Content Notice: This story contains references to Substance Abuse, Suicide, and Divorce.
What didn’t kill me made me solitary. I’ve learned that I must be alone. Typing into the void. Filming. Editing. Performing for YouTube or TikTok. Screens beaming information, media and validation in and out. Closed off from the political turmoil outside. Doors locked except for delivered groceries. Medicine. Weed. Amazon Prime. Drifting through the night as an impenetrable fortress. A spaceship fantasy. This is as good as it will ever get. Has ever been. Doing what I love. In grief. Mourning a dead domestic partner and a wife dead to me.
I’ve lost everything and everyone over and over. Until I finally know who I am: an idiot savant, riding the tormented mad genius trope off into the sunset of history. Striving for fame to fill this ravenous hole. The “mass love,” Patty Duke speaks of in Valley of the Dolls. I will never love again.
It’s a miracle I’ve lived to 43. A careening carousel. Mania. Depression. Psychosis. Anxiety. PTSD. Catastrophic exits from city after city in the west coast. Insomniac. Creative compulsion. Hopping zeitgeists and mediums as the century shifts. Slogging in the trenches for decades with debilitating illness. Driven by a force stronger than money. A fire stronger than lust. Kathy Acker’s ruthless will to be a legend.