I was looking forward to a dinner date with Juan Mendez and Simone Ling last Thursday night. We were going to talk about our plans to make art, be better friends, and probably — after a few drinks — move to a commune in the mountains.

Juan didn’t reply to my texts that morning; that evening I was told they both died from a fentanyl overdose, along with their friend Luis Vasquez.

This essay is dedicated to their memory. To the times I spent with Juan discussing the nuances of popular culture, cultural appropriation, and counterculture. To the artwork Simone created that was so inspired, and inspiring. This essay is dedicated to everyone and everything they touched. They are missed by so many.

This Isn’t New

The community I thought I belonged to as a teenager and 20-something no longer seems to exist, and the society we live in feels broken. Not damaged: broken. This may sound hopeless, but it’s not; it’s normal. Through history we have seen this pattern repeat as cultures and countercultures rise and fall within societies on time scales that range from centuries to years.

There are books I love that have been written about this; it’s well-worn ground for philosophical debate, and I have nothing to add to the words of Joan Didion, Bertrand Russell, James Baldwin, Henry Miller, or Kurt Vonnegut. Likewise contemporary writers Heath & Potter, Naomi Klein, and Robert Reich have all addressed the concepts of culture and counterculture at length in different ways. And there are newer artists like DeForrest Brown, who I recently discovered, and standbys like Hunter S Thompson, Susan Sontag, Jack Kerouac and Maya Angelou. Then there are magazines like AdBusters, Charlie Hebdo, and Vice.

Vice & Virtue

Oh yeah. Fucking Vice.

I wrote for Vice, sometimes contributing to The Vice Guide To Toronto. I moved to New York and drank Sparks or whatever shit beer was paying for whatever overcrowded party we were all at. I read the Do’s & Don’ts and wondered if I’d show up on Last Night’s Party after stumbling out of Lit. Eventually I worked with the Vice agency offshoot, Virtue.

Throughout all of this I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the legacy of what we were collectively creating. I didn’t think of the impact it may be having on counterculture, and I certainly didn’t think of the likelihood of the Vice brand still existing into 2024.

When I started hanging out at DFA Records in 2006 — working on tech projects — I was deep in what I recognized as some kind of scene. Not because I thought any of it was cool, but because it felt like everything we were creating was pushing towards something. Something better. God were we naive.

Collectively, we all helped build an industry by taking part in, and setting up the infrastructure to allow for the commodification of a counterculture we believed in.

We weren’t the first. There were glimmers of this in the ’60s (Woodstock), ’80s (Studio 54) and ’90s (Madchester) but holy shit did we monetize it. The socialization machine our generation built took off on a cocaine-fueled bender, and some of us hitched our careers to it.

As we worked towards finding ways to leverage the communities we were building as a way to make money, there was a convergence of “scenes” across cities and countries, spurred by the growth of the Internet. While once we had to hear about a new band through word-of-mouth or by scouring record shops, or seek out a community of like-minded people by traveling to a new city or maybe sending a letter to a ’zine we loved, everything was now coming to us — first in a trickle, and then an overwhelming flood.

This isn’t news, and to the generations from Millennials onward, it’s simply the way it’s always been. Gen X had LiveJournal. Gen Z? They are basically walking LiveJournals now. No escape. Everything is shared; we almost all have social streams, and those who are in their 30s and younger never knew a time when they didn’t. Performative participation has become almost impossible to avoid.

Taking Drugs To Make Music To Take Drugs To

Winding their way through all of these niche communities have been drugs. Ecstasy, MDMA, acid, mushrooms, cocaine, ketamine, heroin, whatever. How many drug stories could I tell you? Well, how bored do you want to be? Listening to someone tell me drug stories rates only slightly lower on the “get me out of here” scale than having them rant at me about the dream they had last night.

Drug use — especially psychedelic drugs — as part of a creative process has been discussed for decades. Proponents of creative drug use like Timothy Leary and Alexander Shulgin pioneered a mythology around LSD and MDMA that bordered on the religious. But as we spiraled towards a more hedonistic approach to socializing and embraced rampant recreational drug use through the late ’70s and into the ’80s, things changed.

Cocaine became a means to an end; it was associated with a kind of excess that was at once glamorous and dark, dirty. That end was a perpetual party where creativity was centered, and then as time went on, sidelined. Spacemen 3 harnessed this brilliantly through their career: lyrically, Big City — their last single — calls to mind Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City, whether intentional or not. McInerney’s novel captures the excess of cocaine culture in a party scene that has become devoid of meaning, and heralds the rise of narcissism and the damage done as a result.

The aspirational concept of creating art while sitting in a studio or someone’s apartment at 4am railing lines was commodified, decontextualized; twisted and turned into a lifestyle choice that pushed the result into a corner. Centered the way the process appeared, sounded, felt.

A point of perverse pride for some. No longer about the art, it became about a performance you could point to — about the photos and videos you could show others; how fucked up you all got one night while writing music.

Performative and empty, the art suffers, but the party continues.

Taking Drugs To Parties To Take Drugs To

Aspects of modern nightlife and creative culture have been consumed by this mentality. Rather than “Taking Drugs To Make Music To Take Drugs To” it’s often about taking drugs, period. They’re the point rather than the reward; the reason to even show up.

Glorifying this sort of scene has been central to the rise of the cultural machine we are part of today, and Terry Richardson exemplifies the aspirational archetypes within it, both personally, and through his work.

An emblem of the excesses and ethical lapses of modern counterculture, Richardson is known for his raw, sexually charged photography that straddles the line between art and exploitation. His work has been as much celebrated for its unapologetic energy as it has been condemned for perpetuating a culture of objectification and misogyny. His reputation, marred by allegations of sexual misconduct, casts a shadow over his contributions to photography, embodying the troubling normalization of predatory behavior behind the camera. In this world where art, power, and morality collide messily, Richardson personifies the awkward, often ignored conversation about where we draw the line between creative freedom and the exploitation of that very creativity for harmful ends.

The framework for the canonization of people like Terry Richardson is bound up in the fundamental problems our society faces — racism, patriarchal sexism, financial inequality — and is what can only be described as a complete fucking mess. The awkward older white guy with Hunter S. Thompson aspirations taking advantage of young women from his position of power has become normalized; there is no escaping it. Ultimately this isn’t a problem about a single person, but the result of a community that fails to delve into the psychology and philosophy behind what we’re experiencing. In fact, that sort of introspection is denigrated as over-intellectualizing; it’s not cool. It ruins the party.

We continue to play into this with events that pander to male fantasy, promoting a transactional, superficially sexualized environment devoid of passion and actual connection.

How many people dreamed of becoming the next Terry Richardson? It was a viable path to success, and it worked for some — mostly men who found their niche in the world of party photography by adopting unique stylization, or having great marketing, or simply being in the right place at the right time.

We live in a world where American Apparel’s Dov Charney somehow gets a second chance. It’s a world in which, miraculously, the phenomenon we now call indie sleaze, gets a second chance as well.

Point:
I wish people could not take everything so far. Terry Richardson promotes misogyny through his photographs, but at the same time I like his photos. The fact that everyone is so stupid as to take everything further and further toward what may be a superficial “comment” on society and kind of use that “comment” as a way to define success is a problem.
— Anon

Counterpoint:
I think it’s the blind adherence to the aesthetic as a means to perpetuate the commercial viability of the culture it helped create. It ignores the problematic aspects in favor of the aesthetic. It establishes the aesthetic without concern for the damage done.
 — Me

Indie Sleaze (For Sale)

At the end of 2022 we started promoting a series of club nights in Los Angeles called Out Of the Races and Onto The Tracks; they were a reference to the music of the ’00s — indie sleaze. Some of the posters included the phrase, “meet me in the bathroom”, a nod to the book of the same name that documents the era. Yes, that’s a drug reference as well.

Indie sleaze pushed drug use, particularly cocaine, in a way that was purely about the party. It centered being seen at events, promoted the deification of the party photographer, and saw capitalistic idealism become the motivating factor for the movement — above music, art, community, and conscience.

The relentless chase for what’s perceived as “success” in our culture has a way of distorting our actions to the point where participation itself becomes a commodity. This transformation is evident in how indie sleaze pivoted from being a subcultural movement to a mainstream phenomenon. The essence of being part of something, of attending events, wasn’t just for the experience anymore — it was about leveraging visibility for profit. The parties weren’t just parties; they were networking events cloaked in cocaine and free booze, where being photographed meant you mattered.

This wasn’t just a shift; it was a sell-out, and everyone was buying in, including me. Most of us were blind to where we were going.

Corporations were quick to capitalize on this trend. Miller (who owned Sparks), Pabst, Viacom (via MTV), Red Bull, American Apparel, Converse… the list goes on. They saw the allure of this scene— the drugs, the music, the aesthetic — and they saw an opportunity to monetize it. What started as a countercultural movement, with all its raw edges and authentic disdain for the mainstream, was swiftly packaged into a marketable product. The very ideals that some of us purported to stand against were consumed by the capitalist machine.

Capitalism, unsurprisingly, won. The movement that prided itself on being outside the mainstream, on challenging norms, was ultimately subsumed by the very system it sought to critique. This victory was facilitated not just by the corporations but by the platforms that made everyone a photographer, a critic, a participant. These digital arenas democratized fame but at a cost —our movement became normalized, its once radical edge blunted by overexposure and commercialization.

Do you own Rizzoli’s Cobrasnake book?

The normalization of this brand of reactive non-conformity and the mentality it fostered didn’t just affect cultural and nightlife scenes; it bled into other, more insidious developments. Gavin McInnes, co-founder of Vice and later the founder of the Proud Boys, exemplifies this. The same irreverent, confrontational style that characterized Vice’s early days, pushing boundaries for the sake of it, later manifested in the formation of the Proud Boys. This group, known for its far-right ideologies and role in political violence, is a stark reminder of how a certain brand of edgy counterculture can evolve into something far more dangerous. It’s a sobering reflection on the consequences of a culture that prizes shock value and notoriety above all else, demonstrating how the lines between provocative entertainment and harmful ideology can blur, leading to real-world impacts.

In this landscape, the challenge becomes not just to critique or reject the commodification of culture, but to understand the pathways that took us from the parties we threw to the normalization of movements like the Proud Boys. It’s about seeing the connections between our cultural consumption and the ideologies we enable or challenge. This isn’t about over-intellectualizing; it’s about recognizing the power of culture to shape, reflect, and sometimes warp our societal values.

The Limits Of Growth

There are limits to the commercial growth of niche markets that explode too quickly. They fracture, the novelty wears off; the cracks become impossible to mend when there is no solid foundation. Their ambiguous meaning and intention is lost to so many interpretations and offshoots, to copycats and hangers on.

While the phenomenon of cultural co-optation isn’t new, the scale at which it happens today is unprecedented. The internet and global markets mean a niche culture can go viral overnight, attracting not just fans but big money looking to cash in. These trends span cities, countries, and continents. The proliferation of “Smiths Nights” (remember Sway?) around the world was a testament to this; a precursor of what was to come.

Just as quickly as they rise, these now bloated fads begin to fade. Attention shifts, the market saturates, and what was once the place you want your photo taken, becomes the last place you want to be seen having to stand in line because the old door guy disappeared. The cycle of hype burns out, leaving behind a landscape of social detritus.

With the death of the trend comes the withdrawal of investment. Brands and corporations move on to the next big thing, pulling their financial support and leaving the once-thriving scene to fend for itself without the influx of easy money. Clubs and bars that relied on their one big night attached to a burnt out trend start offering bottle service or losing their door policies. Crowds get younger; the addition of underage kids attracts a certain kind of clientele.

And yes, we’re creatures of nostalgia. We mourn the loss, the dilution, and the eventual death of these cultural movements, only to resurrect them years later, repackaged with a veneer of irony or nostalgia. We forget the bad, and the next generation never saw it. That one club is hot again, but for how long? And why?

What exactly are we looking for?

Death Of A Party

As I write this, yet more people have died from fentanyl-contaminated cocaine. We recently began a billboard campaign in association with End Overdose and dublab to bring more attention to the problem across Los Angeles.

In some circles, there are people offering cocaine nasal sprays as a means to mitigate risk, the efficacy of which is filled with caveats, and the false sense of safety a dangerous narrative to push. But there is no benefit to being the morality police. Those who focus on drugs above all else will continue to do so; our aim should be education, not judgment.

The question of how to foster community, conversation, and self-awareness through honest communication and introspection is difficult to answer. There is a line of demarcation between those who find these concepts laughable and needlessly complicated, particularly as they apply socially, versus those who choose to engage with them through every aspect of their lives. Common ground is hard to find.

Given the cyclical nature of the social patterns at play, and the deeply rooted systemic issues we face, there may be no answer. The answer may simply be acceptance, but that would be a shame.

We have an opportunity to learn from our mistakes; to create spaces for ourselves and each other that we want to be in — to challenge those that roll their eyes at terms like “safe spaces” in ways that promote conversation, rather than disdain.

This is a question I want to pose to you. How do we help each other? How do we acknowledge the social imperatives that come from operating within this broken, consumerist, capitalist society we live in, while coming together in ways that promote a culture of creativity?

Let’s talk about it and build together, not at the expense of each other.

Afterword

Writing this essay exposed me to my own hypocrisy in ways that shouldn’t have surprised me. Being the product of a generation that was mired in self-importance, and often closed to concepts like talk therapy and introspective psychology (yes, I am the child of Boomers) engendered a tendency to avoid inspecting difficult emotional reactions, and the problems they cause. Being wrong was bad; I fought against the wrongs of my parents, but my own? I ignored.

But yeah, holy shit have I been wrong, behaved poorly, and done things that I would eviscerate others for. There is no mea culpa — there is only acknowledgment and adjustment.

I have realized that trying to be — at least superficially — friends with everyone only served to alienate me from my own ideals. There is a point where we all should grow up, take ownership, and learn to deal with who we are.

We don’t live in a world of good vs evil. We live in a world that is colored by shades of grey; where “good” is subjective, loaded with ethical and moral bias.

In the end, I believe we are left with honesty as our best weapon; with finding strength through vulnerability. I know this isn’t for everyone, but for me, there is hope in connecting with others who feel the same way.

I miss my friends who are no longer here, in the present. In my heart, they will never be gone.

- Suede, New Generation

Sometimes people ask me if everything I’ve written or told them about my experience with emotional abuse is true. “No way” is what I often hear when I say yes, especially when discussing the premeditated Machiavellian nature of it or the death threats or the bizarre twisted false reality I believed I existed in. The truth is that there was much more; I had no idea people like this existed so close to me, carrying the power to hurt others with impunity. Unchecked.

These words are my way of taking that power away — processing it. Transforming it into something more gentle, less like a knife edge. Publishing these stories goes against much of the common advice around how to deal with an abuser of the type that I was exposed to. It isn’t what I would recommend; it can be lonely, isolating, and scary.

Don’t feed their disorder: just get away.

Professor Sam Vaknin shared my last Medium post across his socials. Thank you, Mr. Vaknin. Your insight into malignant narcissistic behavior, sociopathy, and psychopathy helped me find a way through this nightmare.

To others who have suffered or are suffering at the hands of an abuser: you aren’t alone. There is help.

This essay is a fever dream. It’s about the weird details and how it feels to forget yourself.

Setup

She loved everything I did.

She loved the music I played. She loved the art I created; the weird electrical projects I worked on; she didn’t complain at the smell of solder or sweat.

In return, I accepted whatever she gave me.

I loved everything she did.

Together, we built a shared fantasy in which she was my source of truth and morality. Without me noticing, my entire personality shifted to be something that served her.

But she hated museums; hated philosophy; didn’t understand art when it wasn’t a commodity. How many episodes of Seinfeld did I watch? Jesus fucking Christ, who am I?

When it was over, I was left holding her wants and desires. Some of them may have once belonged to me, but they were distorted and unfamiliar; most were completely foreign. A cognitive dissonance set in as the bridge between who I was and what I wanted was destroyed. My sense of self and personality was twisted; I was lost. I was her.

Execution

I woke up to find my best friend wanted me dead.

Well, maybe it wasn’t as dramatic as that. Maybe she didn’t want me dead, she just wanted me gone.

And it didn’t happen all at once.

By degrees, the woman I loved drove a wedge between me and the people I had loved before her. She told me stories about them; poisonous little tales of lies and deceit. She told me stories about so many people she knew — shared secrets that I could never reveal, but that colored my vision. Blinded me.

She was my truth. She had told me she was honest to a fault; that her memory was perfect. So I let her memory overwrite my own, because it somehow felt safe.

One day she told me that maybe I was a little autistic. Maybe my memory issues were a symptom of my age. I was really losing it, wasn’t I?

We were laying in bed together when a coroner’s office near my father’s home called me. It was 2:30am over there, so the office was closed when I tried returning the call. I called back and back and back. Was my dad dead? That was the only reason I could imagine they’d be calling me. He must be dead. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I called my dad.

He was asleep, and seemed confused when I told him I loved him.

It turned out the call I had received was spoofed — someone was trying to scare me. They called my girlfriend from another coroner’s office close to where her dad lived — someone was trying to scare both of us. Someone who knew a lot about us and wanted us gone. Was it my best friend? My girlfriend thought so. I guess things were more serious than I thought with them.

But it was ok, because my girlfriend would make sure everything was taken care of. We’d be ok.

Together.

“Once someone has been traumatized again and again by someone who claimed to love them, once an abuser has warped the victim’s reality and caused him or her to mistrust their perceptions through gaslighting, once a victim has been made to believe he or she is worthless, they are already traumatically bonded to their abusers. It takes a great deal of professional support, validation and resources in order for victims to detach from their abusers and begin to heal.”

― Shahida Arabi

Chaos

My world splintered and fractured.

I sat amongst some of my closests friends one night after dinner telling them about the death threat, and all the events surrounding it. Gleefully, in their words.

I remember bouncing around the apartment in suburban Los Angeles, drinking heavily; my girlfriend was out somewhere working, and I was filled with trust and confidence in her. My life had taken a turn towards something a little dark and dangerous, but manageable. I felt energized and inspired; a ball of controlled chaos.

I’d later find out my friends had been concerned. Deeply and justifiably.

That period of my life — just weeks, really — is still hard to recall with accuracy, but it felt strangely serene to me. The arguments, the uncertainty, even the days or nights when she would disappear, a dot floating vaguely on a map on my phone somewhere in the hills, all seemed ok as soon as she explained why I was wrong, why I was overreacting, and how much she loved me.

A pause in the conversation, maybe a stunned silence, and someone asks me, “are you sure about all of this, Greg?”

Of course I’m sure. As sure as I am that “embrace the chaos” is a slogan on some shitty wall art you can buy on Etsy.

I had been unsure for so long, but a switch had flipped, and I had never wanted anything more than the life her and I were building.

Crisis

Who am I? I am me, when I am with her.

I’m sorry if I don’t remember your name. I meet a lot of people. My memory isn’t so good; I think it’s my age.

The nights out blend together. The bars, clubs, house parties, sunrises and sunsets. I can’t remember a single conversation we had with all those people we met; all those chemically blasted brains trying to connect with each other just long enough to exchange a number, make a plan, never meet again. The faces fade into each other, and then fade altogether.

My girlfriend told me she’d been followed while she was out walking her dog. Now I was scanning the cars outside my apartment to make sure nobody was surveilling us. Every day on my run I would be watching for something unusual.

Somewhere during all of this was when we had our first breakup. I pushed back. I broke down. I was hoovered back up. I tried to kill myself.

We got back together, but she said we couldn’t be affectionate in public. She said it was because my former best friend was dangerous; that it was safer for them to think we weren’t together. She said she was protecting me, but somehow I felt so exposed, especially when we were out together at a bar.

“Don’t touch me!” she barked when I put my hand on her. I was shrugged off as a friend swept her across the dance floor to her favorite song, all smiles and laughs. I danced alone. And then I left.

A text from her: “Where are you?”

My reply: “Walking. Getting a car.”

“Why?”

“Because this is so uncomfortable”

“Come back.”

“OK.”

It’s 2am. We’re the last people in the place.

She tries to convince me to go to an afterparty without her. Why? No.

I can’t remember the car ride home with her, but when we got out, there was a man sitting on a portable chair at the corner of our street. A big man with a bandana over the bottom half of his face. Staring at us.

He looked almost comical on that chair, as he asked us for a cigarette. “No, we don’t smoke.”

Inside my house she seemed panicked. Nervous. I tried to convince her the guy was there coincidentally; she thinks he was there for us. She went next door to her apartment.

That was the last time I had a kitchen knife. I didn’t even notice it was gone until a week later when I saw it in her apartment, “oh I took that for protection that night”. Only after seeing that knife on her counter, covered in bits of lime or lemon, did I realize I had stopped cooking at home for weeks.

I had stopped eating. I think we both had.

Reality blinked out.

“Discovering that your life was built on falsehoods and that a narcissist exploited you is a profoundly painful experience. It transcends a typical breakup, as narcissists employ vicious deceptions to shatter their victims emotionally.”

― Tracy Malone

Refocus

Shortly after things came crashing down, I moved myself into another house until my ex had to leave my building; I was paying her rent. I went no contact.

Focus started to return to my world and I escaped from the fantasy I had been living in.

You may be curious why my best friend would have wanted to hurt me. The short answer is that they didn’t — that I even thought it was a possibility is confusing to me still. They had tried to warn me, but I refused to listen, and by the time I realized what was going on, so much damage had been done.

Rebuilding the relationships I had will take time.

Trust will take time.

I’m only just starting to eat again.

“Here lies the partner’s salvation: if you, as his intimate, wish to sever your relationship with the narcissist, stop providing him with what he needs. Do not adore, admire, approve, applaud, or confirm anything he does or says. Disagree with his views belittle him, reduce him to size, compare him to others, tell him he is not unique, criticize him, give unsolicited advice, and offer him help. In short, deprive him of the grandiose and fantastic illusions, which holds his personality together.

The narcissist is a delicately attuned piece of equipment. At the first sign of danger to his inflated False Self, he will quit and disappear on you.”

- Sam Vaknin

Something happens to you after suffering narcissistic abuse. It’s unlike anything else I’ve experienced, and it’s not a teachable moment. There is little to compare it to, except for maybe that point when you realize the acid is hitting weird.

This is a collection of thoughts, events, and dialogs that try put words to the messed up tangle left in the wake of dealing with an intimate partner who seems to fall into a spectrum of the dark triad.

Introspection.

“I’m worried.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried I’m the narcissist. I’m worried I am the one with the sociopathic tendencies. I worry about this every day. I worry that I am the one who created all of this; who is responsible for everything I am going through. That everything she said about me is true, and I deserve everything that’s happening right now.”

Silence, and an arched eyebrow.

“I’m worried that I could have avoided all of this. Don’t narcissists exhibit a complete lack of ego? They have no ego. I suffer from a poor self-image. I worry about who I am. What I am.” I mean, fuck. I don’t even like looking in a mirror. Every time I look in a mirror I see every flaw staring back at me, and I look for more, the same way I notice the weird angle of my face on this Zoom call. “So yeah, what if I am wrong about everything?”

Patient silence.

“Do narcissists worry that they’re narcissists?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“We’re rowing this boat together, Greg.”

I’m laughing now, but I am not sure if I am laughing because I am going insane or if I am laughing because I am relieved. I think I even knew the answer to my own questions, but I am lost. So lost.

Refraction.

I think about what I shared with her and how what I shared was part of me. I opened myself emotionally and it all spilled out.

My things. My loves. The light and the darkness and the shadows and the sounds that inspire me. I shared it all and she said she loved it all and yet I think she loved nothing but the way I made her feel in that moment. Now those things have been stolen from me, and I want to know they’re ok. That they’re still worth something. Where are they? What is she doing with them? Who is she showing them to as if they were hers?

I can’t find them in myself anymore; it’s as if someone has ripped out everything inside me, inspected it, and walked away with no comment.

Now I’m sitting here staring at all of it as it surrounds me: a stuffed animal with whatever it was once made of scattered about outside it’s body. None of it fits back inside anymore; it’s all messed up and gross.

And it’s like, “shit. I’m not real. I’m an empty stuffed animal. Fuck.”

Deception.

I wake in a cold sweat.

Again and again I wake up.

Something stares at me from the corner of the room in this house that I barely know. Long white hair and dull white eyes; a presence that consumes almost all the space between the ceiling and floor. It floats in this room that should be safe, but is instead haunted. I am haunted.

If I was a child I would have screamed. Or maybe I did scream. I don’t know.

I only know none of this is real, but as the world starts resolving around me I am hit with waves of something — some emotion. Memories of her words creep in from the corners of the room:

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

The waves are thick inky depression. The intimate whispers and promises of “forever” flood me. The words ring in my ears, and the lies reverberate through me.

I hum like a plucked instrument, my mind twisted into something I can’t quite figure out anymore.

I think about the sex.

I think about the drugs.

I think about a life I never actually knew.

It lasts all day.

Erasure.

I’ve never subscribed to the idea of absolute regret. I’ve always believed every lived experience provides us with something to learn and grow from.

But this? I want to erase this thing, this presence. It’s like an unwanted whisper in my ear; a memory that won’t stop revisiting me. Empty words of love and desire and promises of “forever together.”

I want to lie in a field and watch clouds turn into dragons and talk to someone who isn’t out to destroy my fucking soul.

I need to find myself and my love and my joy again, rather than sit in the decay that I feel inside.

There is a darkness in me, like the abuse left a stain. A heavy black line. A Franz Kline painting across my mind.

I remember how I loved the way the light hit the wall of my bedroom in the evenings.

The color of it through the shades.

The reflection of it through the blown glass lamp.

The way it crept by as the sun set.

I keep trying to remember that as I lie in bed, pushing away unwanted thoughts of her standing above me as I curled into a ball of panic on the floor.

“The narcissist’s True Self is introverted and dysfunctional. In healthy people, Ego functions are generated from the inside, from the Ego. In narcissists, the Ego is dormant, comatose. The narcissist needs the input of and feedback from the outside world (from others) in order to perform the most basic Ego functions (e.g., “recognizing” of the world, setting boundaries, forming a self-definition or identity, differentiation, self-esteem, and regulating his sense of self-worth). This input or feedback is known as narcissistic supply. Only the False Self gets in touch with the world. The True Self is isolated, repressed, unconscious, a shadow.”

- Sam Vaknin

Reflection.

No rationale.

I can’t find anything rational here; I can’t puzzle my way through what happened. It’s just a mess of opposing emotions. There was a duplicity to the entire relationship, the same way there was a duplicity to so much of what she said to me.

I hated her and I loved her.

I never wanted to see her again and I wanted to be with her always.

And when I think about it, that’s the problem. This person made no sense to me because they were both things at once. An empty vessel that filled itself with me; that created a fantasy world in which we both existed — a world I wanted, and she was happy to give me for a time.

She told me elaborate stories woven from a tapestry of lies that created a false reality, and I believed it. Each story held a tiny bit of truth: maybe the place it happened, the people involved, or the time it took place. But the details, they were fabricated as part of our shared fantasy.

It was at once a love story, a drama, an adventure, a porno.

I lost myself between the lines.

Finding myself starts again.