“Everest” review

4/5

This is the most terrifying fucking movie, man. But, one whose outcome I can 100% prevent
from ever happening to me, which is a relief. *Whew*

Props to the director, cinematographer, stunt team, makeup crew, sound designers, actors, etc. because this is actually a pretty damn good reenactment of the harrowing 1996 event…with a few minor caveats.

1. Parts of it felt rushed, especially towards the end, which was, in my opinion, a significant misstep. The “before” scenes were fantastic, the “during” were captivating, but the “after” was quite a let down. And while It’s not a short film, there was a lot that was clearly glossed over–pacing wasn’t the problem here, truncation was. 2 hours was simply not enough to do this story, nor the climbers themselves, real justice–although this was an admittedly admirable effort.
2. I wish we could have spent more one-on-one time with each of the expedition’s participants, because at a certain point, they all start to blend together. We mostly only know them as, well, climbers. Completely masked, bundled up, snow-covered climbers. Sure, we get quick glimpses into their personalities with brief, bite-sized backstories, but mostly our character development is limited to action shots of them going through absolute fucking hell on the side of Mt. Everest. This isn’t even intended as a slight, it’s just an inherent problem with these dramatized retellings. And I realize that there’s only so much the writers could do with the material, considering it’s a film focused on an entire group’s effort rather than an individual’s, but I do think it’s why the base camp scenes end up hitting the hardest….SPECIFICALLY, the mid-crisis moments where we see the actor’s faces twist in aguish, contort in confusion, soften with sadness, and sag with defeat, where we feel their palpable pain, as each of them processes the deaths (or impending, inevitable deaths) of their friends, coworkers and clients in real-time. As they grapple with this developing tragedy, we suffer right alongside them in stunned silence. Now, this doesn’t mean that I was unable to connect with the climbers, or that I failed to sympathize with their treacherous plight, it’s just that the South Col tent moments felt more impactful. All of it was emotionally taxing and psychologically grueling, but yeah, the base camp situation was what really got the tears flowing. I mean, these were ACTUAL people with ACTUAL families, and holding that knowledge in your heart greatly intensified the nightmare.

A survival story like this hinges upon the cast’s ability to fully transform into their real-life counterpart–not physically, but internally. Complete embodiment is essential. Total dedication is a must. To accomplish this, one must fully commit to the task at hand, slipping into the skin of their respective characters, confidently communicating their every thought, every feeling, every sensation, and every fear, while also making sure to pay proper tribute to the survivors, the perished, and their families. These actors clearly cared very deeply about their work, which resulted in some truly terrific performances; sensitive, respectful, faithful and just fucking beautiful. For me, the most crushing blows came from Emily Watson, whose devastatingly authentic performance as base camp manager broke me in a million different ways. When her voice cracked, all color drained from the world. When her lip quivered, my body went numb. When her eyes welled, I fucking lost it. I felt it all. And those raw reactions cut SO deep. Bone deep. Shattering the soul deep. I mean, she was so goddamn convincing that I began having trouble separating the actor from the character, which is, quite frankly, the greatest compliment I can offer. But, really, everyone clearly put the effort in, so shout out to Elizabeth Debicki, Sam Worthington, Josh Brolin, Jason Clarke, Jake Gyllenhaal, John Hawkes, Michael Kelly, Martin Henderson, Ang Phula Sherpa, Clive Standen, Tom Goodman-Hill, Naoko Mori, and all the rest of ’em. Tremendous stuff.

And while the acting is certainly one of the film’s greatest strengths, it’s really the visuals and
verisimilitude that make this flick a must-see. It is an absolute spectacle; an impressively
immersive experience that transports you from a warm, cozy den to the wind-whipped, oxygen-starved Death Zone. Like, you are RIGHT there beside them, shivering, struggling and scared out of your fucking mind. It looks and feels SO legit, which in this case, proves both a blessing and a curse…rad as hell, but frightening as fuck. An exhilarating endeavor, an exhausting endurance test. I can’t even imagine
how stunning (and scary!) it would have been to see on an IMAX screen.

I also so appreciated the scenes at the summit; those precious, glorious moments of undiluted euphoria, where each soul breathlessly soaked up every second of their fully realized dreams. As the team
members celebrated their victories, their smiles wide and bright, they snapped photos and planted prayer flags, and it is a thrilling, albeit bittersweet, moment. Knowing that they achieved their goal somehow made all that followed a bit easier to stomach. There is something comforting about going out after reaching such a high*. I can only hope that their final minutes were painless and peaceful; a gentle slip into an eternal slumber. I can hope.

TLDR: A solid biographical adventure film, elevated by a slew of stellar performances, jawdropping visuals, and a meticulous attention to detail.
——
PS: I felt like Yasuko Namba deserved more airtime. To me, her story was the most triumphant
—and perhaps the most
tragic—of all, yet we don’t spend nearly enough time with her! After watching the film, I went
and researched the ‘96 event, and learned that during the rescues, she was passed over not
once, but twice—first because she was presumed dead, and then again when she was
deemed too frail to expend energy on. She would eventually succumb to her injuries (exhaustion & exposure)….completely alone.

Following the disaster, Neal Beidleman and Anatoli Boukreev (climbing guides for the
other expedition team, Mountain Madness), struggled mightily with survivor’s guilt, both feeling
deep remorse over her death. I believe that. But, the truth is, she weighed less than a hundred
pounds and yet no one was willing to bring her back to camp, where she could have at least
passed alongside friends? There were other climbers there who could have stepped up…none
did. Many sat sipping their tea as the rescue missions took place. None budged. Even
members from her own team opted out. It was a very fucked up situation. A year later,
Anatoli found her remains and built a cairn of stones around her to try and thwart carnivorous
birds from further desecrating her body. It just sucks. And I’m sorry it happened and I’m sorry
that she isn’t talked about more in the movie.
(Her husband did eventually pay to have her body removed and brought home btw).

PPS: Everest is a majestic, menacing, monster of a mountain. Each step towards the top takes three breaths. Your cells begin to die. Your thinking is impaired. I’ve heard it described as running on a treadmill while breathing through a straw–and that’s WITH the supplemental oxygen tanks! Last year, 17 people died while attempting to summit the 28,000 feet, snow-capped pile of rocks. So, it’s gonna be a nah from me, dawg. Watching this film is as close as I’ll ever get to it. We literally are not meant to breathe that thin air, so I’ll just adhere to the laws of Mother Nature, thank you very much!

Anyways good movie… currently on HBO

*Granted, this entire disaster was preventable, but that’s not the story this film was choosing
to tell. And that’s fine. None of these guides were bad people who deserve to be crucified,
they just made dangerous, dastardly miscalculations that day (plus ran into a lot of bad luck)
and it cost them dearly

Under the Banner of Heaven review

4.5/5

this was quite the ride, quite the experience…

an unpleasant, uncomfortable, unsettling, and undeniably grisly one, yes, but captivating, all the same.

I won’t delve into the plot details because a) it’s based on a true story, so you either know it already or you can look it up yourself and b) I knew nothing about the real-life events that inspired it and found that to be the ideal way to take in the material.

It’s a really interesting series, but one whose contents are inherently difficult to stomach. There are scenes and sequences within that I’ve struggled to shake, that have seemingly taken up residence within my body, clinging to each crevice like an incurable, eternal sickness. Each episode left me feeling so helpless and hopeless, gasping for air as I tried to make sense of the senseless; a real sucker-punch of a show. And if you were suspicious of religion before…be prepared to fucking loathe it by the end.

There is obviously a procedural element to Under the Banner of Heaven, as our (fictional) protagonist detective seeks to solve a double-murder, but there’s so much more to it than that. Within the frame of a whodunnit, lies a fascinating exploration and critique of religious institutions (specifically Mormonism.) Now, I don’t compose longform critiques much anymore, and I’m certainly not a scholar on the subject, so I’ll only briefly touch upon what I found most admirable.

–the way it depicts what it’s like to suddenly doubt all that you’ve ever known to be true. Here we see our lead character enter a severe existential crisis, spiraling further and further into disillusionment, as his foundation of faith crumbles beneath his feet. And there is no swallowing it down nor pushing it aside, as the personal and professional worlds he’s so carefully compartmentalized finally collide in calamitous fashion. Even as a nonbeliever, it was such a disheartening, devastating experience to watch him wade through those murky waters alone. I hurt for him, yet had no salve for his pain. I could not serve as his shepherd. I could not silence what must be heard. I could not shield him from what must be felt. Broken trust can never fully mend and grief is never easy. And while it is true that it is darkest before the dawn, the clarity on the horizon can set you free.

-Detective Pyre recognizing that the tenets, texts and scriptures he once considered sacred, were more likely shaped by the selfish whims and wants of man, rather than by an act of the divine. Urges misinterpreted as revelations, desires masquerading as the voice of God. There can be great danger in granting flawed, corruptible humans the power to determine what is right and what is wrong.

-the way it spotlights the hypocrisy of the higher-ups, those so desperate to control the narrative, so hellbent on preserving the image and reputation of the church, that they sought to twist the law and sweep violent crimes under the rug; preferring to protect the perpetrators over delivering justice to the victims.

Gaslighting. Intimidation. Threats of eternal damnation. Save face at all costs.

-its recognition that patriarchal systems/societies are inherently harmful, often serving as breeding grounds for dangerous, violent, very bad men.

-how it explains that faith need not be rooted in religion to be real, that doubt in church doctrines does not extinguish one’s spirituality, and that all we need to replicate that sense of hope and fulfillment is to find the beauty in the every day: in earth’s natural wonders, in friends, in family, or in the gift of life itself.

-how it describes the calm and comfort we derive from rituals, recitations and routines, even without any religious association.

---

Bill Taba: Dear Heavenly Father, bless Jeb’s return home to his family and my return to TV dinners, midnight Marlboros, and endless Diet Cokes. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Jeb: Yeah...

Bill: Your last try.

Jeb: ( laughs ) Oh, gosh.

Bill: You know, when the colonists were wiping out my ancestors, we received a prayer of hope that one day, they’d all vanish and the buffalo would return. ( singing in Paiute ) ♪ ♪

Jeb: You think that holds some power?

Bill: Nope. When the white man saw us singing it, they just mowed us down like blades of grass with their Christ-sickles. I like singing it anyhow. Reminds me of home. We all need a home, Jeb, so I think it’s okay to sing it now and then even if I don’t believe it has power anymore. ♪ ♪

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OK, I am now rambling in a review that literally no one will read, about a miniseries that literally no one is talking about anymore, so I’m going to wrap this up….riiiiiiight after I rave just a little bit about this cast…because wow, what a smorgasbord of spectacular performances. Truly, every single actor here clearly understood the assignment and gave it their fucking all…and it paid off and then some. Midway through watching, I actually had a revelation of my own…Andrew Garfield is HIM. Like, it just suddenly hit me like a bolt of lightning, that he is so beyond deserving of a spot on my favorite actor list. Big day! As far as I’m concerned, he and Daniel Kaluuya are THE guys shining the brightest in Hollywood right now and it’s a true honor to watch them excel in such high-quality fare. I mean, what Andrew has accomplished here is next-level brilliant; a marvel to behold. And though you may find my praise too fulsome in nature, my enthusiasm is legitimate. Every creative choice he makes, every skillset from his thespian toolbelt he uses, proves note-fucking-perfect. Impeccable, god-tier shit. And there is A LOT asked of him. He must present as conflicted, yet collected, broken, yet put-together, sensitive, yet assertive, frazzled, yet focused, lost, yet laser-focused, soft, yet strong, and so on, and so forth. A layered, immensely complicated character like this demands such a delicate tightrope walk, one that he makes look so easy. He never falters, never missteps, not even once. Every single choice is correct–every glance, every glare, every gesture, every tear, every sigh, every delivery, every expression, every intonation and inflection, EVERYTHING.

He is phenomenal, but so is Daisy Edgar-Jones, who delivers one of the most heart-breaking performances of recent memory. And Wyatt Russell, who is tasked with playing a character with golden-boy charm, manic energy a youthful spirit, a rebellious heart, fanatical zeal, political smarm, and murderous rage. And Gil muthafuckin’ Birmingham, who injects much needed wisdom and wit to the material. And Sam Worthington, Denise Gough, Chloe Pirrie, Seth Numrich, Rory Culkin, Billy Howle, etc. etc.

Ack, it’s just so damn good. Please give it a watch on Hulu. I can’t guarantee any of y’all will enjoy it half as much as I did, but I still think it’s worth a shot!

“Poor Things” review

4/5

“surgery is the new sex.”

Ok, ok, ya I know…wrong film. But, is it not also apt? Does it not apply? Yeah, I thought so. 😉 And I’m sorry for that, because I’m sure it’s considered poor, lazy criticism to compare one work of art to another, but I’m also not a critic…nor am I good at any of this. So, I say the following with no shame…TO ME, AND IN MY OPINION, Poor Things = Cronenberg + Dali surrealism + Verhoeven+ Frankenstein + The Man with Two Brains + Steampunk + Debbie Does…I mean, um, Bella Does Paris (not the plot, per se, but the uninhibited, nonjudgmental sex as a means to quickly raise money), I guess? LMAO Now, please understand, I am not trying to insinuate that this is some ersatz rip-off of a superior project, nor do I seek to slander Yorgos’ spectacular creation… No, no, not at all. This is, without question, a highly original film full of highly original visuals. However, that did not stop my wandering mind from finding connective tissue to other works. And that’s not a bad thing! Every reference in that equation rules!

But, I have to be honest with y’all, I am not that interested in elucidating on the aforementioned. nor am I keen on composing some pointed, in-depth critique of this film. It’s not an indictment on the movie, I just don’t think my voice is really needed here. As you can probably imagine, Poor Things has inspired much discourse and discussion since its release, and as a result, I’m sure that scores and scores of carefully composed, endlessly thought-provoking, and deliciously insightful think pieces have been birthed. And I’m equally sure that for every THIS IS A FEMINIST FILM take there will be a THIS IS A MISOGYNISTIC FILM rebuke. And each opinion is valid and valuable, but the truth is, every angle will have been covered by now. There is nothing I can really offer that hasn’t already been said elsewhere, and by someone far more educated and intellectual than I. And while I have yet to dive into any published compositions, I have seen enough chatter on Twitter to know that there will be a surfeit of them to choose from. So, have at it. Bon appetit mon cheri.

But, as my loyal followers are well aware (all three of you), the vast majority of my Letterboxd/blog “write-ups “reviews” are mostly based on vibes and feelings. They’re VERY VERY emotionally driven, often leaning into some super personal territory, and that’s just how I prefer to approach this task–that’s how the words flow out and that’s who I am as a writer. Straightforward as that. I am also the first to admit that I’m not well-read, not in the slightest, and I’ve always found myself struggling with literary basics, like…the excavation of symbolism or extraction of themes. If it’s not a swift punch to the nose, then I’m prone to missing the point entirely, opting to interpret it based on how I felt, rather than how it was initially intended. And my superficial understanding of most artistic efforts, coupled with my poor comprehension skills & way off-base takes, renders what I have to say mostly meaningless. So why waste anyone’s time? Therefore, I’ll abstain from any and all attempts to pen something of substance and let the erudites do the real work.

But, I will share a few thoughts…

 First and foremost, Emma Stone is a revelation. And it’s something of a marvel to watch her slip so seamlessly into this immensely challenging role, to see her capture the multitudinous complexities of such an idiosyncratic, insouciant, transmogrified character. I’ve never seen her exude such confidence before–and while she’s never been what I’d call a timid performer, this is the first time that I’ve felt like she’s really reached her peak as an actor. To play this part, she had to completely shed her Emma-persona, strip off all the layers of built-up insecurities, ignore that nagging self-conscious voice, and put all of her trust and faith into the director, the script, her co-stars, and the filmmaking process itself. And she fucking nailed it, gifting us with one of the greatest performances of recent memory, all without the slightest hint of artifice. She IS Bella Baxter.

As I watched her onscreen, I started to think about her roots as an actor, how she really cut her   thespian teeth in comedies, and how much that likely helped her prepare for a project like this. Do you know how fucking hard it is to be funny on camera? How difficult it is to get an audience to laugh, to learn how to tell-and-sell a joke, to be brave enough to fully commit to the bit? You cannot second-guess yourself, you cannot exhibit signs of shame, you just have to be willing to fucking go for it. And I feel like those innate gifts and hard-earned lessons must have proved quite the asset here.

Of course, it’s also very clear that Yorgos and Emma have brought out the best in each other, artistically speaking. They’ve formed a powerful partnership, a creative connection, that’s produced two borderline masterpieces thus far with another probable banger in the can…so, yeah, I think that this is something really special, something generational even…these mutual muses in a state of silver screen symbiosis. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Emma was the perfect fit for this part, and it was a real delight to watch her star shine so brightly.

---

  The IMAGERY. While the initial scenes are shot in dulled black and white, we are eventually introduced to the vibrancy of the outside world, the world beyond those four dreaded walls. She’d been kept hidden, kept helpless, kept hostage, all because of a man’s selfishness that he’d misinterpreted as love. The creative decision to open the film with grainy grays proved a wise one, as it represented the metaphorical cage she found herself trapped in, the forced repetition of a limited routine, the inadequate intellectual stimulation, the failure to properly socialize her, the educational neglect, etc., etc.. It symbolized her complete and utter lack of freedom. And it did it well. Unlike most viewers, I had abstained from peeking any stills or trailers beforehand. I knew that the poster was in color, but as the screening went on, I began to doubt that we’d ever see a shift from B/W. And of course, that would have been totally fine, but I was left wondering WHY? What was the intent behind it? But, lol, lmao even…because just a few minutes later, BAM! As the door to her prison finally opened, as she crossed the threshold and stepped into a vast, unfamiliar space with a seemingly infinite horizon before her, there was an immediate EXPLOSION of rich, saturated hues, lush and thick, as if you’d been dipped into a Dali painting. Everywhere you look…ART™. Each frame dripping with this dreamlike fantasy, swirly, Seussical surrealism, and a kaleidoscope of colors. It’s Bella’s Wizard of Oz moment–and while there might not be a yellow brick road, she is DEFINITELY not in Kansas anymore. (Also, I know it’s crazy to say this, but some of the sets here reminded me of the Forum Shop at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. iykyk!). Oh, and don’t you fret, the costumes are an absolute serve, too. Victorian avant-garde period pieces with puffy ruffles, exaggerated shapes, and modern-made materials–each evoking the style of the times, but also not? All just a little off, a little different, yet still seamlessly meshing with the unique aesthetic of the buildings, cities and skies above. As Bella’s brain is fed, her soul enriched, the wardrobe choices grow and evolve alongside her. Ugh, these details and creative choices are just so fucking brilliant. and seeing it in a theater was such a stunning experience; a feast for the eyes, adelectable visual treat.

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OK, so now to the giant elephant in the room (which in keeping with the spirit of the film, would most likely resemble Salvador’s stork-legged specimen or Kush’s golden-tusked, tuba-headed beastie. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll understand why lol.), if I’ve been so enthusiastically effusive in my praise, then why only a four-star rating? Why not more? Well, that is a valid question, and one that I, unfortunately, cannot provide a satisfying answer to…because the truth is, I just didn’t LOVE it. It’s as simple and silly as that; a pure gut reaction that I cannot seem to shake. Now, please do not get me wrong, there are moments here that felt miraculous, that left me breathless, that reached the zenith of what this medium can be–and yet, I left the theater somewhat disappointed. My viewing experience was like a walk through a renowned art museum or gallery, where I admired every piece, appreciated each exhibit, but, always felt kept at a certain distance; a palpable disconnect between myself and the works on the wall. And I can’t quite put my finger on exactly why that is, but I do attribute some of it to the script itself, which I found humorous enough, yet still a step-down from Yorgos’ previous effort. Now, granted, The Favourite is practically perfect, so yeah, the bar was set VERY HIGH, but it did leave me wondering if perhaps Deborah Davis was the mastermind behind The Favourite‘s crackling cuntiness and dry, wry wit. Not to diminish what Tony McNamara accomplished here, but I did feel that that extra sharp sizzle was missing. That said, I did greatly appreciate how he wrote Bella as more unfiltered than profane, more candid than crass–an essential delineation–all I wish it that the dialogue had been just a little funnier. But, of course, humor is subjective and I do believe I possess the minority opinion on this. So, your mileage will definitely vary.

Alright, well, I think that’s enough rambling from me, your resident movie-loving moron! TLDR: There’s a lot to adore in Poor Things, but unfortunately, not enough to earn my obsession. It held my attention, but never fully had my heart. Time will tell how it ages in my mind, but a rewatch will definitely be in order once it hits streaming. BUT, SEE IT IN THEATERS IF YOU CAN.

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oh and for funsies–here are the paintings the mutant animals in Poor Things reminded me of:

The Elephants, Salvador Dali, 1948

African Sonata, Vladimir Kush

Reverse Mermaid, Rene Magritte, 1940

Lake Mungo Review

4/5

A hidden gem. Initially part of the After Dark Horrorfest collection, Lake Mungo truly separates itself from the pack by shirking convention and creating a film that is equal parts haunting and heartbreaking. It manages to make the found-footage mockumentary subgenre feel fresh, using it as a mechanism to tell the story of family struggling to cope with the unexpected loss of a loved one. It’s about bereavement, about hope, about healing; a agonizingly authentic portrayal of the grieving process. And yet, despite those weighty themes, it’s decidedly not a family drama, which is precisely what makes it so unique, so special. Make no mistake, this movie is spooky as shit; an eerie, eldritch thriller that is downright chilling at times. Sad, sorrow-filled, AND spine-tingling.

It forgoes jump scares for slow reveals, opting to let the lingering shots, foreboding atmosphere, and disquieting score build the sense of doom and heighten the tension. Yes, you get creepy, grainy imagery, but it’s not about the SHOCK factor or the element of surprise…it’s better than that.

But, what I appreciate the most about this movie is how committed it is to conveying a universal experience in such an authentic and thoughtful way. It’s raw, real and unflinchingly honest–brutal, yet beautifully cathartic. In this family’s world, the villain isn’t a beastie with sharp teeth, a ghost-faced killer with a kitchen knife, or a masked-menace on a murderous rampage…no, this villain is somehow even more sinister than that…more destructive, more damaging, more dangerous. The villain here is death itself. It’s the horrifying reality that our ending is unpredictable, that we’re not in total control of our fates, that we aren’t always able to protect the ones we love most, that we aren’t promised a goodbye, that tragedy can strike at any moment and that there’s just never enough time. Lake Mungo forces us to confront what we all know to be true, yet work tirelessly to forget. Being cognizant of our own mortality feels cruel and unnatural. And while we all understand that no one is guaranteed a tomorrow, we struggle to accept it, burying that knowledge deep into the darkest crevices of our subconscious. But, try as we may, it’s always there, always lurking, always lingering and looking for an opportunity to grip its icy, rigidly unrelenting fingers around our necks. It wants us to notice it.

And so does this film.

For 89 minutes, we are immersed in our subject’s trauma, in their dolor, in their anguish, watching helplessly as they struggle to stay afloat amidst the crashing waves of despair. For 89 minutes, we are painfully aware of that which frightens us most. And is there really anything more terrifying than that?

I think not.

And yet, as the end credits rolled, I realized that I was no longer choking on the thick miasma of dread that had plagued me throughout. I’d been weighed down by darkness, but now all I felt was relief and release. Exhausted, but unburdened. We (the audience and the fictional family at its core) had finally received the closure we so desperately craved. And I won’t spoil the ending, but it will make you contemplate whether or not there’s any truth to the old adage that death is harder on those left behind…and what it really means to be left behind.

You’ll have to watch to decide for yourself. 🙂

So, yeah, it’s not exactly a traditional Halloween season flick, but it is certainly harrowing. And it will stick with you.

Forever.

…and ever.

Recent Watches…(09/2022-10-2022)

4/5

A love story between a boy and his dog and a director and his movie monsters.
This is Burton at his most tuned in…sharp, focused and wholly in his element. It’s tenderly crafted, weird and wacky, gross yet sweet, and reverential in the best of ways. You can tell that he put his whole whole heart into this one…and it shows. More of this please.

(Also, Sparky is now one of my all-time fav cinematic canines. What a delightful pup)

3.5/5

there is literally a minute or so long homage to Aronofsky’s The Fountain at the end of this movie. I love it for that alone. Also? a lot of relevant social commentary. Oh! And it’s good, too! Currently on the Roku Channel (October 2022)!

5/5

I feel that the first three Toy Story films are Pixar’s best,
but Coco is undeniably the most beautiful… in every way a film can be. A special, and important, cinematic treasure that moves me to tears (the ugly kind lol) every time I revisit it. What a remarkable accomplishment.

1.5/5

A solemn occasion….this marks the first entry into the “Flanaverse” (works by Mike Flanagan) that I didn’t like. Sad! It started off promising, but quickly devolved into CGI-laden, goofy nonsense. If there’s one thing I can’t stand in a horror film it’s cheesy CGI. I fucking hate it. Stop using it. 😭 I don’t mind the spooky possessed child cliché, nor the occasional jump scare, but I draw the line at bad CGI. Practical effects for life. This is a very silly movie with a ridiculous plot and I can’t believe I watched the whole thing. However…my scaredy cat mom and nibling found it inexplicably frightening…the former even said how great an actor the little girl is (??? I hate to pick on children, but I cannot agree!).

4.5/5

Valerie: “Boy, I’d love to find a portal into your brain.”
Kaufman: “Trust me, it’s no fun.”
——
There’s as much here to enjoy as there is to admire.
As smart as it is clever. 
As fun as it is funny. 
As innovative as it is insightful. 
This film is just so fucking great and holds up beautifully all these years later….and so it shall remain. The mind-blown emoji was invented to describe this script.🤯 Nobody out there doing it like Kaufman. Nobody. 

PS: this features Meryl at her peak powers, as far as I’m concerned, and is easily one of her best performances.

3.5/5

successful as both a character study and as a high-anxiety war thriller, The Hurt Locker is quite the accomplishment. Not necessarily to my personal tastes, but a really fascinating look at the reasons why a soldier would continue to push the limits, continue to place themselves in harm’s way, continue to choose combat over civilian life. I loved that aspect of the film, but am just not a fan of war-centric action, in general. 

Also, surprised to say it, but Jeremy Renner fully deserved that Oscar nom. Top notch work from home, truly. Couldn’t have played that character any better.

3/5

beautifully animated, but not one of my favorite Studio Ghibli entries.
although I did like the part where she said that if she were forced to marry this rando rich dude then she’d kill herself. Disney would never.

2/5

I watched 2 classic 1970s films for the first time this week. 
One I loved
One I barely even liked. 
And as much as it pains me to say, Carpenter’s Halloween just can’t hold a candle to Spielberg’s iconic creature feature. Is it perhaps unfair for me to compare these two iconic chiller thrillers? of course! But, here we are. 😂 It’s difficult for any film to live up to decades worth of hype and heavy praise, but Jaws surpassed every expectation I had (and then some), while my masked grunting boy, Michael Myers, let me down. I honestly have very little positive to say except I dig the score, liked the mask, and will always appreciate when someone can make movie magic on a shoestring budget. I respect the hustle. The acting, script, plot, etc. just didn’t do it for me. Jaws ripped the competition to shreds in every way. And while I’ll definitely be revisiting that title each year, this will likely be my first and last spooky season screening of “Halloween.”

3.5/5

watching the best of the best purposely play poorly while on baseball’s biggest stage  is horribly depressing. like no fun at all. It’s one thing to cheat to win…and weirdly quite another to sink your own team for profit. I felt nauseous the whole time. And damn, the worst part was that those who didn’t participate were still punished the same as those who had…which is wildly unfair?!! Suspension over banishment would have been the right call, but baseball commissioners have always been bad at making decisions tbh. Right from the start apparently lol.

2.5/5

feel like I saw a different movie than most because huh? it was fine, but y’all really have this sitting at a 3.5/5 on here like it’s really fucking solid and I just don’t get it. Kid playing Finn isn’t bad, Ethan Hawke seems to be having a fun time, and I guess it was kinda sweet in a fucked up way…but ya, nothing here elevated this beyond mediocre in my book. Sorry I couldn’t get as much out of it as so many others did!

4.5/5

I hate boats, sharks, beaches, oceans, hunting, etc. but, I loved this. Spielberg magic, baby.
Dudes fighting beasties. Ahoy. I get it now.

4/5

Todd Haynes: Master of Color

4.5/5

I just love this movie so much. It’s a warm hug of a biopic that does a bang-up job of bringing Laura Hillenbrand’s book to life.

I’m unashamedly a big fan of this  this film about the little horse that could. Not only did I see it 3x in theaters, but I bought the book, soundtrack and dvd, as well. I loved it then and I love it now. It baffles me that there are those who aren’t won over by it’s charms, but…their loss tbh. 😂 I’ll just be over here wiping the happy tears off of my smiling face for the next hour or so, you miserable ole glue pots. 😉

BROS review

4/5

Let me just start off by saying that I’m so sad to see that this film has become such a source of division within the (online) LGBT community. This little fun, fluffy, flirty flick doesn’t deserve to be dragged through the mud, laughed at, lectured about, or eviscerated by those who haven’t even bothered to watch it. As if performing dismally at the box office wasn’t bad enough, now its been reduced to the Twitter Discourse™ topic of the week–a fate worse than death, tbh. A movie like this should be celebrated and enjoyed with a group of friends, not critiqued ad nauseum by catty, self-righteous dicks who refuse to accept the harsh realities of capitalism. It seems as though our acronym cannot unify over a single fucking thing, not even the idea that supporting a project with a queer cast, a queer writer, a queer leading man, and a queer central romance is good, actually. EVERYTHING has to be a fight. And I’m gonna stop myself here, but just recognize that you do have some, albeit limited, power to turn the tides of the movie industry. If you want more rom-coms, go see them. If you want more stories focusing on marginalized groups, buy a ticket. Our film selections do matter, as money is the only language that the studio-heads understand and box-office returns are the only currency. I’m not trying to preach or shame,” just pointing out the obvious. Do your part or shut up. Hell, I’ve suffered through comic-book movies that I’d otherwise NEVER see, solely because I wanted to support POC/LGBT/female led films. Put my money where my mouth is (and I do NOT have a lot of money)…it’s my only weapon, my only means of enacting change. I’m not trying to be sanctimonious or preachy, just being honest.

BROS is a film that loyally, and lovingly, adheres to a traditional rom-com structure, but manages to set itself apart from the heap with its unapologetic queerness. Gay as fuck with gays who fuck. And it’s about damn time. It may not be the first of its kind, but it’s definitely the funniest.

ALSO, I know that Billy Eichner’s comedic style isn’t for everyone and that he has recently become a rather polarizing figure, but the character he plays in the film is more in-line with his real life persona, rather than a wildly manic, turned-up-to-eleven cartoon (like in Parks & Rec and Billy on the Street). I know that some find him grating and off-putting, but to be perfectly frank, in the context of the film–it works quite well? It’s an opposites attract tale, where a prickly, abrasive, sarcastic, unfiltered loud mouth falls for a straight-laced, closed-off, emotionally unavailable meathead. They make it work despite all the factors working against them. Bobby’s (Billy’s character) erm, eccentric and outsized personality becomes a source of conflict in the film–so, ya, he’s well aware of how other’s see him!

Anyways, I really liked–and almost loved–this movie. It’s nice! And despite being the ONLY human in attendance*, I laughed-out-loud more than a handful of times and had a blast! So, fuck the haters and give it a chance. If you’re feeling down and craving the warm fuzzies that only a romcom can bring, then this is just what the doctor ordered. 🙂

*I posted about this on Twitter, but when I bought a ticket to this show at my local little 6-screen theater, the girl said, “well, you’re the only one, so you can sit anywhere you’d like!” To which I responded “well, I cannot say that I’m surprised!” She then told me about how they haven’t sold many tickets to it, but that she’d heard really good things. I mentioned how I’d ONLY heard good things, just not from anyone locally. And she said (astutely) that our community is just not the right demographic for it. I told her that that was the main reason I was trying to see it opening week and she responded how glad she was that I came! My city is about 100,000 strong and is historically conservative. We haven’t elected a Democrat since LBJ. We picked George Wallace. We picked Strom Thurmond. Ross Perot got more votes than Bill Clinton. We were 3:1 for Trump BOTH TIMES. This is the collective we, not me as an individual who has voted Democrat for 18 years worth of elections. Point is, it’s hell here and if you don’t think homophobia played a role in its underwhelming BO performance, then you’re extremely fortunate to live in a liberal bubble. It’s not the only reason, but it’s a real one that shouldn’t be ignored. It’s not just the outwardly hateful MAGAts who won’t see this, but the seemingly normal and “nice” ones. They don’t want to see a gay romcom. We disgust them. They don’t like our culture. They don’t like our love stories. They don’t like us being equals to them. They don’t want us to have fairy-tale endings. They just don’t. They tolerate us at best, openly despite us at worst. This is a community of “love the sinner, hate the sin” and they WILL NOT support films where we are the leads, where we are in love, where we are happy. I still remember how many walked out during my screening of Ammonite during the lengthy sex scene. They were vocal about their distaste. And that was at the arthouse theater, in our more progressive sister city, where mature, cinema-loving adults go. So, ya, homophobia is alive and well here in southeastern Texas and it fucking sucks. Just because your straight friends are allies, doesn’t mean most of America is. Don’t fool yourself.

an impassioned response

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Believe it or not, my being gay is not about you.

I’m not gay out of spite.

I’m not gay as a means to enrage.

I’m not gay because of some twisted desire to hurt, upset or disgust the most ignorant amongst us. I’m not gay because of the sports that I played, the clothes that I wore, the haircuts that I had, or the media that I consumed. I’m not gay because I read a book with a queer character, watched a film with a queer lead, or listened to a song by a queer artist. I’m not gay because I didn’t go to church enough. I’m not gay for any reason other than that’s just…who I am. It’s not that deep. Baby, I was born this way or whatever. I didn’t choose to be gay, but I *did* choose to be honest about it. I chose to accept whatever consequences stemmed from my coming out. I figured that I was attracted to women whether I openly acknowledged that part of myself or not…and I just couldn’t justify publicly hiding what I was privately unashamed of. Not anymore. At 15, I wasn’t brave enough to be myself. At 15, I thought I had two options: date boys or be alone forever. And as painful as it was to admit, I knew that the former wasn’t a viable option….that it was, in fact, an unsurvivable march towards self-destruction. There was no future there. There was no good there. So, at FIFTEEN, I smothered the romantic within me. I chose freedom over forced heteronormativity. I chose a lifetime of loneliness over a lifetime of lies. Of course, I wanted to date. Of course, I wanted to go to prom. Of course I wanted to do those things…I was a normal teenage girl, after all. But, society wasn’t ready for that and I had no interest in pretending to be something that I wasn’t just to placate the blinkered masses around me. I might have missed out on many milestone marking moments and various teenage rites of passage, but in doing so I also escaped a great deal of trauma and emotional scarring. It was the right choice, but one that I don’t want kids of today to ever have to make. I can sincerely say that I wouldn’t have made it this far had I been forced to fit inside a box that wasn’t ever meant for me. I couldn’t have stayed afloat if I’d have had the burden of shame dragging me to the depths below. I couldn’t endure a lifetime of burying what felt so right, what came so naturally, what brought only joy, love and respect into this world. So, at 21, I decided to outwardly embrace the parts of me that I was proud of, but that others would negatively judge me for, would reject me for, would hate me for. I came out and I never looked back. Thus far, I’ve been fortunate enough to avoid more serious forms of discrimination (dirty looks and hushed comments are only mild annoyances), but I know what people are saying, I know what they’re thinking, I know what politicians they’re fervently supporting and what bigoted beliefs they’re harboring. Trust me…I know. Afterall, a painted-on smile can only thinly veil the hateful rhetoric boiling within. I’m a liberal lesbian living in a crimson-red county in Texas, I can see through the mask, I can peer through the veneer, I can sense what lurks beneath the surface because I have to. It’s how I stay safe. But, I know that most in this area have only slightly softened their stances on the LGBT community over the years. I’d assume that many have reached the tolerance stage, while a choice few might have even reluctantly started to accept us as close-to-equals. And of course, there are handfuls of powerful, well-connected, Christian nationalist clowns, who are hellbent on pushing back against any progress that we make…indefatigable foes who work tirelessly to ensure that we never know peace. My queerness has zero impact on them, but the legislation they seek to pass proves a direct threat against me.

I’m kind of getting off-topic here, but you can understand how personal this matter is to me and how infrequently I actually speak on it. BUT, the point is this: I just want to do whatever I can to prevent queer kids of today from having to make the same sacrifices that I did, to protect them from suffering through the same internal strife. I want them to understand that they don’t have have to sit on the sidelines and miss out on things like school dances, valentine’s day gift exchanges, or spin-the-bottle. I want them to have the freedom to be themselves without risking their safety or sanity. They deserve that because they didn’t ever do anything wrong. They’re just kids. They’re just regular kids. And it is SUPREMELY FUCKED that we have so many adults who refuse to let them just live, who refuse to let them feel secure, who refuse to let them feel loved, who refuse to let them feel seen in a positive light, who refuse to let them feel good about themselves, feel confident in themselves, feel PROUD of themselves. Like, truly, if you have nothing nice to say, it’s always ok to say nothing at all. Please. If you don’t want to wave a rainbow flag, that’s fine, but don’t actively seek to destroy these children’s lifelines… and in turn, their lives. Let them have their books. Let them find solace in the words of those who’ve walked this path before them. Let them escape to a world where they’re understood, where they’re valued. Let them be.

People are misinterpreting our caring about queer kids’ well-being as “grooming” or being part of some “gay agenda.” All we want is for them to survive into adulthood and know that they are perfect just the way they are. That’s it.

MASS review

4.5/5

There are a million things I’d like to say about this film, a million thoughts I’d like to share, a million words I’d like to write, but I see no point in muddling the film’s message with my own commentary when the script stands so strong on its own. There’s little-to-nothing I could offer that wasn’t already expertly distilled in the screenplay, so I’ll keep this brief.

It took 4 actors sitting in 1 room, huddled around 1 table, just 110 minutes to say all that needs to be said about this nation’s gun violence epidemic, just 110 minutes to reveal the true costs of an unregulated right to bear arms. MASS provides an intimate, all-too-authentic peek into the lives of those personally impacted by this modern, and uniquely American, phenomenon. It’s an uncomfortable, often gut-wrenching, viewing experience, wherein we witness two sets of parents attempting to work through multiple layers of guilt and grief in real time. Lost souls desperately trying to make sense of the senseless. Each individual struggling to cope in their own way, at their own pace, but all seeking the same thing…relief, clarity, closure, purpose, peace. Initially, they find themselves at odds with one another, but as the conversation continues, they start to realize the complex nature of their shared trauma. Two sides of the same coin, forever bonded by this unspeakable act of violence.

And though technically a work of fiction, the events depicted here are, tragically true to life for far too many in this country. These characters might not be based on specific people, but they serve to represent all of those who’ve been physically, psychologically, emotionally or spiritually damaged by our nation’s failings. They put a face to a full-on crisis and remind us that every mass shooting leaves a family shattered, every mass shooting leaves questions forever answered, every mass shooting leaves a gaping hole in the community it curses, and every mass shooting leaves a trail of victims in its wake…those who passed, those who survived, those who witnessed, and those who were left behind…

which, as this film so insightfully points out, includes the family of the perpetrator, the family who must hide in the shadows, who must mourn in secret and find ways to carry on without a wave of public support to lift them up. They lost someone, too, but there will be no room for them at the memorial services, no letters of condolence in their mailbox, no empathy or compassion extended their way. They will be completely, and utterly, alone… forced to grapple with the unimaginable hurt that comes with burying a child while also shouldering the blame for that same child’s actions. A nightmare within a nightmare.

Needless to say, this film exhausted me. After consuming art centered around such difficult subject matter, it’s nearly impossible for one to just move on with their day. If it’s done well–and this most certainly was–then the content will be difficult to shake, latching itself onto the viewer, shifting their perspectives and quietly shaping them into a new person altogether. I believe that this is one of those films that can actually bring about change if it finds the right audience (the 2021 Danish documentary, FLEE, has similar potential) and I hope that it does. We need something to shake the masses out of their slumber, to get them to their Howard Beale “mad as hell” breaking point and help them understand that it doesn’t have to be like this, that we don’t have to live like this. A movie, in and of itself, cannot fix our nation’s broken system, but if it sways just one mind, its already done more to address the matter than Congress…so, that’s something.

In the end, Mass is a “social issue” film done right. Rather than try and force an agenda on its audience, it opts to focus on the humans at the heart of the tragedy. It doesn’t tell you how to think or what to feel, it just peels back the curtain on a hot-button political topic and reveals the true cost of our lawmaker’s inaction. In a single room, on a single afternoon, we sit beside these heartbroken parents and watch them reopen wounds that will never truly heal, watch their faces twist in anguish, watch their bodies sag under the weight of such unfathomable pain. They are hollow. They are haunted. They are hurting. We will hopefully never have to walk in their shoes, but here we get a small glimpse into their lives in the aftermath, a small glimpse as to what that hell on earth is really like. It’s brutal, but healing. Painful, but poignant. Challenging but rewarding. Tough, but important.

Conceptually simple, yet impressively impactful in its execution, this is a film that relies on both its incredible screenplay and a quartet of powerful performances to set it apart from the rest of the pack. I can’t possibly recommend it enough. Even if you’re already a fierce advocate for common sense gun reform (like myself), you’ll still find much to appreciate and admire here. It’s not only a strong “message movie,” but a strong outing, in general. Check it out on Hulu now (Americans) and thank me later.

(also, shoutout to the sound design team and the bit actors knocked it out of the park with their minimal screentime!)

FLEE review

4.5/5

“Home is someplace safe. It’s somewhere you know you can stay, and you don’t have to move on.”

If there’s one thing the world is lacking, it’s empathy. And while the vast majority of humans have the ability to place themselves into another’s shoes, far too few seem interested in actually doing it. I suppose it’s just easier to not give a shit, to ignore a nagging conscience, to sever the heartstrings and focus solely on investing in those who look like you, talk like you, act like you, etc. I get it. Emotions are messy, solicitude takes effort, so to hell with it, let’s just narrow the mind & proudly embrace our selfishness…

Ick.

It’s appalling to consider, but how else can we can explain society’s shocking shortage of compassion?

Most of us are born with an innate capacity to connect with other people, to be attuned to what they’re thinking, feeling and enduring. We are hardwired to empathize, yet so many fail to mine this most precious commodity, fail to unlock that which makes us human. It’s a gift, one that must be treasured and held sacred, for it’s what binds us together, what grants us unspoken insight into the psyche of every inhabitant of this planet. Empathy is our common thread. And it’s imperative that we try and tap into that potential, so that we can mend these busted seams, repair this fraying fabric and work to fix that which feels so ripped beyond repair.

Is it naïve idealism to believe that something inborn is the key to world peace? That the salve to heal a global crisis is nestled deep within our chests? Perhaps, but I still maintain that it is within reach and we must never give up trying to achieve that dream. We must keep trying or risk losing everything.

The propensity to care is already planted within the soils of our souls, but the seed must be nurtured and nourished before it can blossom into something beautiful. For some, tending to this burgeoning quality is instinctual, but for others, it’s of great benefit to have a benevolent being shepherd them through. Of course, the truth is that ALL of us are better off with a mentor in our corner, someone who can point us in the right direction and provide us with a blueprint of model behavior to follow. We are inclined to reflect the traits of those we most frequently interact with, so it’s invaluable to have a shining example to emulate. Mimicry is how many of our early social skills are acquired, how our personalities start to take shape, and our values and moral codes begin to develop. Monkey see, monkey do. So, the onus of responsibility is on the adults to demonstrate acts of goodness, altruism and munificence as often as possible. After all, we can’t know what we haven’t learned and it’s been proven that imitation is how we learn best. Unfortunately, not everyone will be lucky enough to have a positive presence in their lives, nor a kindly parental figure to look up to or be inspired by. They’ll never receive lessons on gratitude and generosity, they’ll never feel a tender embrace, nor know what it means to be loved and supported unconditionally. Through no fault of their own, these kids will miss out on so much, be deprived of so much, and have to work twice as hard to get half as far. When a guardian eschew their duties, fails to provide, and neglects to socialize their child, it’s a dereliction that not only leads to personal ramifications, but global. I know it might be difficult to comprehend how something on a small scale can have such a far-reaching impact, but the reality is that we are more interconnected now than ever before and one individual’s actions and opinions can have ripple effects that reverberate outside of their immediate circle, filtering throughout the community, country, continent and beyond.

It’s important to remember that we are all in this together and it will take great effort on each of our parts to combat this empathy epidemic.

The best antidote for ignorance, whether willful or unintentional, is exposure–exposure to different races, ethnicities, sexual identities, religions, backgrounds, ideologies, etc. There are myriad ways to accomplish this, be it through the consumption of diverse media and books, the inclusion of multicultural toys into a child’s routine, the implementation of open, honest discussions, or just through good ole-fashioned interactions with a vast assortment of folks. Even if you live in an homogenous echo-chamber, it’s not difficult to expand your horizons and seek to fill in those knowledge gaps. And you must. BUT, it’s good to have help, which is why I think it’s time for schools to integrate lessons on ethics and empathy into their core curriculum. This could serve as a first step towards an open-mind for some, a supplemental resource for others, and a win-win for all. It’s critical that we introduce today’s youth to as many new concepts, cultures and perspectives as we can. And while social media has undoubtedly brought us all closer together, it’s a technological privilege that many opt to abuse, using it as a means to weaponize hate rather than grow and evolve. The kids that behave that way have been conditioned to belittle and demean, doomed from the start, stuck in a toxic environment where bigots hurl slurs and the talking heads on tv foment dissent and division. It’s only natural for them to parrot the prejudice that they hear, which is why it’s so crucial that educators intervene and instill wisdom and insight, that they teach tolerance and acceptance, while pushing their students out of their comfort zones. These children need to recognize that, yes, we are all more alike than different, but it’s our differences that make us so special, it’s our differences that make this world a better and brighter place, and it’s our differences that should be embraced, appreciated, and respected…not devalued, rejected and feared. We need to deprogram those who never had a choice in how they were raised. We need to give them the opportunity to break the cycle of generational myopia through methods proven to curb implicit bias and increase the liking of strangers. Exposure to diversity early and often is the solution. And what’s so wonderful is that youths are like sponges who soak up whatever the authority figures are presenting and projecting. That can present a real problem, but it’s one that is easily countered with kindness.

So, ANYWAYS, here’s where FLEE fits in, here’s where FLEE can fulfill a larger purpose.

The great Roger Ebert once said that, “movies are the most powerful empathy machine in all the arts. When I go to a great movie I can live somebody else’s life for a while. I can walk in somebody else’s shoes. I can see what it feels like to be a member of a different gender, a different race, a different economic class, to live in a different time, to have a different belief.

This is a liberalizing influence on me. It gives me a broader mind. It helps me to join my family of men and women on this planet. It helps me to identify with them, so I’m not just stuck being myself, day after day.

The great movies enlarge us, they civilize us, they make us more decent people.”

And he’s right. He’s so, so right. Film, as a creative medium, is one of our most effective empathy facilitators and should be utilized in the classroom to expand student’s world views. Movies are more than just mindless entertainment, they’re vehicles for personal and intellectual growth. A 90 minute film can break down sociological barriers that had built up over a lifetime. It can open a child’s eyes a little wider, providing them with an opportunity to experience life as another lives it, to see what they see, and feel what they feel…lessons that are difficult to impart through text or lecture, but effortlessly communicated through a visual medium. Give them that. Give them the chance to change, to move beyond their preconceived notions and let go of their ingrained attitudes and negative perceptions of those that don’t look, talk or think like them. The desire to care is already there, so let’s introduce them to art that can flip a switch and help them embrace diversity. Movies can alter the believe that different means “other.” Movies can dissolve all that impedes our ability to connect with one another. Movies can do that. Movies did that for me. Movies are fucking magical.

Use them.

Use FLEE.

Sure, there are innumerable cinematic contributions that could fulfill this need, but FLEE feels especially pertinent and universally relevant right now. It is a masterful, magnificent work that seeks to shine a spotlight on the refugee crisis, focusing on the real life experience of a young boy escaping war-torn Afghanistan in the 1980’s. And thought the specifics of Amin’s story are obviously unique to him, the film speaks for all of those forced to flee.

And It couldn’t arrive at a more pivotal moment in our history. Right now, there are millions and millions of innocent civilians who find themselves displaced and in search of sanctuary, millions and millions who are presented with two terrible options…abandon the only home they’ve ever known or risk facing poverty, persecution and/or possible death. It’s a wildly unfair predicament with no perfect outcome or solution…a choice between bad and worse. Their only crime? Wanting to survive, wanting to feel safe, wanting to be shielded from the conflict in their native lands. They don’t want to leave, but when the climate become untenable, the alternative is too dire to consider. And once they embark on their journey, it only gets harder before it gets better….if it gets better at all. It’s a gamble, but with no viable alternative it’s their only hope.

Who among us wouldn’t risk everything to protect those we love?

Animated in a refreshingly unique, beautifully imperfect graphic-novel style, this hand-drawn documentary follows our protagonist from age six to adulthood, relying on self-narrated flashbacks to convey the physical rigor and emotional tenor of his nightmarish ordeal. The various illustrative techniques used to visually distinguish between the concrete details of his past, the crisp, clear reality of his present, and the fragmented memories that he’s long-repressed, are all expertly executed and seamlessly interwoven…and the end result is quite the stunning achievement. The artistic team was able to thoughtfully capture all of Amin’s complexities and nuances, while also crafting a rich, immersive rendering of the environment he inhabited. And despite steering clear of rotoscoping and filmed footage, there is still a very authentic, lived-in quality here. It was a creative decision that paid off, not only by granting the subject anonymity, but also by giving the director near limitless potential to interpret these hellish events. Animation offered him the perfect canvas upon which to craft his narrative, maximizing the impact of Amin’s arduous trek while generating more empathy for his plight. It’s difficult for us to digest these heartbreaking stories, to process the horrific imagery and confront the pained anguish in these brave soul’s faces. Syria, Ukraine, Sudan, Venezuela, Myanmar, just to name a few…the atrocities start to blur together as we grow numb to the sufferer’s struggle and strife, opting to look away, to tune it all out or refuse to engage because of how much it hurts and how beyond our control it seems. But the medium that FLEE utilizes helps us swallow it all down, lets us safely slip into Amin’s skin and feel his emotions so acutely…distant, but not disconnected. And soon we start to realize that he is not unlike ourselves, that he’s an equal, a relatable figure that we can bond with…foreign, yet familiar. We marinate in Amin’s anxiety, feeling the weight of his burdens, the sting of societal rejection, and the crippling cultural shock of starting over in a strange new land. The palpability of his fear suffocates, the loss of identity cuts deep, the overwhelming grief consumes and the forced isolation breeds a type of loneliness that no human should ever know. We experience what it’s like to face unrelenting hostility, to be targeted by blinkered bigots and confronted with ire and scorn at every turn. It’s undeniably taxing to walk alongside him, to tread in his trembling, trepidatious footsteps, but somehow it’s never so overwhelming that we can’t go on–which isn’t to say that it downplays the severity of the situation, just that we’re so engrossed and invested that we refuse to turn our backs, refuse to leave him behind. We want to stay, we want to see this through. The visual style absolutely plays a role in helping us digest the more difficult aspects of his recollections, buffering the brutal bits with fuzzy lines and abstract imagery, thus upping it’s palatability…but, it’s more than that, much more…it’s the personal touch that makes this film so special. And it IS special. The framing device allows the story to unfurl organically through a series of interviews between two close friends, wherein Amin shares parts of himself that he’s never told anyone before. As the conversation continues, he settles in and becomes more comfortable opening up and pulling out memories that had lain dormant for decades…his traumas, triumphs and tribulations. It’s a very intense and intimate, but breathtakingly poignant. He is a charming, charismatic individual with an easy laugh, affable nature, and a warm, dulcet voice. It’s an honor to be invited to listen in on this session, to hear him recount the life he’d left behind while reclaiming his past in the process. I was taken aback by the level of vulnerability on display, by the consistent candor, and rawness of the revelations. Amin was only able to divulge his deepest, darkest secrets because of the immense trust built between these two men, the type of trust that can only be earned, never forced, never faked. These are secrets that weren’t buried by shame, but suppressed for the sake of his sanity and safety. So, that mutual respect was key. There is no exploitation here, only willing exploration. It’s not obligatory, but voluntary. And it’s not a one-dimensional snapshot of a refugee, but a portrait of a man with a full life…of a son, a brother, a friend, a student, a survivor, a success, a professional, a college graduate, an Afghani, a Dane, a husband, a cat-lover, a home-owner and a member of the LGBT community.

Amin is a subject worth studying with a tale wholly deserving of the documentary treatment. I was deeply affected by this project and moved in ways that I never could have expected. My hope is that this experience was as healing and therapeutic for him as it was enlightening and uplifting for me. His past, as traumatic and treacherous as it might have been, played a role in shaping him, but it doesn’t define him. And despite all of it, he found happiness. He found freedom. He found love. He found home.

Refugees and immigrants have always been frostily, if not violently, received by xenophobic nativists hellbent on keeping the “other” from “invading” their communities and countries. This certainly isn’t a new phenomenon, but it’s a fiery hate that must be extinguished. I’m so sick of watching these rightwing extremists try to criminalize and condemn asylum seekers, so tired of their jingoistic efforts to callously dehumanize and denigrate entire groups of people. Ethnocentrism is a disease. Racism is a virus. Hundreds of millions are infected. And I believe that films like FLEE can be part of the cure. Right now, those who need to see it the most, won’t, so, let’s introduce them while they’re still malleable and receptive enough to dissolve their personal animus and biases. It’s long overdue, but right on time.

tilting at windmills.

social phobia: the intense fear of being judged, negatively evaluated, or rejected in a social or performance situation.

atelophobia: the fear of imperfection or not being good enough.

everyone has suffered from a bout of anxiety.

everyone has felt terror’s icy grip

everyone has wrestled with low self-esteem

everyone has grappled with the weight of worry.

all of us.

everyone.

even you.

but, especially me…

But yes, even the steeliest, most steadfast among us have felt their nerves quiver, their adrenaline rush, their heart race, their knees shake, their stomach sink. We all know what that’s like. but, what most people cannot relate to is the intensity with which some of us experience those sensations….

how amplified the noise…

how harsh the static….

how deafening our thoughts…

for us, these aren’t fleeting feelings that we can ignore or evade, they’re impenetrable barriers that stop us dead in our tracks, ravenous wolves zeroing in on a kill, adamantine chains locked without a key.

we can’t escape them.

we can’t.

I can’t.

---

I am paralyzed.

frozen in place.

frozen in time.

a captive of my own mind.

a statue in decay.

fragmenting collapsing

into the earth I sink

stability degrades

a foundation split in two

a work of art in peril

repairs long overdue

crumbling

cut from bone

cursed by god

now detritus in a ditch.

---

We exit the womb soft-boned and full of promise

Each step small, but significant

our heart beats strong, our eyes open wide

bodies slight, but ever-growing

stomach hollowed, ever-hungry

our minds blank, but primed to soak up the world

a canvas craving that first kiss of color

waiting, wanting, needing

anything

everything

In this nascent stage we welcome each morning with vigor; ready and willing to embrace whatever adventure awaits with big smiles and even bigger dreams. Adorably alacritous, our beginnings are undeniably beautiful…pure, hopeful, ebullient, but, also unsustainable. Aging proves most unkind. We harden, growing more rigid by the day as we lose our pliability, our receptiveness to change, and our ability to appreciate the little things. That unmistakable sparkly sheen of newness chips away, our light dims, our edges fray, our shoulders sag. We part ways with the eager ease of youth, at first, anticipatorily, but in retrospect, with much regret. Many have been gifted with the grit and grace needed to handle these shifts, but, me? Absolutely not. I was woefully unprepared for how difficult it would be to maneuver through life’s ups and downs. I didn’t realize how much of a struggle it’d be just to keep air in my lungs and a metronomic beat in my chest. I didn’t know–how could I?– and I wasn’t ready. I suppose none of us ever really are, but few fail as spectacularly as I did. As I am.

I am defective and I’d like a refund, please?

I kid.

Sorta.

But, it is true that I’ve had a tougher go of it than most–and I find myself asking….why? I want for nothing, so what went wrong? It’s impossible to ever know for sure, but if I had a gun to my temple (yes, please), I’d hypothesize that, at some point, a seed of doubt was planted, then fertilized by my extreme emotional sensitivity, until it blossomed into a full-fledged fear.

Mind you, an actual phobia is more than just an annoying inconvenience, it’s a debilitating disease that halts all forward progress, stagnating the infected host. It robs us of our potential, snuffs out our desires, sabotages our futures, and ultimately, eats us alive from the inside out.

---

My specific brand of crazy centers around a fear of imperfection, of failure, of judgment, of criticism, of disappointing others. It is an all-consuming constant, and thus far any and all attempts to remedy the matter have proven nugatory. But, I’m still breathing and hoping that someday I will neutralize the enemy and decipher this most puzzling of mysteries. If not for me, then for my nieces, who seem to have been saddled with the same affliction.

A few months back I went on a clarity-seeking mission, one where I jotted down every single thought or memory that sprang forth when I contemplated failure. It was a sort of stream-of-conscious, impromptu exercise and the end result was a rambling, incoherent, babbling, bloated mess (aka my signature style). I’ve done my best to shape it into something cogent and comprehensible, however, it’s still quite choppy. So, consider this your official Reader Beware! disclaimer. I totally understand if you have no interest in continuing beyond this point, but it’s important that I document these newly unearthed revelations. It’s a wild world inside my complex, confounding mind and this is just a taste of what it’s like to be me.

Hang in there, I know it can be quite the sloppy slog, but hopefully it will prove informative and enlightening.

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After mining my past for insight as to how and/or why I ended up this way, I stumbled across some key areas of concern, some instances where specific people, emotions or events had a direct impact on my development:

Fourth grade math teacher. Cheerleading tryouts. Unrealistic expectations. My older sister’s high school and college successes. She was eager, ambitious and able to set and reach her goals. A model student, she accomplished so much, while also managing to balance her school work, job, activities and social affairs. I was disorganized, lost, aimless, and a complete, unmitigated disaster. While she received, numerous, substantial scholarships, I was so intimidated by even the IDEA of submitting applications that I hardly amassed any assistance at all–a negligent act on my part that placed a significant financial burden on my parents. Everything my sister was, I wasn’t. School seemed effortless to her, yet every element was so arduous for me. As hard as I tried, I could never be her, which was all I ever really wanted. Somehow, I did end up earning a 4.0 GPA, but it was a STRUGGLE to get there and I basically limped across the finish line. Mentally, I was always on the verge of an epic crash and burn, though I definitely saved the real fireworks show for later.

Diary Entry from age 11

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In my 20’s, I became quite adept at applying for various positions, charming my way through the interview(s), and then once I’d been hired….panic-quitting before my first clock-in. It wasn’t because I didn’t want the job–I did!!!–I was just afraid that I wouldn’t be capable of acquiring the necessary skills in a timely manner, afraid that I’d be put on the spot and publicly falter, afraid that the others would get irritated with my glacial pace, afraid that I’d never fully learn the ropes: McAlister’s, Jason’s Deli, Maggie’s Boutique, World Market, various vet clinics, boarding facilities, Star Cinema Grill, just to name a few. I was an ace at securing the gig, but completely useless at the follow through. I suppose I liked to prove to myself that I had some initially desirable qualities, that I was wanted…nay needed, but that confidence boost proved ephemeral and left me feeling more emotionally vulnerable than before. My inability to commit reinforced how much of a failure I truly was. Confirmation bias.

And on the off chance that I did manage to show up, I’d either last a day or somehow make it a couple of weeks before I’d self-terminate…too mortified to accept responsibility for a mistake. If I messed up, I’d rather quit than face perceived consequences. I fucked over a lot of people who counted on me, who trusted me, who saw potential in me and for that, I am sorry.

I’d lie awake at night scrutinizing every aspect of my previous shift, analyzing my performance, stressing about the most miniscule of gaffes I might have made….many of which continue to haunt. On the plus side, I did have one job that I know I was good at, a job I held for over five years, but, even then, my perfectionism proved problematic. Aiming for flawlessness is not a negative trait, in and of itself, but when we cannot escape the binary “first or last” mindset, it becomes a serious detriment to our ability to thrive…or even survive. It’s an impossible standard of measurement, one that keeps the goalposts shifting and renders the end-zone unreachable. You simply cannot win. Rationally, I grasp all of that, but my wonkily wired brain refuses to accept it. At my former retail position, I’d chase uncatchable mechanical rabbits around the store, weaving in and out of aisles, finding all sorts of new projects to distract me as I went by. Always more dust to be swept, more orders to be placed, more product to be pushed, more sales to be rung. A growing list, but never enough time. At the end of the day, I would usually beg to stay longer–not for the money, I assure you that I’d do it for free–but for the peace-of-mind that accompanies completion. It was a form of closure that I needed. If I was unable to finish what I’d started, I’d panic, fully convinced that my perceived dereliction of duty would lead to severe punishment…and maybe I thought I deserved that. All I wanted was to to prove my worth, to earn my keep, and get that coveted pat on the head. Unfortunately, that same obsessive inner drive meant that I’d frequently end up scolded for accruing too many hours or making my coworkers stay late. I also started to get increasingly frustrated by customers who asked inane questions, behaved inconsiderately, or dared interfere with what I deemed my real work. I couldn’t show it on the outside, but I felt the resentment build within, simmering just below the surface and to be frank, I was similarly perturbed when the other employees didn’t seem to share my dedication to the department. It felt like a group project where I was consistently doing most of the heavy lifting, while they skated by doing the bare minimum….for them, it was a part-time college position, but for me it was a career (even when I *was* in college). I’m a professional at taking things much too seriously.

---

In junior high, I tried out for cheerleader. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I was (and am) a shitty, uncoordinated, joke of a dancer with absolutely zero sense of rhythm. I could put together a string of round-off, flip-flop, back-tucks, but that was the extent of my skillset. No grace. No precision. No flexibility. None. So, the fact that I didn’t make the cut was not some grave injustice, but I couldn’t view myself through an objective lens, I couldn’t understand the cause and effect at-play. So, I was left crestfallen, borderline catatonic…a tiny, twelve-year old naïf who believed in herself, had faith in her abilities, and was completely blindsided by this staggering outcome. I have, thankfully, blocked out most of the tryout itself, but I can remember riding up to the school later that evening, the seemingly eternal walk from the car to the gym doors, the tingling nerves building as I scanned the posted list of names, and that soul-crushing realization that mine was not among them. Fuck. FUCK. I went numb inside. A shriek stuck in the back of my throat as my eyes filled up with hot, heavy tears. I felt faint, head woozy, vision blurring, legs on the brink of collapse. I vaguely recall my friends trying to console me, offering up tired, though well-intentioned bromides, as they wrapped their arms tightly around my limp, lifeless body; an inconsolable rag doll. I felt guilty for making it all about me, for shifting the focus from the victors to the pitiful loser, but, that type of pure, intense emotion cannot be contained. I needed to express it. I needed to acknowledge it. I needed to wallow in it. This wasn’t a simple surface wound we could slap a Band-Aid on, this was a deep cut, a major blow to my pride and an unparalleled heartbreak. My inexperienced, irrational, callow, little baby brain had contorted the situation into something sinister, something serious, something of great significance. A direct hit like that is always going to hurt, but it’s not supposed to cause irreparable harm. And this did. I was convinced that I’d let my entire family down by not stepping into my sister’s Asics–particularly my mom, who I *know* really wanted that for me. I could imagine her secondhand embarrassment as she shared the news with her coworkers. God, it was excruciating, but please know, I did try.

Diary Entry from age 12

It’s important to note that this was a textbook example of defeat. It did happen and there wasn’t a cutesy way to candy-coat that cold, hard truth. I couldn’t pass the blame to anyone else, it was all on me; a solo effort. I had done my part. I put in the hours. I practiced. I was brave. And when the time came, I gave it everything I had, confident that I would succeed….

…and then, I didn’t. A panel of judges watched me perform a rehearsed routine with my spirit and smile on full display, then they collectively evaluated my work, compared notes and carelessly tossed me into the discard pile. This was my introduction to rejection, my first taste of it’s acid-tinged bitterness and I did not tolerate it well. As an adult, I understand that life is a series of hardships and gut-punches and that this unpleasant experience was just a part of growing up. But, hindsight is 20/20 and I was a child who couldn’t grasp what an important teaching moment this was. I didn’t want to dust myself off, I wanted to be dead and buried. I took nothing positive away from the situation. Nothing. I cast my loved ones aside, preferring to lick my wounds in private, but lacking the emotional maturity to navigate such uncharted waters alone. I had all of these BIG new feelings swirling within, none of which I recognized or understood, none of which I could translate into anything useful…just a series of inscrutable hieroglyphics scrawled inside my skull. I was lost, searching for any clue or reason as to why this bad thing had happened to me…seeking, but never finding. By closing myself off, I’d hoped to begin my healing journey, to mend myself and eventually emerge stronger and more resilient than before. Unfortunately, my plan proved self-defeating and instead of bouncing back, I sunk lower. Turns out that hiding in the darkness, dwelling on the negative, and marinating in fresh pain is not the cure for distress and dolor. Who knew? Fast forward a few days and BOOM, baby’s first depression. My souvenir? A brand new phobia!

My fear of try-outs had morphed into a fear of trying ANYTHING at all. Siri, what’s the opposite of “growth”? Ah, yes, regression.

---

In high school, my relationship with basketball soured. I’d been playing since I was a kid and always excelled…I had raw, natural talent that I worked tirelessly to shape and polish. I was good and I knew it. Basketball was my life. It was my everything. But, something shifted in my teenage years and I noticed that the sport no longer felt fun. Whenever I’d put my uniform on, it was like suiting up for a job, rather than a game. And by sixteen, I grew to hate it. I mean, I still loved basketball, but I hated the concomitant stress and sense of foreboding that paired with it.

That was the year I got called up to varsity. An injury to the starting point guard had left a gaping hole in their line-up and coach asked me to fill-in. I was horrified by this proposition. There was only one other sophomore on the squad and I just didn’t think I was quite ready for such a promotion. I liked playing against girls my own age and had no interest in adding more responsibility to my plate. So, I ducked and danced around the question, pushing back against it, begging her to reconsider…all to no avail. At the end of the day, it wasn’t my choice to make and I was forced into the role. I went on to make quite the impression, earning 1st team all-district honors in my initial year, an exceptional accomplishment and a true highlight of my adolescence. I was thrilled to be a source of pride for my parents, my teammates, my school, my coach and my community. But, that accolade, that individual recognition also rattled me. After the shock wore off, I started to look ahead to next season, wondering if I’d be able to live up to the hype or repeat my success. I had set the bar so high that I had nowhere to go but down and I understood that from thereon out, I’d have a target on my back. Teams would start scouting my play, studying my weaknesses and custom-tailoring their defense to exploit them. I was no longer coasting under-the-radar and worried that I’d be outed as an impostor or labeled an overrated wannabe. I became so preoccupied with the prospect of potential failure that I wasn’t able to stay present in the now. My confidence plummeted, my statistics declined, and I tanked my own budding career. It had been my dream to make it to the WNBA, but at that point, I abandoned all hopes of ever playing at a higher-level. I just didn’t have what it took. Now, I wasn’t rendered totally incompetent by my neuroses, but I did lose my shine and eventually my starting position. Dad used to joke that I needed a sports’ psychologist–we all laughed, but he was right. I did need help, but had none. It wasn’t negligence, just unintentional ignorance. No one understood what I was going through and I suppose I didn’t really get it either. I began to make senseless, costly errors, missing free throws, and routinely bungling easy layups. I’d be flying down the court, fully in control, the defense trailing me, milliseconds away from two points on the board….and then…shit… I’d snap out of the moment, shifting my gaze to the stands and realizing that the attention was ALL ON ME, that the crowd noise was ALL FOR ME…and then I’d inevitably fumble, fuck-up and completely lose my concentrate. . I couldn’t tune them out and my fear of embarrassing myself in front of others proved a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Competing at that level was unbearable. I went from knowing that I was a gifted athlete, to doubting that I was even halfway decent. Everyone told me otherwise, but I just couldn’t see it. My mental hang-ups and mounting insecurities chipped away at my game until I could barely shoot the ball at all. I let each failed attempt contaminate my psyche & pollute my performance. It’s imperative that an athlete have the strength of mind to shake off their mistakes and quickly move forward…a skill that I could never master. Each error, each missed shot, each poor decision, each tipped pass…they all added up, they all weighed me down, they all spelled disaster.

Diary Entry from age 11

I took every critique to heart, unable to digest an unfavorable assessment in a healthy way. It always felt so personal to me, as if the coach’s words were targeted attacks rather than helpful assists. I’d warp and exaggerate everything she’d say–interpreting her stern, though ultimately innocuous, sport-speak as an all-out assault on my character, an opprobrious commentary on my play, a series of poison-dipped darts slicing straight through my chest. I tricked myself into believing that she wanted her words to wound and that this was irrefutable evidence that she disliked me as a person. Of course, the reality is that she was just vocalizing a temporary frustration with a singular element of my performance, in a singular moment in time, on a singular night. But, I couldn’t absorb the information as delivered and shut-down as a result. Needless to say, this was an emotionally turbulent era.

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When it came to sports, my pursuit of perfection brought out my worst impulses. I’d let the pressure of competition bubble into a rolling boil, gaining strength as it threatened to explode. I wanted to win. I needed to win (emphasis on the ‘I’). My compulsion stemmed more from a deep-seated demand for domination than an unquenchable thirst for victory. I cared less about the score and more about my stats. From my perspective, the real battle was with myself, not my on-court opponents. If I didn’t maximize my potential, if I didn’t flawlessly execute, if I didn’t push myself to the limit, then I had failed. I kept most of these thoughts under wraps, obscuring my inner-turmoil from public view, hoping that no one would notice.. But, at home was a different story. Home was where I had the freedom to externalize my self-loathing, the option to unleash my festering fury without fear. My driveway sessions were rife with explosive outbursts, replete with hurled basketballs, expletive filled rants and punches to the face and fence–my bloodied knuckles and ripped, splintered skin serving as proof that you’re never too old for a tantrum. Don’t get me wrong, I get the appeal of these rage fits. I understand why we blow-up over the smallest of things. In times of desperation, it can feel like an exorcism is the only way to expel these pent-up, dark energies. Our ravaged bodies need that release, but after the endorphins wear off, we’re left to reckon with the aftershocks. Within minutes, the anger returns.

It really is pitiful to lose control like that. It’s childish, ugly and high-risk. But, truth be told, I do still struggle with this type of self-harm. I no longer participate in athletics, yet this awful instinct persists. It’s less frequent now, but not extinct. I work to suppress the urge to physically reprimand myself after each mistake. I want to hurt, but I’m learning how to push pause before impulsively reacting. Curiously enough, I have found that playing guitar has helped to steady me during my tailspins, giving me the tools to regain my poise in these tense situations. I’m now more capable of moving on after a misstep than I was before. I think it’s because I consider my guitar to be a trusted companion, a positive coping mechanism that brings me peace and calm. It’s not the enemy, it’s the remedy. So, even when I’m irritated with my mediocrity or multitudinous mistakes, I can quickly redirect the anger and adjust my playing so that it soothes rather than inflames. I can take a short breather and be fine within a few moment’s time. I am LEARNING.

---

Each piece of writing I compose, I seldom, if ever, re-read after my final edit. I might as well send each completed work straight into the shredder. And by constantly comparing my output to that of professional authors and reporters–true titans and legends of the industry–I am doing myself a great disservice, One does not have to be a Pulitzer Prize winner to have ideas worth sharing, but it’s nearly impossible to convince myself of that. I have never submitted any piece for publishing because I cannot stomach the idea of rejection or criticism, both of which are par for the course in the industry. So, I write only for me and only for free. I have very little confidence in my abilities and am highly aware of how uneducated I am. I have no college degree. No, not even the one that “everyone” gets. I attended Texas A&M for several years, but have nothing to show for it beyond an endless stream of regrets. I’m not well-read, so I haven’t even acquired an informal education. I think I consider that to be the greater sin considering how the best writers are often the most prolific readers. I don’t even have a firm grasp of classic literature, philosophy, or mythology, much less anything current. I just don’t seem to have the attention span or intelligence needed to take-in the words on a page, so the number of books I’ve completed, as an adult, is laughably small. Yet, again and again, I churn out these pieces because it’s nice to sort through the clutter and clear out the cobwebs. It helps to document my thoughts, even if I don’t have the skills to properly convey them.

I’m doing my best, despite that never, ever being enough.

---

I am hit with a rush of dread each time I’m forced to perform ANY action in front of or for someone else. No matter how basic or simplistic the task, I will inevitably turn it into advanced astrophysics, overanalyzing any and all provided instruction. These are just a handful of examples: picking out a movie to watch (both deciding on the title and wondering how it’ll be received), making food/drink for the family, watering the lawn, holding the ladder, walking the dog, picking out produce at the store, feeding the pets, cleaning the countertops, washing clothes, clearing off the table, vacuuming the floors, buying/wrapping gifts, etc. For most, these chores are relatively straightforward, yet for me they’re insurmountable summits. And *If* I am able to complete these assignments (and the people pleaser in me really fucking tries) then I’ll be on-edge in the aftermath, anguishing over the end result. If I determine that I failed, which means anything less than perfect, then I’ll be plagued by those negative emotions indefinitely, likely forever.

---

I need solitude to properly function. If I know I’m being observed, regardless of the situation, my body will quickly cycle through a series of physiological changes. Initially, I’ll stiffen up, frozen in place, as my eyes dart side-to-side, searching for the nearest exit. Then, my mental focus wanes and I suddenly can’t perform the most rudimentary of actions…walking, talking, eating, breathing, you name it, I can’t do it. My mind turns to mush, the cacophonous congestion within making it difficult to hear or think…everything goes blank, yet the internal speakers still blare. My hair bristles, my skin gets hot, my ears go pink, my muscles tighten and my pupils turn into saucers. Eventually, I switch into autopilot mode, a dissociative altered state that serves to protect the more susceptible parts of my psyche. At this point, every aspect of my personality evaporates as an ersatz facsimile takes my place. This pseudo-Sunny looks like me, talks like me, but is somehow even MORE inept than me. I am grateful for the reprieve, using the opportunity to take a metaphorical smoke break as I regain my bearings. Unfortunately my doofy decoy also gets easily flustered and overwhelmed, which leads to any number of unenviable outcomes….most commonly with my giving up on whatever I was working on. It’s not a perfect solution to the problem, but it’s preferable to the alternative.

A really stupid example of this, and I mean REALLY stupid, centers around the fraught relationship I have with those pesky little safety gates* that enclose pools and hot tubs. They’re designed to outsmart small children, but apparently they are also able to confound insecure adult idiots like me. I get so afraid that I will botch the unlatching process in front of other people that I’ll either a) awkwardly wait for someone else to walk through first or b) not go in at all. If I go with option a, I’ll be muttering “you do it, I can’t” under my breath as I cowardly trail them. And while this method has a 100% success rate, it also brings a lot of undue attention with it. Listen, I know my behavior seems absurd, BUT PLEASE don’t make light of the situation by cracking jokes or offering commentary. I might be able to laugh about it later, but in the moment I assure you, it’s not funny. And though the humiliation aspect is troublesome, what’s more concerning is my inability to efficiently or effectively rebound from these mishaps. I collect each blunder, storing them in a vast, meticulously maintained archive, ready to be retrieved and anguished over at will. I visit them frequently, replaying each on an infinite loop, over and over again, until a new boogeyman is fully formed. As the traumatizing events add up and accumulate, the likelihood that I’ll be able to confront similar obstacles in the future dwindles. If, however, I get the opportunity to visit the site ahead of time, I can practice opening the doors in secret and work to build my confidence up…if I know what to expect, I can vanquish the foe. And just as it takes one bad experience to destroy me, it can take one successful attempt to free me.

*Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess this highly specific paranoia extends to doors in general–elevator, push/pull, rotating, etc. each type of entrance gives me some sort of anxiety. I get that this is a dumb thing to let drag me down, but few things in my world make much sense!

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I think about my sister’s wedding back in 2008, where I was given exactly ONE job to do: cue up the bridal chorus as she walked down the aisle. It sounds so easy, yet I still managed to fuck it up. This was HER moment and I blew it. My role was small, but significant as that song serves as an important step in the ceremony. Everyone was counting on me, watching and waiting as I scrambled, clumsily pushing buttons, until I eventually started the wrong song. Cool. Fun. Love that for me. I mean, I couldn’t even PUSH A FUCKING BUTTON. Stress clouds my thoughts, slows my mind and steers me astray. I have no chance to succeed when that fear kicks in. I just cannot combat it. I cannot overcome it. I can only implode. The music matter was rectified fairly quickly (by me) and not viewed as a big deal by anyone else…a forgettable oopsie on an otherwise beautiful occasion…yet it proved catastrophic for me. I was convinced that I had single-handedly ruined my sister’s day and I’ve still not forgiven myself.

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It takes concerted effort for me to make eye contact with people. I walk with my head hung low, strategically angled away from other’s sightlines, tilting and twisting until I’m safely away. Face-to-face interactions, whether it be digital or in-the-flesh, are a real challenge. I don’t enjoy being the center of attention and I loathe the spotlight…even if the shine comes from a 40W living room lamp, I’m still shaking in my boots. No matter how familiar the setting, no matter how friendly my co-stars, the metaphorical stage will always give me a fright.

A locked, mutual gaze is a critical component of human communication, a sign of respect, a quiet clue that the listener is actively engaged, and how we signal a turn transition. I valiantly try and abide by these social cues, hellbent on extending this basic courtesy back to my conversational partner–but, I often fall short. I tend to feel as though the other party is judging, inspecting, critiquing, examining my every move and waiting for me to fail. It doesn’t take long before I get visibly uncomfortable, clamming up, shifting, stuttering, stumbling, and losing the thread of what I was trying to say. My rate of speech increases, my adrenaline pumps, and I can’t grab hold of the words I’m looking for. Anxiety cripples, ineloquence conquers. Although, if I’m being entirely honest, I have actually begun to wonder if there’s perhaps a larger issue at play, a physical cognitive matter that impedes my fluency–but, whether that’s true or not, I *know* that the pressure of these exchanges heightens the symptoms. Each day I grow more fearful of human encounters because of it.

There have been times where I’ve found it virtually impossible to talk to others. And while I’m not AS bad as I was a few years back, I still can’t get comfortable with the idea of participating in a lively discussion, no matter how informal or light the topic may be. It feels like there’s a way to win or lose, and yeah, as ludicrous as it sounds, I am terrified to fail at simply…hanging out? I know it’s silly, but I’m afraid I won’t be smart enough, clever enough, perspicuous enough, attentive enough, funny enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, informed enough, etc. I’m afraid that I will misspeak (I will) or that I’ll be asked about a job I do not have (I will be). I’m afraid that others will dismiss me as a potential friend solely because of what I lack, rather than embracing me for who I am (it’s happened before). Each time I open up, rejection is a very real, distinct possibility and I’ve been burned enough in the past to know it’s wisest to avoid that outcome. In a perfect world, I’d be graded on a curve, applauded for how far I’ve come, rather than how far I first fell…but, that bit of context will always be lacking in current conversations. And it’s totally reasonable for someone to be empathetic, while still wanting to steer clear of those with so much baggage. I get it.

I can’t blame anyone for judging me based only on what they see before them, how could they know what I’ve been through? And is that even an excuse?

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Due to my anxiety, I mostly (a marked improvement!) avoid family gatherings. I can vividly recall a Christmas, in the not-so-distant past, where I sulked in my room all morning instead of joining my parents, sister and nieces downstairs; effectively boycotting the celebration because I felt fat. True story. I know that sounds bad. And it was. It’s beyond unflattering how selfish, rude and uncaring my actions may seem. All of it reflects poorly on my character and I understand that, but, please believe me when I tell you that I want to be there, that I love these people, I do. Unfortunately, want and love are not always enough to overcome my fears.

I exist in a miasma of despair. It might not register on my face, but it emanates from my pores, affecting everyone in my midst. I don’t want to drag anyone else into my dark, thorny, misery pit, so I excommunicate myself to protect us all. I sincerely do not think I’ll be missed.

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I actually opt out of going to a lot of events that I’d likely enjoy.

When someone has a regular bout of anxiety, they might experience butterflies in the belly or little balls of nervous energy bouncing around inside and maybe they’ll even have to cancel or reschedule plans every now and then…that’s healthy, that’s normal. But, the symptoms of social phobia are often so overpowering that they cannot be ignored or extinguished with a pep-talk and promise of a good time. When you have a severe case, a debilitating case, you may not ever make it out of the house at all, held hostage by your own illness, held captive in a tower, missing out on so much of what life has to offer. We can’t just groan, grin and bear it, we have to abide or pay the price.

In 2016, I was gifted a ticket to an Amy Schumer stand-up set in Houston–an incredibly generous offering from my cousin and his wife. I had been grappling with the after-effects of a really rough breakup and this genuine act of kindness meant the world to me. I was as grateful as I was excited! But, that sense of euphoria proved evanescent once I started thinking about the social aspect of an outing like this…the expectation of conversation, the car ride, the shared meal, the pre and post-show chatter…and I got scared. What if there was an uncomfortable silence? What if I wasn’t interesting or insightful? What if it was awkward? What if they regretted inviting me? And, just like that…my overactive, fear-mongering brain had sucked all of the joy out of my plans; a hypothetical wreaking havoc yet again. So, at the last minute, I bailed. And what’s even worse? I was too chickenshit to do it myself, so I had my mom tell them for me! I still feel nauseous about it. After that, I stopped saying yes to anything at all. It’s easier to stay home. Lonely? yes, but also low-stress.

It’s exhausting to live like this. Everything is taxing and fun feels like a foreign concept. How many beautiful memories have been prematurely sacrificed at the altar of anxiety? And how many more will follow?

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I approach life as I would an incredibly difficult video game, one with sky-high hurdles to clear, infinite obstacles to avoid, complex levels to beat, and a million different ways to fuck up and die. And unlike in video games we rarely, if ever, get a do-over. Every mistake sticks. Every choice matters. And every decision made stems from that knowledge, making the sheer notion of existing feel untenable. There’s not a single moment of the day that feels easy or that I look forward to (except indulging in my unhealthy coping mechanisms). All there is is a series of events I can fail at. Prove me wrong.

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I’d second guess my own name if someone questioned it.

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Every time I enter a room, I firmly believe that I am the most unintelligent, unwelcome, unattractive and most underwhelming person in it. I think that each moving mouth is spitting out barbed insults or pointed critiques my direction, that every eye has shifted it’s gaze onto my discomposed self. A statement like this reeks of narcissism, but it’s more fear than conceit. Within an instant, I start to overthink each step, stressing about how I walk, worrying that *something* I’m doing will be the butt of the joke as soon as I’m out of earshot. It takes guts and fortitude for me to just pass by a random group of people, which makes going ANYWHERE or doing ANYTHING an endurance test. I wish I were invisible, hence why I prefer running errands shortly before closing time. Night owls do not have to contend with crowds, just the other social outliers.

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As far as I can tell, no occupation exists that could easily accommodate my quirks and idiosyncrasies (god bless a euphemism!). I have an infinite number of limitations, with so many of them proving inherently incompatible with most every obtainable job in modern society. A potential position might work for my specific mental health issues, but likely won’t when you factor in my vision impairment…a double whammy of bad. It doesn’t help my case that my ailments are invisible and while some are provable (like my optic neuropathy), most are not…existing only in my mind, mere figments of an overactive imagination. And though these savage demons are very real, the words “anxiety” and “phobia” have been so casually thrown about that they’ve lost their true meaning. So, I worry that I won’t be taken seriously and that my fears and insecurities will be dismissed as invalid or inconsequential. I am a hard-worker, but I require certain accommodations to flourish. I need to be handled with kid gloves, granted special privileges, and put on a really long leash. I am kind, but a challenge. I am loyal, but unreliable. I am observant, but distractible. I have a lot to offer, but I’m a diamond in the rough. I spook easily. And I’ve been hurt. I’ve been beaten down. I’ve been broken. Emotionally speaking, I’m skin and bones on life support. I’m past the point of weak, I’m enervated, empty, an eternal underdog at your feet. So, yeah, there’s not too many managers out there looking to hire a fragile flower like me. I definitely demand more energy and provide less output, so I’m quite literally not worth the effort.

At this point, I’m not trying to make any excuse for my lack of employment–I’m just attempting to explain why I don’t fit into our current capitalist society, why I fail to excel. In 2005, I started a job where I was initially placed on the register…and, um, I didn’t make through a single shift. I walked in feeling self-assured and uncharacteristically optimistic, assuming I could figure it all out, assuming that I’d learn as I went, but, that positivity soon eroded as it became evident that I cannot keep calm under stress. As little issues began to arise (traveler’s checks, declined cards, X-rated magazines not properly scanning, overflow traffic etc.), I started to come apart at the seams. As a cashier, you are the star of the show, all eyes are on you and any mess-up is magnified ten-fold. There are so many different ways to err on the register, whether it’s mismanaging time, misunderstanding store policies, making mental miscalculations, or mistakenly accepting a counterfeit bill, it’s all serious business when you’re the face of the transaction. And once the shift is over, there’s still more work to be done as you then have to count the money and balance the till…somehow these are even more frightening job requirements than the on-the-floor duties. During that initial week or so, a higher-up will hover nearby as you try and work your way through the unfamiliar process, providing nitpicking commentary, rather than positive reassurance. I was short $4, which means that I received a warning right out of the gate, so, you can take a guess as to how well that went over.

Now, am not particularly strong in math, but I wouldn’t say that I’m illiterate either–just kind of phobic? In grade-school, I had an arithmetic teacher who directly contributed to my fear of the subject. She lacked the tact and grace to handle a delicate personality and her instructional technique was antithetical to my preferred learning style. For example, she would randomly select students to participate in these speed-driven, head-to-head battles at the front of the class, where the first to correctly solve the problem won the prize. As a kid who buckled under pressure, abhorred attention and melted down after each mistake, I was extremely intimidated by this “fun” exercise. It didn’t help me better understand the material, it just made me scared. And as dispiriting as the aforementioned equation races were, it was actually her response to a single query I made that inflicted the most damage. I had been struggling with long division, so I innocently asked her for help, privately at my desk, and I’ll never forget how she answered…how visibly annoyed and vocally frustrated she was with me for falling behind. She scolded me, shamed me, berated me, all because I required a little extra assistance. I was nine. NINE. It was a brutal, demoralizing encounter that showed a real lack of empathy and compassion on her part. It didn’t just leave a mark, it left a scar. It was the first and only time that I’d been inarguably mistreated by a teacher. She made me feel so small. I started to wonder why was I so stupid? Why didn’t I catch on quicker? Why was I the only one she was mad at? Why me? What did I do wrong? After that, I no longer felt safe asking for advice, I no longer felt comfortable opening up to authority figures, and worst of all, I stopped believing in myself…and I never got that back. I still can’t perform basic mental math, I still can’t answer questions with confidence and I still can’t see or hear numbers without tensing up. She did that to me. I understand that these educators are only human and that they will have bad days just like everyone else, but they also wield a lot of power and influence that can be abused in moments of weakness. Mrs. Robin’s callous disregard of a struggling child’s vulnerability was unacceptable. She failed at her job that day and it cost me a lot. I forgive her, but I cannot forget what happened. I wish I could, I’d give almost anything to break free of terror’s tethers and overcome this mental block…if only it were that simple.

Negative reinforcement might work for correcting behavioral issues, but it is wildly ineffective as a teaching tool. I am a people-pleaser and I soar when I’m warmly encouraged, gently handled and treated with dignity and respect.

Needless to say, I never worked a cash register again. I learned how to deftly dodge any tasks at work that I knew I wouldn’t be good at. I was doing what I could to protect my job, to protect myself, and, quite frankly, to protect the customers from my ineptitude. After that first failed attempt up-front, I managed to sweet-talk my way into a department position and would always pull a disappearing act when extra help was needed elsewhere. I have literally SPRINTED away from searching, pleading eyes on many an occasion. I’m not proud, but I did what I had to do. Other items on my “no fucking way” list: folding t-shirts, upselling/cross-selling items and re-shrink-wrapping merchandise. Another silly thing I found impossible was the act of transferring phone-calls…I accidentally hung up on a customer ONE TIME and was too petrified to ever try it again. So, whenever I’d need to direct a call to the appropriate employee, I’d just walk the length of the store and tell them face-to-face, like an absolute freak.. Mastering the basics of a phone/intercom system is workplace 101, yet I couldn’t handle it. I knew that if I failed again, not only would I be mad at myself, but other people would be upset with me, too. It was just not worth the risk.

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With one exception, I’ve quit all of my jobs in dishonorable fashion, either as a no-call/no-show or by leaving mid-shift. Each departure was unplanned, a misguided, self-destructive impulse, fueled by a disproportionate reaction to a lamentable event. When faced with an unexpected obstacle, my emotional state can veer from calm-to-chaotic in an instant, ensnaring me in this maladaptive mindset where escape feels like my only option.. At that point, I can no longer see anything beyond the immediate and no matter which way I turn, I’m looking at a dead-end. So, I pace, I panic, and then I quit. I’m a live-wire ready to ignite at the first hint of a spark, the first scent of a threat. I perilously straddle this impossibly fine line between sangfroid and hysteria, teetering on the brink of collapse at the slightest whisper of wind. This is who I am, this is how I cope, this is why I fail.

I am sure that a heart-to-heart with a higher-up would have helped smooth things over, but it was just easier to vanish and hope that no one noticed. I was spineless. I was despicable. And what makes it even more preposterous is that my bosses were actually quite lovely, they would have likely been understanding, yet I never gave them that opportunity. I do regret that.

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My version of fear is not mild nor casual, but borderline (to actually) phobic. My experiences shouldn’t be minimized simply because they appear unrelatable, over-exaggerated or histrionic. I never embellish, only report. I recognize how ridiculous it must seem to have such outsized responses to relatively minor matters, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is a serious affliction for me, a ruinous one. Please try to keep that in mind.

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I seem to have a hair-trigger flight response that temporarily fries my brain when activated. I lose the ability to think rationally once instinct kicks in and dictates that I flee the scene, no matter what the cost. If I find myself stranded in unfamiliar territory, pushed beyond my limits, and caught without a clear escape route, I get desperate and distressed…a toxic, if not lethal, combination. If I can’t physically remove myself from a seemingly hopeless situation, I will mentally move on to a more permanent evacuation plan, one that would completely take me out of the picture. This is often when the unsettling images start to appear, the dark, yet vivid, visualizations of graphic scenarios playing out…like my grabbing a sharp object, swiftly slipping the blade into the soft skin of the neck, and watching the blood soak the floor beneath my feet. Messy, but effective. Sometimes it’s more of a feeling than a image, where I’ll have to suppress the urge to walk straight into oncoming traffic…anything to free myself of the misery, anything to subdue the tortured screams within.

My intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideations actually help to placate me during periods of high stress (mostly by providing the illusion of control), but it’s always possible that they’ll one day be actualized. When I get trapped in that harried, frenzied state, death really does feel preferable to confrontation, becoming homeless feels preferable, losing everything feels preferable. This is not hyperbole, it’s the truth, it’s real, it’s me, it’s how I think. I’ve been cursed with a frontal lobe that absconds from it’s duties whenever it’s intimidated or imperiled, a frontal lobe that would offer up my corporeal form as a bargaining chip if need be. It is powerless against the hijacking amygdala, the chaos agent of the brain, and is often conned into believing that stress is more dangerous than a bullet to the head. It will not hesitate to sacrifice the body to silence what scares it, turning small pebbles into devastating rockslides. So far, I’ve managed to avoid causing any serious harm to myself (though I do have scores of scars) but it’s a fear that’s always lurking, a fear that isn’t too far-fetched, a fear that might eventually come to fruition. And I know how traumatizing these revelations must be for those I love, but at least I am able and willing talk about it.

Communication is power.

I simultaneously recognize that all of this is crazy, yet still feel ill-equipped to combat it. I’m holding my sanity together with strings and chewing gum, doing my best, but at some point it likely won’t be enough. I know the problem, but I haven’t yet found a solid solution other than perpetual seclusion.

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Doctor’s appointments set me off. Whether it’s the stress of an upcoming visit, the car ride to the clinic, the series of invasive questions, the process of explaining what brought me there, the act of stepping on the scale, the worry that they won’t believe me or just the general anxiety of the examination itself…all of it is a source of immense concern for me. I am afraid that I’ll be chastised for my weight (it’s happened before!), my skin issues, my blood pressure, my cholesterol, etc. I eschew regular check-ups and have avoided trips to the gynecologist, dentist and therapist for years because of how much I struggle to digest their remarks and opinions. To me, mere observations are akin to judgment. I even fret about the pass/fail element of lab/scan results*. I’d rather remain in-the-dark and succumb than have to deal with negative feedback And yeah, I received a lot of ‘your liver is fucked’ messages during my alcoholic epoch, so I am no stranger to a bad outcome.

*I did the same thing in school with essays/reports/exams.

If, however, an appointment is deemed essential, it might take me weeks to months to build up the courage to call and make one…and as my trembling fingers finally, at long last, start to dial, I’ll experience a sharp pang of panic shoot down my spine, my heartrate rising and stomach dropping with each ring. I try to keep it together, relying on muscle memory to guide me through the conversation, coasting on memories of phone calls past. It mostly works out fine, but sometimes I get so focused on surface-level pleasantries that I completely forget to jot down the essential details from the chat (I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve failed to document the scheduled date!)! If the interaction goes well, it’ll be a great source of pride for me and I’ll ride that high for some time. If, however, I found my performance lacking in some way, it’ll take awhile for me to recover and move past it. If I stumbled, stuttered, or misspoke, then I flunked the test. No retakes. A phone call like that can either advance me a millimeter or roll me a million miles back. No pressure or anything.

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I haven’t owned a swimsuit in over a decade. Each year, I hope to break the streak, to end the drought, to work on my mental health and finally buy that fucking bikini…and each year, I fail. I fail to improve, I fail to grow, I fail to accept myself as I am today. I detest my body and I fear that others will, too. I tell myself that slender is the endgame and that I’ll suit-up and dive-in when I’m thin again. But, the truth is, no matter how small I get, it will never be enough. My desired aesthetic is a subjective fantasy, impossible to achieve because it doesn’t exist. Even at the height of my anorexia, hipbones razor-sharp, stomach concave, veins protruding, there was always another pound to lose… dysmorphia distorting reality into unrecognizability. A goal weight is a perfectionist’s white whale, something relentlessly pursued, but never obtained. And if it wasn’t my thighs I was fixating on, it’d be the acne on my face giving me pause. I actually did have severe cystic nodules pocking my chin and cheeks for years and while my skin has mostly cleared, the persistent fear of other’s judgment lives on.

A lack of self-love is not abnormal in small doses. We live in a society that is shameless in it’s glamorization of malnourished figures, callous in it’s promotion of disordered diet culture, and working overtime to MAKE ALL OF US feel self-conscious for profit. It’s not only understandable that body positivity would be tough to maintain, but wholly unavoidable. Each of us could point to a part that we’d like to change or improve upon, but, it’s one thing to look in a mirror and not like what you see and quite another to let that reflection hold you hostage. Image issues are an unfortunate side-effect of being human, but most do not let theirs prevent them from leaving the house. Insecurity becomes a cause for concern when it morphs into an uncontrollable fear, leading to job loss, alienation, and/or self-harm. And that’s where I am. And that’s where I’ll likely stay.

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College was a waking nightmare. My rampant anxiety and unaddressed ADHD left me struggling both socially and academically. I’d drive to campus with every intention of making it to class, only to find myself physically incapable of exiting the vehicle upon arrival, incapacitated by the prospect of forced interaction with others. I’d pull into my assigned space, shift into park and just… idle. As the minutes ticked by, my hands would melt into the steering wheel, fusing with the plastic and metal, as my broken brain calculated it’s next move. My body was imprisoned, hijacked, and all I could do was follow the mind’s commands. So, time and time again, we’d just wave the white flag and head back to home base; a sniveling coward in retreat.

Each absence came at a price, as the zeroes from pop quizzes and attendance checks started to pile up. And when I did manage to make it to the lecture, I was an inept notetaker who couldn’t discern essential from filler, always trying to write down every uttered word instead of plucking out key concepts and phrases. I’d typically have a half-page of verbatim sentences transcribed before getting lost, giving up and doodling in the margins instead. So, I’d be technically present, but realistically speaking, I was MIA.

And I was just as useless when it came to homework….

I couldn’t keep up with due-dates, assignments, or the reading material and possessed absolutely no organizational skills, so I really never stood a chance. I had dealt with these personal shortcomings since elementary school, but had always been able to rely on innate intelligence and wit to skate by….a tactic that had me perennially perched atop the class, but became less reliable as the academic rigor increased. I tried to adapt and adjust, but had no weapons in my arsenal to combat my deficiencies. I could (as I’m doing right now) identify the issues holding me back, pinpoint the areas needing ameliorating, but then what? Awareness is only a small piece of the puzzle and realization ≠ resolution. Each semester I’d start fresh with a new planner, only to abandon ship within a week. I knew what I WANTED to do, what I was SUPPOSED to do, but still couldn’t flip the switch and make a lasting change.

I’d try to combat my attention disorder by carving out quiet time to catch up on my studies, dialing down the noise and creating a still, silent environment to focus on my texts and articles. It was technically distraction free, yet I could stare at a page for hours, intently tracing each letter with my thumb, and still never recall a single word. Of I’d be able to recite the lines, but glean no meaning from them. I put the effort in, but couldn’t reap the rewards, falling miserably behind before the course really began–a vicious, dispiriting cycle.

The night before exams, I would binge on the reading material, hoping to cram enough crumbs into my short-term memory to eke out a good grade. I am ashamed to say that this act of desperation mostly worked, but it was nothing to be pleased about…and I retained absolutely NOTHING.

As the classes grew more challenging and the work required went beyond short essays and Scantrons, my maddening, manic-fueled method of ‘study’ proved insufficient…and that is when I was completely crushed by the demands of an undergraduate curriculum. I had no fallback plan or safety net and because of my anxiety I never sought the assistance of anyone who could offer direction…no guidance counselor, no tutor, no professor, no advisor, always too afraid of what they’d say, afraid of their critiques, afraid of their disapproval, afraid of being told that I didn’t belong, that I was dim, dumb and a drop-out in the making. I pictured their pointed fingers, furrowed brows, and shaking heads and it was all too much. If I didn’t hear it, then they didn’t think it and ambiguity was a hell of a lot better than confirmation. Looking back, it’s evident that I should have been up-front and honest about the issues I was facing, but, I wasn’t able to muster up the courage then and I wouldn’t be now.

There was no way this story was going to end with a diploma in my hand, so I’ll just cut to the chase and tell you about my last day. In my third-year, I showed up to a final completely unprepared. It’s not that I’d forgotten to study, it’s that I’d forgotten HOW to study. I just couldn’t make my brain work. I had tried, for over a week, I’d tried, but sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the enormity of a task, that I am unable to accomplish anything at all. Terrible timing. I knew that I would likely fail (which, for me was anything less than an A/B), so I just decided to leave…for good. Upon arriving at the testing site, I found myself suddenly unable to move, my feet firmly gorilla-glued to the pavement, my arms dead-weight by my side…I couldn’t lift my hand to the knob, couldn’t walk through the door, couldn’t push past the intensifying ‘what ifs’. I was helpless. I was stuck. And I would never be the same. I stood there in stunned silence for about fifteen minutes before I was able to fully grasp the magnitude of the moment, before I could register what it meant, what I’d done, and what I had to do next. It was then that my body unlocked, my bones thawed and the spell lifted, freeing me from that spot and allowing me to begin the long trek across the sprawling, tree-lined campus. I would never return. All that work for nothing. All that sacrifice for nothing. I was cognizant of the fact that I had effectively set fire to my future and yet, I felt as though I never had a choice. After that, I never did try to contact anyone on campus, never sought to explain what happened or inform them of my mental breakdown. I wasn’t afraid to admit that I was unwell, but I knew that college professors had very strict “no make-up, no exception” policies…so, that was that…all those credits, all those hours, all that money….wasted.

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It was humiliating to let fear tank my scholastic career, pathetic to let my myriad insecurities keep me from building and sustaining relationships, and inexcusable to be a full-grown adult with zero text chains, zero emergency contacts, and zero sense of community. I recognize that all evidence points to the contrary, but I really do want a social life, I really do want friends! It’s just that the art and act of making them, maintaining them, nourishing them, etc. all feels so daunting….too daunting. And so, I stand alone; an inveterate recluse, reticent, reserved and refusing to rejoin the rest of the population. An introvert by necessity, not by nature.

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I have also found it rather unpleasant to fraternize with peers who’ve flourished in a world that’s treated me so unkind. They thrived, while I languished. They built lives, while I actively destroyed mine. They found stability, while I lost my way. Dwarfed by their looming shadow of success, I tend to feel insignificant in their presence, more humiliated than humbled. I fail to measure up in every single conceivable way. I have no career, no partner, no house, no kids, no degree, no friends, no stories, no jokes, no self-respect, no real life at all. There’s nothing to see here, nothing to learn here, nothing to love (or even like) here. Time spent with me is time wasted and it seems mutually beneficial to keep out of each other’s orbit. I also don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of how tragic my personal tale is…I don’t want their pity and they don’t need my envy. I’m doing them a favor by staying away.

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When I grow my hair out, it’s not out of an appreciation for flowing, feminine locks, but a fear of the salon experience. I’m afraid of exchanging initial greetings afraid of miscommunicating what I’d like done, afraid of the stylist commenting on the condition of my scalp, the poor health of my hair, or of the theoretical revelation that I’ll have lice or something equally upsetting. I’m afraid that they won’t like the style of cut I picked out, I’m afraid of them getting close to my face, inspecting my skin and noting how bad I look. I am afraid of the tipping process. I am afraid of carrying on a conversation for an extended period of time. I am afraid that they’ll try to sell me products or treatments that I can’t afford, yet also can’t reject. I am afraid of having to lie about loving a hairstyle I actually hate. Whew, it’s a lot.

A lavish luxury to some, but a nightmarish hell for me.

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After I quit drinking, it became increasingly difficult for me to enjoy or even engage in sexual activities with my then girlfriend. I had long relied on liquid courage to drown out the nagging voices and triumph over the diffidence, and without it, all I could hear was the echo of my own apprehension. I wanted to feel, not think, enjoy, not endure, but I kept getting stuck in my own, distracted by the whir of an overloaded system. I had stopped trusting my intuition to guide me and second-guessed every move, every look, every breath, every sound. Each detail dissected, each moment studied, each action analyzed from every angle…a play-by-play running in real time. Sex was just another assignment to fail, another exam to flunk, and instead of relief, I felt the pressure build. And though there was no basis for my paranoia (quite the opposite, really), I still worried that I was making a fool of myself, that I was a clown without a clue, a homely unerotic nobody punching way above my weight. I had plenty of evidence to prove the contrary, but you can’t reason with delusion. My mental hang-ups even dampened my own physical pleasure as I grew so convinced that she found my body repulsive, that I’d jerk away at the slightest stroke, the lightest graze.

It hadn’t always been that way, and it’s not now, but adapting to life without liquor was a challenge. After five years of near constant inebriation, I went from drunk to dry overnight, saying goodbye to the only anxiety “medication” that ever worked. I spent a great deal of time hovering in that liminal space between my two selves (the alcoholic and the sober) trying to recalibrate and adjust to the world as it actually is. The whole experience was disorienting and slightly surreal, akin to rousing from a really lengthy, dream-intensive slumber.

Wasted.

Withdrawal.

Wide-awake.

…quite the bewildering state of flux. All of a sudden I was fully present and aware, a carousel of thoughts racing through my head as years’ worth of unprocessed emotions swirled around me like corrosive confetti. All that I’d worked to push away, now piled up. All that I’d sought to numb, now ablaze. I wasn’t ready, but nobody ever is. I needed this, but I didn’t want it. I mean, there was a reason why I drank and a reason why I hid, neither of which went away once I got clean. Sobriety stripped me of my mask, left me stark and exposed, my true identity, my real loser self, on display for all to see. And that was the most pressing matter, my girlfriend had never met that person. She’d been with me for the majority of my addiction, never knowing who I was before I started pouring poison down my windpipe. Turns out, I wasn’t a self-assured, coquettish romantic, but a neurotic, self-conscious head-case…a classic, though ultimately unintentional, bait-and-switch. When I’d drink, my lesser characteristics would take a back seat, while the adventurous, eager, up-for-anything alter-ego would come out to play It was then that I could be bold and in-control, taking charge and acting wild, never giving my anxieties any air to breathe. But, without an intoxicant strangling my weaknesses, I lost the ability to be interesting or spontaneous, reverting back to my original boring, bashful, basic form. Terrified of being discovered and disposed of, I tried my best to act the part, to disguise the reservations and pretend that nothing had changed. I wanted to give her everything, all that she needed, wanted and deserved…but I wasn’t a very good girlfriend without the booze. It wasn’t because I didn’t love her (I really, really fucking did), I just lacked the know-how required to show it. After relapsing into anorexia, I didn’t even really have the mental or physical strength to devote any energy to her, which only furthered the growing chasm between us. Eventually, my disabling performance-anxiety culminated with my complete abstention from sex, which was the true beginning of the end. I ached for her touch, longed to return to the free-spiritedness of before, but there was a wide disconnect between who I was then and who I had become…and there was no going back. Thus began a slow, torturous march to an ineluctable conclusion, in which I pulled away, she fell out of love and I got left behind.

I suppose our relationship was never meant to last beyond our alcoholic years, but I assure you that knowledge didn’t make it any less tragic. All breakups are hard, but this was almost unsurvivable. Extraneous details aside, I was completely eviscerated, scrambling to staunch the bleeding and stuff my entrails back into my halfdead body; severed heart in hand. And yet, it’s not her fault. At that point, I wasn’t able to explain what I was going through, unable to articulate my issues in a way that she could understand or even believe. I was just as fucking confused as she was. Aloof, taciturn, and cold, I gave her every reason to seek attention and affection elsewhere. I couldn’t be who she needed me to be, not then, not now, not ever. And at the end of the day, it was my own insecurities that pushed her into the arms of another. No matter how many legitimate reasons I had for behaving in such a manner, the reality is that she suffered because of me, she felt unwanted, undesired, and uncared for because of me. I put her through a lot in those final two years and I still carry a lot of compunction because of it.

It has taken a great deal of work, introspection, and soul-searching to grow into a more complete person, one who is capable of being an open, honest, supportive and physically/emotionally engaged partner. It can’t change the past, but it can and will help improve the future.

Sex is meant to bring people closer together, yet I let it pull my relationship apart.

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I had my first shot of hard liquor at 22. I didn’t care about the brand, the type, or the taste, just that it went down quick, seared the throat, and got me spinning. I didn’t drink to be cool, I drank to lower my inhibitions, I drank to quell the panic. It was my medicine, an over-the-counter, easily accessible melted benzo in a bottle. And it worked. Fast. I loved the feeling of the spirits sliding smoothly into the stomach, knowing that within minutes I’d be free…my burdens lifted, my limbs loosened, and my ever-present defeatist narration finally fading into the background. Right on schedule. The goal was never to be the life of the party, it was to simply feel alive. AND I DID. It was bliss! serenity! heaven! I got to experience unfettered jubilance, unpolluted joy and unconditional happiness for the first time since childhood. Was it artificially manufactured? You bet, but it also felt real, it felt right. I had no hindrances, nothing to hold me back or tell me no and I took advantage of it. Why wouldn’t I? Driven by passion, fueled by want, and in hot-pursuit of any and all physical and emotional highs, I was soaring; the personification of Live, Laugh, Love. And while I’m not seeking to romanticize addiction (the lows are well documented by me in other essays), I also want to be transparent about the positives and would argue that I was at my best with a light buzz. This disease has unquestionably taken so much from my family and I, but I’d be lying if I said it was ALL bad. My alcoholic years were simultaneously the best and worst of my adulthood, causing great distress, while also gifting me courage, curiosity and confidence. In that hazy state, I stopped doubting my every impulse and learned to enjoy the ride, to revel in the moment and let life happen. I’ve never felt more normal. Had I never touched the drug, I wouldn’t have learned all that I am capable of. Because of it, I know I can push myself to explore and try new things, I know I can form meaningful connections with others, and that there are many more magical memories to be made. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. My addiction gave me hope that anything is possible.

I just wish I remembered how.

Alcoholism is a tricky bitch, but there’s so much that I miss.

so much.

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I always wanted to look like the women in my magazines. It was never about the hair, the makeup, or the styling, it was about their bodies. I coveted their shapes, I idealized their figures, I lusted over their perfect dimensions…a delicate balance of sharp and soft. I guess it’s more accurate to say that I didn’t want to be LIKE them, I wanted to BE them. And while I accepted my limitations, noting that I could never be tall or beautiful, I knew I could be thin…that was doable, that was attainable. So, at eleven, I started counting calories. I was naturally slim, but my hypercritical eye would gravitate to each flaw, fixating on every fault, paying little mind to the goings on in reality. And so it began…

I was much too young to have such worries crowd my head, too young to even grasp what the human body needed to sustain itself, much less what MY scrawny, pre-pubescent body required to reach it’s full potential. And while I didn’t totally understand the science, I knew that I needed to eat less to lose more. Unfortunately, my dichotomous way of thinking prevented me from moderating my food intake in a sensible manner. I could consume little-to-nothing or inhale everything in sight, those were my two options. I was a kid fueled by sugar-free soda and fat-free fro-yo….EXCEPT for when I’d raid my friend’s pantries of all their candies, cookies and cakes. If you’ve ever followed a low-calorie meal plan, then you know how quickly food can become your sole focus. your main obsession, your dominating thought. It’s hard to keep telling yourself no, especially when every fiber of your being is screaming yes. In America, temptation is a constant and willpower is at an all-time low, so there’s about a 100% chance that any crash diet will end with a swan-dive into a bucket of carbs. It might take a day, a week, or even a few years, but most everyone’s self-discipline has an expiration date. It’s all a part of the binge and restrict cycle, an oscillating pendulum swinging back-and-forth, always in motion, always ensuring maximum damage. And once it starts, it’s nearly impossible to stop. My disordered eating started early, blossoming into full-fledged anorexia by nineteen, then shifting into DSM-defined binge eating at twenty-one, and finally, amalgamizing into it’s current hybrid incarnation… a perfect blend of fucked-up.

But, to the casual observer, I am healthy. To the casual observer, I am cured. To the casual observer, I have put my illness squarely in the rearview mirror. But, the casual observer would be wrong. I am none of these things. A cursory glance can only confirm that I am neither over or under weight, but that superficial onceover paints an incomplete picture of the truth, of my truth. I play the part of recovered well, but if you peek below the surface, you will soon discover that I am irreparably broken inside. And while it is technically true that I am no longer anorexic, I still cling tightly to my restrictive tendencies….only now I balance them out with binge sessions. All or nothing. Black or white. Feast or famine. Instead of strictly adhering to a malnourishing regimen, I overindulge in equal measure, thus my physical appearance remains relatively unchanged. It may seem as though I am doing fine…and yes, it could be worse…but, this is all just an illusion, a mirage, a trick of the eye. I am not a paragon of wellness, nor some miraculous success story, I am sick, still very much in the thick of this battle. It’s been eighteen years since my food issues mutated into something problematic and in that time, I’ve had little reprieve. I guess this is as good as it’s going to get and hey, at least I get to eat now. Bright side and all that.

At the apex of my anorexia, I could only eat yogurt…or, more specifically, Kroger Low Carb Vanilla Yogurt. And I survived solely off those little cups for over a year. And I mean that literally. It sounds nuts, but it is not uncommon for those following a starvation diet to narrow their menu down to a handful of “safe” foods. These are typically low-calorie, bulky, filling options that they feel somewhat comfortable consuming, albeit in small, highly regulated amounts. If a situation arises where they have no option but to stray from their approved selections, this will cause great stress…not just a little anxiety, but public meltdowns, panic attacks, outbursts, self-harm, etc. It’s really taxing to live like that and it’s a full-time job. Anorexia is all about self-control and micromanaging each and every morsel that passes your lips, whereas binge eating represents the opposite side of the spectrum. During a binge, there are no rules, there are no restrictions, there is only gluttony. And it is fucking fantastic. So much of my adulthood has been defined by deprivation, sacrifice and restraint, so now I’m making up for lost time by gorging on all the previously forbidden fruits. For that one hour, calories don’t count. For that one hour, nothing is off-limits and no food is “bad.” For that one hour, I dare not think. For that one hour, I am happy. My reward center lights up like a Vegas slot-machine, blinking and beeping, begging me to pull the lever one more time. And for that one hour, all is right in the world. Of course, it’s all just a chemical charade, a dopamine spike duping the brain into believing that this sort of behavior is perfectly fine. It’s an addiction, a compulsion, a coping mechanism that temporarily soothes the soul, abates the loneliness and boosts the mood. I get that. I like that. I need that. It fills the emptiness, but there’s also a price to pay. Yes, it relieves the stress, but in it’s place lies a plate of guilt with a side of self-loathing. I have been through this cycle thousands and thousands of times, yet never seem to learn my lesson. I live for that gift of release, then accept the penitence that follows, the self-flagellation for my peccant behavior: the starving, the over-exercising, the hiding, the self-directed verbal assaults. After straying so far from perfection, punishment is my key to absolution.

If I’m not perfect, I’m nothing. If I’m nothing, I’m depressed. If I’m depressed, I eat more. If I eat more I grow more depressed. If I’m more depressed, I might self-harm. If I self-harm, I hate myself. If I hate myself, I might starve. If I starve, eventually I binge. If I binge, I’m not perfect. If I’m not perfect, I am nothing. Rinse Repeat.

---

I can feel the life draining from my body, drip-by-drip, day-by-day, hour-by-hour, each second bringing me closer to the end. I shrivel, I rot, I decay; a post-Halloween pumpkin growing ever smaller. It’s palpable. It’s happening…a long, slow goodbye. And while it’s not ideal, it’s preferable to the alternative, at least for now. All this could be over in an instant, a gruesome final bow that leaves a tsunami of trauma in my wake. It’s always an option on the table, but for now, I wait. I am not selfless, but I am also not cruel. Desperation can lead one to take that leap, but I am currently stable, wasting away, sure, but stable. Although, admittedly, it isn’t easy to persevere with the weight of knowledge I carry, the degree of self-awareness I possess regarding my position in this world. I am a nuisance, a stain, a burden, a parasite, a drain, a disaster, a distraction…but hey, I’m still breathing. I am a contaminated specimen, a mistake, a waste, the daughter to be swept under the rug and forgotten, an epic letdown of a human being, a “what went wrong” kind of misfire, a cautionary tale of why having kids is too great a gamble, too great a risk…but hey, I’m still breathing. I sit idly and do nothing, try nothing, contribute nothing, aim for nothing, become nothing, am nothing. I watch others put in the work, slaving away at their nine-to-fives, earning their keep and making themselves useful. They deserve to be here. I don’t…but hey, I’m still breathing.

My mind, corrupted by mental illness, sometimes thinks it can’t get any worse…

But, most days I can find a few tiny bright spots to touch, a few choice moments to savor. When my world goes dark, when my sanity shatters, I’ll seek out the sun slivers that slip through the cracks, soaking in the golden rays, the gentle glow. It’s the little things: afternoon walks, ice cold cokes, guitar jam sessions, impromptu dance parties, snuggles with the dogs, movie nights with mom, singalongs to Brandi Carlile tunes, my niece’s laughter, a warm bed at the end of a hard day, rippling lakes, colorful skies, frosty mornings, and autumn leaves rustling in the wind. These are the highlights that keep me going, these are the moments that remind me of why I’m still here. I’ve adapted to this style of subsistence, adjusted expectations, scaled back my wants and needs and redefined what fulfillment looks like. My sole goal now is to just make it ’til tomorrow and HEY, I’m still breathing. I often think about how the eighteen year-old version of me would have reacted if she’d gazed into a crystal ball and glimpsed our future, how gravely disappointed she’d likely be, how appalled to learn how far we’d fallen, how aghast to discover that all that pain was for naught. On the flip side, twenty-eight year-old Sunny would have been astounded that we even made it this far at all. A reminder that EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE and things aren’t usually as bad as they seem. And though I never imagined my life turning out like this, It’s what I got and I am doing my best to make it work. My world might not be bursting with color, but I do still experience positive sensations like contentment, joy and happiness…they’re just a slightly diluted, paled version of what they used to be, of what they should be and maybe what they could be again?

Like all of us among the living, I still have faint flickers of hope to cling to. They ebb and flow, dwindle and dim, threatening to go dark, but always reigniting at just the right moment. If I didn’t have that, I wouldn’t still be here.

At this juncture, my biggest problem is how little control I actually wield over my life. It’s the mental illness that holds the reins, calls the shots, and steers the ship. And Captain Crazy relies on impulse and instinct to guide them, all but ensuring that we’re on course for collision. The SS Catastrophe cuts through the choppy, churning waters at full-steam, ignoring any and all safety measures, throwing our best interest into the whipping wind. Our very survival lies in the hands of an illogical, impetuous tyrant for whom logic holds no meaning. It feels as if our fate is sealed, as though it’s our destiny to sink into the salty sea…a prolonged suicide mission. And as alarming as that may sound, I’m not sending out an SOS distress call (not yet), as there is no imminent threat of danger. This casual declaration is not meant to frighten, nor is it intended to disturb, I only offer it as a courtesy, as a preview of how this story will likely conclude. I can’t outpace inevitability forever and death’s scythe has already scraped the skin on more than one occasion. My demise will be premature, but it won’t be tomorrow. And who knows, maybe the tides will turn? Maybe the vessel will right itself? Maybe the sea monsters will leave us be? Maybe the steel holds strong? Maybe the coordinates lead to a better future? Maybe we will be saved? Maybe. Time will tell. As for today? I am upright, afloat and holding steady. All is calm, all is right. And as long as I have my family, so it shall remain. As long as I have my family, I will carry on. They are my lifeboats. They are my saviors. They are my Carpathia. They are my everything. If it weren’t for them, I’d be living on the streets…or not living at all. Six years ago, when my entire world capsized, I went from housed to houseless in an instant. I had no money, no friends, no income, no backup plan and nowhere to go, left with little more than a broken heart, a bruised ego and a suitcase full of tainted memories. In a decade with seemingly endless rock bottoms, this might have been the rockiest.

I had hit a new low, but…I had little to fear, for help was near.

It wasn’t long before my parents, like the heroes they are, swooped in and saved the day (and in turn, me) by inviting me to stay with them for as long as I needed. And they kept their word. In fact, the bulk of this essay was composed in my childhood bedroom, a place I consider sacred. It is my shelter, my sanctuary, my port in the storm and I’m so grateful to be here, so grateful to have this. It’s not easy to love an addict, but they did and they still do. We are notoriously dishonest, despicable creatures, who always put our addictions above all else. We break things, steal shit, create drama, endanger ourselves, and complicate everyone’s lives. We’re all different, yet we’re all the same. I fully recognize how exhausting that must have been for them…the sleepless nights and endless aid…the horror of watching this sickness consume my mind, body and spirit. I’m sure it felt like a lost cause to emotionally invest in a hopeless case, to support someone who offered only pain in return. And yet, my family never left me. Instead, they armed themselves with knowledge, combing the internet for educational tools and researching how to best assist without being complicit. Instead of handing out cash, they supplied me with gift cards to fast food establishments and grocery stores, ensuring that I’d be fed, but without directly contributing to my alcohol abuse. And now, four months shy of my eighth sober year, they are providing a new, different type of protection. Because of them, I am now in a stable, controlled environment, shielded from external pressures, insulated from the ills of the world, and given a low-stress, trigger-free space to recoup and recover. Here, I am not judged, scrutinized, or looked down upon. I am cared for, even when I can’t care for myself. In other words, I am exactly where I need to be.

I will never be cured and can never be fixed. But, I can get better, I can improve and I am. My mental health will always be a burden, a malady with intractable symptoms that can be lessened, but not erased. I cannot ignore that reality, I can only seek to find ways to outsmart this brutal, unrelenting affliction. I have missed out on so much and will continue to face significant setbacks and disappointments in the future. This is a certainty. This is an objective truth. So, I must remember to make a concerted effort to appreciate what I have and admire all that I’ve achieved. I have done so much more than I ever give myself credit for & it’s important to acknowledge that. I must celebrate my wins, mourn my defeats, and keep working to recover all that I’ve lost.

I am here and I am healing…a victory to be applauded, a marvel to behold.

we emerge from an absence of air and light

unfurl our dampened wings

shake off the slumber

ignite ignite

we’re ready to fly

ready to see

ready to soar

ready to be

anything but this

anything but this

but, this is what I have

and this is all I know

so flap flap flap

and away we go

(If you read this far, god bless you. Go grab some wine, some cheese, indulge, enjoy, then nap away. You earned it. And thanks for the support!)

high school diary entry

high school diary entry

high school diary entry