigotry.

It’s 2020 and we are still fighting for people, all people, to be visible. Regardless of what you believe in, people have been around long enough that we should be past this argument. If your beliefs tell you that someone isn’t a person or needs commended because they don’t check boxes XYZ, you need new beliefs. Period.

We are at another pivotal moment in history where we can make impactful change. Are you going to continue to marginalize the voiceless, telling them how to exist or how to fight for a voice and visibility? Or are you going to say enough is enough, everyone deserves to be seen & heard and do your part to stand up for what is right?

I don’t have the answer to nonviolent yet forceful way to enact change. I wish I did. I wouldn’t have to see stories of horses getting hit with bricks or children getting maced.

On that note, I understand everyone needs to take a stand & children learn from what they see, but why are children at these protests? There has been enough evidence the last week that the chances for retaliatory action is probable. Why even put them at risk? I don’t want kids, hell I barely like most children but I still don’t want to see children getting maced or tear gas thrown on them.

I want to say I understand, but I don’t. Even with people of color in my family (whom I worry for now more than ever; especially my uncle and male cousin) I will never fully comprehend the marginalization they’ve endured simply because of genetics. I empathize because I understand what it’s like to be judged, but racism runs deeper than just simple judgement and that I will never understand.

People of color and all unheard minorities, this is my pledge to you. However you need support whether behind you, beside you, or in spirit you have my solidarity. I want us to find a way to enact the change you all desperately deserve and are owed. I aim to be better at speaking out on your behalf when I witness injustice. I cannot promise a permanent change overnight, but I can promise to be more thoughtful and cognizant of my privilege and to use it to amplify the voice that has been stolen from you.

Categories
Ink Lace Metal

Survivor’s Power

I am not usually one to pay attention to what is trending on social media. Which seems slightly backward considering this blog and the makeup feed. However, today one thing caught my attention, a hashtag.

#maybehedoesn’thityoubut

The replies & posts women and men share depict heinous abuse. Things one would think, ‘man that has to be TV or movie plot.’ What a world we would live in if domestic violence only existed in a performance. Relationships would thrive and people would not be Humpty-Dumpties on brick walls needing put back together again.

Abuse is not unfamiliar to me. I was raised in an abusive environment and have had many unhealthy relationships as a result of that abuse. There were times I wondered if Dad would have become violent enough to kill, fortunately (and most obviously) he didn’t. Although I do occasionally play a what if game, what if I hadn’t moved out so early and had stuck around? What then? Glad I didn’t find out.

My first relationship after graduating high school was kind of a disaster from the beginning. We met online and found out we only live a couple miles apart and I ended moving in with him not too long after that. We had a lot of fun and mostly good times, but we weren’t right for one another. However, I will say despite not being a good match, there wasn’t any abuse. I don’t look back with despondence and heartache, thankfully.

We split right around my twenty first birthday which was October 2009. A tipping point in my life where my plans for me as an adult hardcore derailed. I was in college at one of the best private schools in Iowa. Unfortunately because my wonderful father refused to file tax returns I couldn’t file FAFSA forms to continue getting financial aid and eventually had to drop out.

The interim time between my birthday and dropping out was a major bender. I managed to become friends with people who weren’t students. I began drinking pretty heavily, smoking cigarettes & pot, being promiscuous and just other general crazy behavior. Before you ask about other drugs, the answer is no. I’ve never tried nor had the urge to do anything besides smoke pot. I witnessed too many highs and lows of addict to even entertain such a notion.

Through this group of friends, I met Joe* in January 2010. We had an instant connection. Eventually, we started dating, sort of?

I am always confused to talk about Joe because in public he never addressed me as a girlfriend, despite sharing an apartment and bed. In private though, oh man he would praise me up and down and tell me how much he loved me. Should have realize this one right away, but being young and really dumb I stayed.

The difference between our public life and private life is my first #maybehedidn’thitme until he did. Joe’s major vice was alcohol. When we met he didn’t have a job or a license. Lost both because of DUIs. I guess I was still depressed or something because I drank a lot too when we were together. And the alcohol really made things ugly.

Friday, October 29 2010. One of the worst nights of my life and I nearly lost it.

October 29 is my birthday. My mom and both my sister had come to see me & Joe and took us out to dinner. Mom didn’t have a lot of money telling Joe he could order a drink but had to pay for it himself. Joe became really agitated and more of an asshole than usual. Withdrawals maybe? Dinner wasn’t too bad, I guess. Other than some mildly aggressive fussing from Joe it was fine.

The plan post dinner was to go out for karaoke at the bar down the street from our apartment because what else was I going to do as a sassy, borderline alcoholic going to do on a Friday night? I bought a fiercely sexy costume (Torrid’s Mad Hatter.) Joe hated it. We fought before we even left the apartment! He told me if I wanted him to come out I was going to have to change. I don’t really remember how the battle was won, but he came to the bar with me and I didn’t change.

The night was fairly low key most of the people who had said they were going to show up bailed and the bar itself was pretty slow for Halloween weekend. I was still determined to have fun despite Joe being a dick and sitting on the corner barstool.

I ran around the bar taking pictures and shots with people because yay birthday! I (badly) sang karaoke and was actually enjoying myself. Well some guy who came in with some friends of ours grabbed my attention. We chatted on and off throughout the night. At some point he had his my arm around my waist and was totally looking down my costume at my boobs. Did I care? ABSOLUTELY NOT! Joe had flirted in front of other women, hell even tried to go home with other women while we were together so I was like what hell, why can’t I flirt? So flirt I did.

Joe saw this little cat and mouse game and he didn’t like it because Hot Dude asked if I was available I was like sure am and Joe ran up to use & flipped his shit. He was all like, “What are you doing with my girlfriend?”

All I could do was laugh and say, “I am not your girlfriend.” Hot Dude felt very uncomfortable and went about his business not wanting to get caught up in our spider web, can’t blame him.

Closing time came and I finished the last of my birthday shots and we walked home. One friend that had shown up to the bar came to our apartment because there was supposed to have been an after party, but because basically no one showed there wasn’t much of a party to be had. My friend still came over anyway having made me homemade beer as a birthday present. My friend & Joe started drinking tequila (1800) straight from the bottle. I was too drunk and too tired to continue so I went to bed.

I don’t even know how long I was asleep, but the next thing I remember was waking up gasping for air and an immense pressure around my throat. I opened my eyes and Joe’s hands were around my neck choking me. I became lightheaded, he let go. I started crying and screaming and he grabbed my neck a second time shouting “Who the fuck are you, how did you get in here?” He eventually let go.

I should have immediately left, but I was so drunk I couldn’t drive anywhere and being so drunk didn’t think about calling the cops.

He was so intoxicated he forgot who I was and thought a stranger was in his bed. My friend was so drunk he was passed out on our couch unable to hear the commotion coming from the bedroom.

Every time I recount these memories my heart breaks a little inside for the woman who was unable to recognize what she was getting herself into. I wish I could tell you this was the worse fight we had, but it wasn’t. Unfortunately, I didn’t finally leave him until January 2011. Almost a year to the day we met; ugly & nasty separation.

Prior to his DUIs, Joe had worked for Delta Airlines in some capacity. The exact role eludes me anymore, baggage handler maybe? I only recall he worked outside on the ground. If you aren’t familiar with airline employee work schedules, they can get bounced around from airport to airport–a lot.

Naturally, in the course of his employment Joe befriended many people men & women a like. He kept in touch with some and while we were, whatever we were, suspiciously regained contact with a woman.

She did not live in Iowa and along the way he lead her to believe once again I was the roommate so when she came to visit I was kicked of our bed and she got to sleep with him.

While crying myself to sleep on the couch, I had to listen to them have sex in the bed I spent the last year sleeping in. It was mortifying and humiliating. I rebounded with some dude I met online.

One night while Joe was ill and Miss Delta was not visiting, I left him to go hang out with Mr. Online. I didn’t tell Joe what I was doing or where I was going. I finally felt at that point it was no longer any of his business, despite it not being his business for many months before that.

Somehow…Joe found out. I think I came back to the apartment with a hickie on my neck and noticed. Thinking back, I am surprised he paid that much attention to me. We argued and screamed. He called me a whore and many other rotten things and the violence ensued.

He pushed me down, against the wall my back hitting the thermostat, ripped my clothes and pulled on my hair. The violence led to sex, which I recognize now as sexual assault because I did not provide any kind of consent.

Fortunately, this was the last physical fight he & I had. Miss Delta took him on a trip to meet her family and friends over his birthday and I packed up my stuff and left.

Joe is only one chapter in my story, I wish I could say the chapter after him was my happy ending. If you’ve been paying attention that is not how my life goes.

I had high hopes for 2011 because I finally ditched Joe & Mr. Online and started moving on with my life. Life flipped upside down again when Marissa died and I had to spend a long time healing from that.

Despite being a domestic abuse survivor, I think it is important to recognize when you’ve been toxic to someone else. It has helped me in healing. Sometimes, the toxic traits flare up and relationships become strained. I am as human as anyone else. I try not to blame my shitty actions on past traumas; it still happens–however, I am working on trying to unlearn all the crap.

I was single until 2012. Met two different guys at roughly the same time and picked the wrong one. The one I didn’t pick, I screwed over. I was the toxic one there. He was great and used to think he was the one who got away (that thought changed four years ago 🙂 ).

Instead, I walked down Manipulation Avenue–again. This one never yelled or hit me, but our relationship bobbled up & down and there were a lot of rumors he constantly cheated. Most of our socialization came from friends we had made as a couple mostly because my friends would watch how he treated or spoke to me and ask, “why are you still together?”

We split more than once in the 11 months we were together, at least three if my memory serves me correctly. Maybe more than that? Again I ignored red flags because I was so desperate for love, it was just easier than being alone.

How broken can someone be they would rather put up with conniving behavior than be alone? I was told by my dad if I ever ended up with someone to hang on to them because I was impossible to love. No one would want me. I heard this over and over and over again from the one man who was never supposed to fail me. So I loved (still do) fiercely & immensely because a voice in the back of my head still says…”They don’t really love you.”

After the final split in 2013, I decided no more. While I had my own faults in all of my relationships, my faults & mistakes were absolutely no excuse for abuse, mental or otherwise. I knew I had to learn to love myself if I wanted a healthy relationship, so I set out on a quest to find self love.

Learning to love yourself when you’re broken is one of the most fulfilling things in life, in my opinion. You’re taking wreckage and building something beautiful, worthwhile, and strong. The new self image you build is yours, something you own and nothing anyone else can take credit it for. The ownership is powerful and there is a defining moment where you realize you are worth more in this life than what you survived.

Self love is a magnetic field and it will draw people into your space. You learn on your journey how to filter out the garbage from the good. Tough lessons are learned on the road and it’s hard, so fucking hard. Humans by nature are social creatures, some more social than others (hi introverts 😉 ) and we can crave human interaction. I am not saying you have to be completely isolated on this road of self healing and self love, but you learn comfortability in doing things alone.

I started with simply going out to dinner at a sit down restaurant alone. Then I graduated to other things most people think of as something you do with another person. I shopped, went to the movies, took vacation, found new hobbies and host of other things. What you do is specific to your journey and healing. Start small to avoid feeling discouraged and encouraging the self hate.

Four years ago, my life changed and finally for once–it changed for the better. I met someone. At this point my journey I was completely at peace being alone and had resided to the fact that if I spent the rest of my life alone, it would be alright.

June 1, 2016 I went to a concert in Minneapolis at the now non-existent Mill City Nights (RIP) and saw Lacuna Coil for the very first time. Two summers prior I had seen Linkin Park (my favorite band) for the first time at the Minneapolis State Fair. While in line I made friends with four people: Erynn, his father Todd, Jesse & Bridget.

Erynn, Jesse and Bridget are the humble beginnings of a diverse and loving music-centered family. The LP show is important because Erynn bought me my ticket as a gift to go to the Lacuna Coil show because I couldn’t afford to buy it myself. Little did I know something or rather someone wonderful was waiting for me in that line.

When I arrived at Mill City Nights, there were already several people in line waiting for the show. Among those besides Erynn & Todd was Nick.

Nick and I didn’t really socialize much at the show, though not for a lack of effort on his part. While our now friends were grabbing merch pre-show, he turned around and said, “Hi.” I just kind of smiled nervously, unsure what to say or do because you know, the self love journey.

He added me on Facebook after the show because Erynn had done some really cool thing and wanted to see if I had seen it; everything just escalated from there. August 1, 2016 he asked me to be his girlfriend and then our crazy continent hopping romance adventures began.

I am thankful for every moment I spend with Nick and love he shares with me every day. There are so many people in the world who are not as fortunate as me. Some are still trapped within a world where they confuse violence for love; some are still trapped within a violent relationship with the hope of escape. Others have escaped but have not begun rebuilding or reignited their fire.

Then there are The Lost. The Lost are those taken away from their families and friends as a result of domestic violence. Never given the light of hope or the power of rebuilding. Every day more and more people join The Lost as violence takes their lives. I could have been a Lost One, but I was fortunate enough to have clawed my way out. I think of those unfairly taken and pause for their loved ones.

If you are currently stuck or afraid what might happen, please find help and way out. Hell, reach out to me if you must. No one else needs to become a Lost One. Remember, your partner doesn’t have to hit you for it to be abuse.

Categories
Ink Metal

Breathe

“I have fought my fight, I have run my race.” – ‘Breathe’ by Eluveite


Today is my late father’s birthday, the second one since his untimely, but not entirely unexpected passing in January 2019. Strangely enough, I’ve been relatively quiet about him, our relationship, or how I’ve been since his death. I figured today was an appropriate enough day to commemorate his memory and share my experiences since.

I started a new job a little over a month ago, my third job change since he died. A colleague and I were exchanging life stories and in the middle of mine, I paused and realized if I hadn’t traveled the path, I don’t know if I could accept one person/family experiencing that much tragedy and heartache. I don’t necessarily want to unpack 20+ years of emotional baggage in one post and I don’t know if you want to read it, especially now amidst pandemic protocol.


He had very dark secrets he was pretty good at concealing from me, until he no longer wasn’t. I remember being in fourth grade and slowly realizing the charade Dad tried to entertain was just that a charade. Around this same time, I learned what a drug addict was and what drug dependency looked like. He eventually realized I had caught on to his story and he had lost a hook, line, and sinker. This would be ground zero for the rest of our relationship.


It wouldn’t take much friction between us to spark a fire. Our fights were ugly and violent and I as aged, they got worse. And like most fires, they would spread; spread to other’s in the house. Particularly, my mom. She never deserved any of what she was dealt. Any of it. Even with some of the poor choices she made, nothing could justify what she endured. As I type this out, I’ve hit delete about six times because thinking about what she lived through breaks my spirit.


At this point, you’re probably asking why there was no intervention. I wish I had an answer. People knew what was going on in our house, people knew about Dad’s nefarious activities. But nothing happened. Even when he was arrested when I was in junior high, he didn’t serve any jail time, he was just sentenced to rehab. Wish it had worked, but it didn’t.
Rehab might have been a great solution had we been able to change our surroundings after he left. We lived in a very rural county in Iowa and drugs were a problem–still are–and with a limited amount of population, he never got out of the social circles that led him down such a destructive path in the first place. Had we moved away from the farm and lived somewhere more urban where we didn’t know people, he might have had a chance. Doubtful, but it is a nice dream.


I realize I’ve painted this monstrous picture of Dad and it’s slightly unfair and not the entire reality. People who knew him before the drugs ruined his brain recount how he was the nicest man you could know and do just about anything he could for a stranger. Many of the kids I went to school with had parents who went to school with my dad and they would tell stories about how Dad was the kind of guy who would beat up bullies, especially boys who picked on girls.


He loved championing the underdog. He used to be a real scrappy dude. It’s quality I think about and smile. Everyone loves an underdog and despite Dad’s really shitty characteristics, he seemed to charm everyone. He would enrapture them with stories of things he witnessed and lived through. Occasionally, it would border on tall tale or at least feel like a tall tale, but portions of his life were things out of tall tales; just mine looks like a tragic novel.Once I moved out of the house, the physical violence between us ceased and the emotional violence raged. We would try to have small civil conversations but they always ended with him screaming atrocities at me and me in a pile of tears. We had brief moments of peace and bonding, but they never lasted.

The only photo I have with Dad as an adult. During a rare period of peace.


Our last phone call will be a moment I treasure the rest of my life. Again, it feels like a plot device. I was having an extremely bad day (a bad fight with a former friend that person could be a whole other blog post) and out of the blue on my lunch–Dad called. He NEVER called me, ever. Furthermore, he APOLOGIZED with sincerity. For the first time in 30 years (at the time) I heard the man sincerely apologize. He told me he was proud of me in spite of everything between us. He told me he loved me and for the first time I could recall he gave me true fatherly advice about the situation I was dealing with. Our conversation ended pleasantly and I was hopeful about the future.


A couple weeks after that phone call he texted me. Hell, I didn’t know he even knew HOW to text. He had wished me a happy birthday and reminded me once again, his high school football team was nicknamed the Dirty 30. His football stories always put a smile on face, even when things nasty between us.


My favorite story was how a player from the rival team had done something dirty after there was a flag on the play and game play was stopped. So in true Dad form, turned around a punted the player in the forehead, knocking him out for the rest of the game. Thekicker was later on as adults the guy Dad had kicked had come up to our town’s Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dance to talk to Dad. I was probably 7-10 years old. I am not exactly sure. For those unfamiliar with Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dances, it was a dance hosted by our local volunteer fire department. I am pretty sure it was to raise money for the department. I am not 100% because by the time I was old enough to attend, I moved away from my hometown.


Those texts and phone call are the last communication I would have with my Dad. Life unfortunately got very busy for me as I was dealing with a lot of stress from the job I had at the time. There had only been three people on staff and one had been terminated; leaving me and my manager to run the place. December 2018 each of us had only had 4 days off the entire month. I had zero energy for anything or anyone.

Prospects for 2019 looked promising despite my pure exhaustion. Nick & I had a wonderful year full of so many incredible moments: Europe for the first time, I met one of my heroes, Europe again, and many more. We were excited because more adventures were in store and they were, just not the adventures we expected.


Dad was admitted to the hospital on January 4th, 2019 and then 10 agonizing days later, I made the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I turned off his life support. Those 10 days were some of the most emotionally jolting days of my life. I will chronicle that journey in a future post.

After he died, my brain broke. Death and grief change a person, but this was different in a way I can’t quite explain. I had been through tragic loss before, my sister’s angelversary is two weeks from today. I am no stranger to loss and to pain.


The best way I can explain it is, I stopped fully processing emotion. If you know me personally, you know that I feel everything with everything have from laughter to sadness and everything in between. No emotion is left unexpressed. I just stopped. Music stopped being enjoyable, things stopped being funny. I was definitely grieving but not in the ” I am sad” kind of grief. If I tried to feel anything, it became too much and I would start to drown in my intrusive thoughts.


The intrusive thoughts stemmed from the fact of how much there would be to resolve with him gone. Mom at the time still lived on the farm and my grandmother can’t stand my mother so we had to act fast to get Mom off the farm to avoid further problems.

Ah the farm. The location of my childhood home. A dilapidated, needed condemnation much sooner than it did trailer. Five people squished into a 3 bedroom home doesn’t really work. The place was in disrepair from lack of maintenance (or half-assed maintenance) and littered with violent handiwork. It was so bad, we were never allowed to have friends over. (Probably because their parents may have reported it, but I doubt that since no one ever said anything.)


So I knew when I went to the farm last April to help Mom move out and sort through belongings, it was going to be bad, but I cannot explain the mayhem and the madness I witnessed walking into my childhood home for the first time years. The fact my mother felt she could have stayed there blows my mind. The place was the physical manifestation of mental illness and belonged on Hoarder’s or something.

However, it wasn’t destruction or disaster of the trailer overwhelming me. No, it was the inevitable removal and demolition of the place. My childhood address and phone number would cease to exist. Thirty plus years of lives were lived in that space, someone lived and died. How could it all just be erased? I couldn’t process it.

After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away.

After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away.
Additionally, I was going to have to teach my mom how to live on her own. Dad had taken care of everything for the last 30 years. So overnight, I had taken on a parental role over my mom. And when you’re someone since the age of 10 insisted you will not have children, it messes with your mind. I can confirm this entire experience has further solidified my decision to not have kids, in case you were curious.


There was a whole host of other problems I was trying to navigate in the midst of this mess. Problems I had before Dad died, but was forced to start unpacking as a result. Let’s mix in job instability, preexisting mental health issues and it’s a magic potion. One that magnifies calamity.
In the process of trying to get my mother stable and my head above water, I drowned. Not physically or literally, but emotionally and mentally. I spiraled out of control. I opened a bunch of credit cards and shopped until every cent was spent.


Credit cards with a part time job and tastes like mine are just an awful combination. Did I know better? Subconsciously, but I couldn’t recognize what I was doing at the time. I also thought I was going to be getting an hours promotion at my job and didn’t. I try not to plan my life on uncertainties or at least try to have contingency plans in case shit derails (which it usually does in my life.) Instead I broke every single one of my rules because I needed something besides the mess in my mind.


There was a moment about six months ago, where I told my mom she needed to figure it out. I couldn’t do it, I had to take care of myself and the wreckage I was leaving in my wake. I felt hypocritical lecturing her on budgets and the importance of planning and here I was a fucking mess. So I stopped. I stopped checking in. I stopped talking to her. I saw her once in that six months and it was to go to a funeral. Oh the irony.

Beginning of this year I made a commitment to myself to get my head and finances under control. So far I’ve been doing pretty well. There have been deviations to my plan, but overall I am still on track where I need to be. The last major hurdle I fought with was the one year anniversary of Dad’s passing.


Nick & I go on a cruise every year called 70,000 Tons of Metal and besides our European Excursions, it is the best vacation we take all year. This year the date format had altered from previous iterations and it allowed us to take time off ahead of the sailing and not use any extra time had we not gone down early. The thing for me was the dates of our vacation correlated to the same dates I spent in the University of Iowa Hospital with Dad.


The dichotomy was strange. Should I be happy, should I be sad, what emotion am I supposed to feel right now? I really did my own thing on the boat this last time around and I am really proud of how I spent my time. It helped distract me in a way that was healthy and didn’t revolve around me swiping a card.

With my head back on a little more tightly (let’s be frank here–it’s never going to be tightened all the way down again), I have finally started communicating with my mom more and started helping her again. My plan has had a few deviations so I am still working on things, but I am in much better shape and have a light at the end of my tunnel.


My emotional trauma and baggage still need unpacked, but for now I am content with burying my head into helping my mom and learning new skills for work.


I missed out on an opportunity to rebuild a relationship with my dad and it might be my only regret that I have. I am extremely thankful his last words to me were ‘I love you.’ I know a lot of people in my position do not always get that kind of resolution. More exceptions to the rules.


Many people are not going to be happy with how much I aired in this narrative. I don’t really care. There isn’t anything you can say to me at this point that hasn’t been said to me before. It’s fine if you’re not happy with it, I can’t say I’ve always been about the shit that’s happened–but here we are.


I’ve fought and I’ve ran. I will continue to always fight for myself and my survival. Surviving is one thing I do know how to do. I’ve learned to run head on instead of away. One day I’ll finally be able to breathe because I’ll be in a place I can call home.

Categories
Metal

Stop Gatekeeping

This really isn’t the first Metal post I wanted to write, but as much of my life lately…nothing goes the way I want it.

I haven’t been listening to heavy metal for all that long, three years. It is not nearly enough time to learn all the ins and outs of heavy metal and the beautiful intricacies within the main genre. However, the one thing I caught on to the fastest was the gatekeeping.

Many will probably say I am a newb or not knowledgeable enough to make such a statement, but I will shout it out anyway.

IT HAS TO STOP!

And the problem isn’t just in metal, it is in all kinds of fandoms and hobbies. Metal just happens to be where I see the snobbery the most and it is on my last nerve.

The metalhead stereotype isn’t really all that accurate. I know many people who look the part, but are some of the kindest, most genuine, generous, intelligent and compassionate human beings on this planet. The issue is that because of this occasional superior intellect, they think it is appropriate to deem what is and isn’t good metal or good music taste in general. The snobbery is insane and heartbreaking, just because it isn’t something you find joy in, why steal someone else’s what does it hurt you?

I am not blameless or innocent, I have contributed to this mentality with response like, eww that sucks or what the fuck you listen to that? I need to stop, I am a work in progress.

The tipping point from this particular musing came from two separate posts within the SAME group on Facebook. One thread was someone asking about an “appropriate response to a Coldplay song a friend sent” to them. I don’t know the OP of that thread, but judging the wording of the post and the thread that followed, OP posted in such a way that it solicited, at first an overwhelming grotesque responses.

Now don’t read into grotesque thinking I am some kind of prude or innocent, I am not. But these people were saying “kill them,” “or there is a special place in hell for Coldplay fans.” What the fuck how is that even remotely appropriate? Eventually, many people had their common sense step in and said, “just tell them it’s not for you but thanks anyway.” How hard is that? It seems the metalhead mentality comes too literally for some. It’s awful. Let people enjoy the music they want and keep your snobbery to yourself.

The other post from this group that really got under my skin was a meme that said:

“Girls twerk. Real Women headbang.”


This wasn’t the first time I had seen this post either, but really drove me crazy was this time was the photo that was used make the meme.

It was a photo of Heidi Sheperd or Carla Harvey from Butchered Babies. I am not a huge fan and her face wasn’t showing, so I don’t know which one it was. (Sorry BB fans.) The reason it bothered me was because Heidi and Carla have received a lot criticism for their stage dress and have publicly been like, we don’t give a damn what you think, we are gonna rock what is comfortable for us. They fight for female equality in metal and in life, which is another reason for the skimpy stage clothes. Knowing what I do know about those women, I feel if they knew about that meme, they would not go for it.

They would take a stand and tell you real women do whatever the fuck they please and real women build other women up. I feel like they would agree with me that the gate keeping needs to stop. If there is no interference in your life, then just let people be happy.

So this is the part where some would say I would apologize for the length or the preachiness of this blog post. I will not apologize for either of those. There was a lot to say and it needed to be said. Something I noticed people, particularly women, have been conditioned to do is apologize if our voice or position doesn’t sit well with someone. We have to start owning our voices if we want to be confident, constant apology weakens your stance. It also weakens true apologies when they are necessary because it may feel like a habitual apology versus an intentional.


I digress. I want to make commitment here to make a conscious effort to stop gate keeping and just let people enjoy the music, fandoms, hobbies, etc. they want to enjoy regardless if it brings me joy or not.

xo,

Felicia Kay.