I’ve been reading the multiaward winning book Stoner and Spaz and decided that in a book with Ben with cerebral palsy who gets his stuff together and Colleen in ripped tights, a mini-skirt and who “is the type of girl who will do anything if she gets high enough,” who shakes up Ben’s world and struggles against her own self destruction. I was still keenly identifying with Colleen. My lesson as Ben gets his film school scholarship and she ends up in a back alley getting into some strange guy’s car is, I don’t have enough short skirts and off the shoulder revealing tops (Colleen and Ben meet when she promises to show him her tits if he does her Great Gatsby paper).
This probably isn’t the lesson I’m suppose to be picking up but from my point of view, I spent my time getting so many degrees I can’t get anymore and right now, I have been pushed out of normal, passed some sort of veil of “fitting in” and it is more than just the wheelchair. More than so much pain every day I take different pills because the ones that work give toxic tremors after 4 days. Then there is passing out in the chair and hitting my head, bleeding or trying to walk two nights ago three feet unassisted and falling and screwing up my leg and foot. Or yesterday, getting my hair dyed, having five people to shampoo my hair, two for rinsing the color, two to hold up my head and shoulder weight, one to keep the oxygen mask pressed to my face. That, for me, that’s normal. But I am guessing, when I see the fear in other’s eyes, that these things are not normal for them. They don’t fear me because I am tall and strong and independent, but because death rides in my sidecar and when I talk and joke they forget that and when my face turns green and they find my eyes rolled back in my head, and that this isn’t a movie, it is just my limp body and them. About then is when they realize what a fucking shallow mask all my jokes really are. So maybe I am wondering if I haven’t been wasting my years if I could have been transforming lives by showing a bit more cleavage or whether these days making out and sticking my tongue in someone’s mouth because they make me feel “normal” for 10 or 15 minutes is such a bad thing after all? Or maybe if I buy a pleated skirt and some high heel kink mary janes, I can at least pretend that I am taking people’s minds off of what I don’t want to think about, and yet can’t stop thinking about. Because a lot of time, it hurts when I breathe.
As I explained in one alternative store the sexy look I was going for with a tinge of fetish and tights and bows, “I want it to say ‘I’m crippled but perverted.”
“That,” the workers at the store say, their jaws dropped, “is the BEST line.”
I think I am on the right track. I’ve placed a few orders of items from the alternative/goth store Hot Topic. I’ve already got a demi corset in tulle and a mermaid skirt (think Morticia Addams); Linda is delighted, I never knew she fancied a femme fatal side to me. I am shopping from some purple buckled wedge heeled goth knee high boots. I decided my legs can make a statement too; I will be having mother’s pulling their small children behind them as I roll by or burn out my credit card trying.
Meanwhile goth musician Betty Curse, of zombie horror film fame 28 Days (who actually sleeps in a four poster coffin), has released a single “Do you Mind (if I cry?)”; she was bullied a lot at school in the UK and called “Goth” by the big kids (ironic how like gays and lesbians, they used the very words to describe you in order to hurt you). She wasn’t the only one, 15 year old Nicola Raphael were bullied at a school near Glasglow for her goth dressing until she committed suicide. You know, when you see the actions of those who police being “normal”, I wonder why so many people are confused at those who don’t even WANT to fit in anymore. And I wonder why I still do some days. Betty’s video is below, it is pretty good, and I would probably like it a lot usually, it is just I am in more of a “Do you Mind (if I burn down your town?)” mood for the last 24 hours (hey, Linda thinks the smell of smoke in my hair is sexy, isn’t that motivation enough?).
So, went to bed with a bottle of valium last night. I just like holding it. Because I know that simply trying to do a run down the town's breakwater gives me a three shot at dying (1 – run till heart rate goes so high I drop and we see if enough oxygen gets to the brain in time, or heart doesn’t rip apart, 2) Hypotension after I fall puts me in cardiac arrest or 3) the fall while running takes me off into the rocks and I get bleeding in the brain). Going around with an overdose of valium makes me feel so....traditional; almost secure.
Went downtown in the chair today; was propositioned, but not by anybody sober. Went to four stores; in two I had to strip down publicly, once, where I was trying on switchblade stiletto skirts, sitting in my Victoria Secret’s – the mood ruined by my groaning and grunting of quick clothing changes in a wheelchair in public (or did that heighten the mood? Not for ME). And two stores where the wheelchair changing rooms had to been cleaned out of accumulated crap first. At least at one store this 5 foot girl who was a size zero “got” what I wanted (putting me in the dilemma of my promise to maim that mystery size zero girl out there for whom all fashion is made once I managed to find her). She found me t-shirts with spider webs and skulls but I left with a strapless black cross-back top by Foxy, who make most of the super hot jeans I buy (hundreds of dollars now useless; women used to come up and ask me where I got my jeans; now to get any action, I have to wait until I hit a curb, am thrown from my chair, lying face down and then can yell, “doesn’t my ass look GREAT in these jeans!”). I am also on the hunt for a pair of black wings I can attach which don’t get impeded by the low back of my chair. And every time my inner voice of a female relative tells me that I’m too old or don’t have any dignity running around like a doped up 16 year old, I just take another hit of my oxygen and smile. Oh look, crip girl got fairy wings, wow, yeah, I'm sure that’s going to make the world grind to a horrified halt.
I guess you are figuring out I’ve in a “mood”, so if you want to score, now might be the time to make your move (Linda read the first part of this and was like, “So who exactly are these mouths your tongue is making play in?”). On the bright side, unlike every other rebel girl out there I am NOT getting my belly button pierced. Yesterday’s hair salon appointment had me in fine form, after telling several lesbian jokes, I found out the hair salonist’s was “that girl” – essentially we hated each other in high school – She was the one who was naturally perfect at all sports (including getting a basketball scholarship in 11th grade and high jumping higher than her own hieght) and LIKED those fitness tests (remember the “run till you puke test”), I on the other hand was the girl who asked the English teacher those in depth debating questions which no one else in the class understood as they went, “Oh, please, just give us home work and go, we are SO bored!” So I asked which Uni she took up the scholarship on. She replies, “Oh, I didn’t, I made a change and decided to go to a Christian college instead.” I could actually hear the inner needle on the record scratching off as we came into dead silence. Maybe it was because I had just previously found out she was married.
“To a guy or a girl?” I asked. A guy. “Was that working out,” I wanted to know, “because, you know, there are other options.” Yeah, Christian college. And she teaches the children’s bible class. I’m kinda glad I don’t have burnt out bleached bald spots on my head right now.
I get down, so I go shopping. Seems like a good solution to me. I’m still losing weight but other than that, and carrying around lethal amounts of valium, I really think I am dealing with stuff pretty well. Two nights ago, I had a nightmare and I woke up, the adrenaline pumping, you know how it goes. Then, still shaking a bit in fear, I realized in the nightmare I was running away from my attacker: running and running, being chased all over. And then I tried to get back into my nightmare. Because living in a nightmare where having a guy with a hook or something was after me but where I can run and fight and not fall down seemed preferable to being awake, stuck in this body, in this reality.
Those wacky late night thoughts, eh.
Today, as I was wheeling towards a starbucks, some guy I didn’t recognize but who obviously had been secretly stalking me blurted out, “Wow, what happened to you?”
“Life.” I said, and I gave another push, wheeling past him without slowing down.
7 hours ago