I wrote this as a letter to my Australian "penpal" (somebody pointed out to me yesterday that I couldn't call her a penpal because I didn't actually use a pen, which I suppose makes sense, but what the fuck else am I supposed to call her?). She and I came to know each other maaany years ago, another lifetime ago it seems, when I was living in that apartment with my dad - none of you knew me then - and writing terrible Final Fantasy fan fiction. She introduced herself as Brooke, in an email wherein she complimented me on the newest story I had written, and directed me to some writing of her own. I read it; it was damn good for someone a couple of years my junior. And so we began this electronic correspondance that carried through in spurts over many tumultuous years, and eventually all but died out. I decided a little while ago that that didn't fly with me no mo, so I wrote her a letter, and while you've all heard this stuff before, I thought I would tell it to you again, perhaps in a different light.


Hm, where to begin, ne? Perhaps it is best to start with the now, and move backwards. Currently, I am living in sin with the love of my life, and his two children, who are 3 and 4 – both boys. We've been together for over a year and a half, and it's... actually pretty surreal. When I met Nathan, I had just come to the realization that I was quite happy alone, that in time I would find someone, and that now was when I could allow myself to be a carefree, frivolous, and albeit, selfish 20-something. In retrospect, I was rather TOO carefree, and definitely did not exercise as much protection as I should have. /shiftyeyes

But then this boy came along, this beautiful boy, who was not so much a boy as a grown man and father, and he disproved everything that I had come to know as fact regarding the opposite sex. He was not self-centered, nor abrasively unintelligent. He spoke softly, treated me with respect, even opened doors. But most of all, he saw me. He took the time to listen to me, to engage me, to have real conversations with me; he took the time to create an… an atmosphere wherein I could be completely and entirely myself. He put me at ease. And so we embarked on this journey that we continue to this day. There have been a metric shit-tonne of obstacles that we've temporarily had to overcome, but that always seem to threaten on the horizon. But at the moment, we're happy enough; we never have any money, and the house we live in is tiny and in a severe state of disrepair, but we rarely argue, we try to have fun at all times, and despite our troubles, there is much, much love and adoration, so it could be worse.

So, what else... Did I tell you I went to England? Christ, that was almost two and a half years ago already, how fucking depressing. It was a magical journey, single-handedly changed my life, and part of me is in a perpetual state of longing to return to it's shores. When I left for Europe, I was living in a perfect little house with my best friend at the time, having just moved from a perfect little apartment that I shared with my OTHER best friend, who decided that living sans parent was not quite yet for her, which while I was angry at first, knew that it was entirely her perrogative, and for the best. That year that I was on my own was a pretty brutal year. I was going from job to job to job, smoking way too much weed, never eating, slowly losing my will to do anything but get high and have sex. I made a lot of shitty choices... One of which resulted in that perfect little house getting broken into, and all of my roommates brand new electronic toys getting stolen. Things kind of got worse between us from that point on, and I moved out a few months later.

It was then that my mum and I decided to get a place together. We'd been living apart for quite some time, (even when I wasn't living with my friends, I had been at my dad's house) and it was hard on us both, since we are such soulmates. So we picked up this big, bright, beautiful apartment in the Bohemian end of town, and spent two years doing the mother-daughter thing, meaning she did my laundry, and I drove her crazy. It was at the end of my stint in the house with Brendan, and during the first, oh, four months in the apartment with mum that I discovered... raving.

Laura, my hetero-lifemate of another time, had been going to raves when we were in freaking HIGH SCHOOL, for fuck's sake, and had always tried to get me to go with her. I said no, over and over and over again, because at that time in my life, I lacked the confidence to wear a bathing suit, let alone dance to music that was foreign to me, in front of hundreds of people. And then, one night at that little house, whilst she was over for our weekly date - joints in hand, pizza in plenty, she asked me if I'd like to go to this party (we don't really like to call them raves, don'tcha know) that was coming up in a week. I said yes. And so it began.

I was nervous, I mean reeeally god damn nervous. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect, at all, but I was mostly nervous because of the little blue pill in a baggy that I carried concealed in my bra. Laura's talk of ecstasy had been nothing short of legendary - how beautiful and alive it made you feel, how pleasurable it made even the lightest touch out to be; the passion, the rush, the ecstasy... of it all. Having experienced only marijuana, and the occasional unsuccessful mushroom trip, the idea of putting a chemical toxin into my body was daunting, and while it's promises certainly seemed delicious enough, there are always the what-if's... So we went to this party, and I was nervous, and I was wearing black-and-blue-striped pantyhose, a short black skirt, and a Saturday Night Fever hooded shirt that I had borrowed from Laura, but I was ready. Ish. The place was like nothing I'd ever seen or experienced before. Techno so loud and intense you could feel it in your skeleton, glowing paraphenalia everywhere, boys and girls alike wearing almost nothing, it was fantastic. And then 11:30 came around, and Laura said it was time, and I swallowed that pill against my better judgement, and tried to pretend like it wasn't the biggest and most scariest thing I'd done since England. It's hard for me to remember things at the best of times, nevermind when my brain is being assaulted by chemical stimulants, so my memories of that night, and of all the other nights following it, are rather hazy and fragmented. But Brooke, I will never forget, not EVER, what it felt like when I felt it hit me for the very first time. I remember walking outside to have a cigarette - it had just rained, and everything was shiny and glittery with water, and the glaze over my eyes seemed to magnify it ten-fold. I felt more real and alive then ever before, and when I took a drag off my cigarette it sent chills down my spine. I felt like heaven, like the sun, like everything radiant and perfect and high.

And then the drug began to leave my system, and I didn't feel so fantastic anymore. As far from fantastic as I could possibly be. We stumbled home long after the sun had risen, and slept for a few hours. When Laura and I woke up, we talked about what had happened at that party, and decided with much vigor that we would do it again. And so we did. We did a lot, almost every weekend, and every weekend there were different pills, different DJ's, different boys.

And so that was my life for almost six months. Constant partying, sleeping around, being stupid. I had to lie to so many people, because no one understood as I understood that it was temporary. I knew I would come out of my ecstasy-using stage, I mean there is NO way that I could possibly have had any hope of maintaining a semi-normal life if I allowed myself to turn into a wild, crazed, flaming sex goddess every weekend. It sounds really wonderful, but that kind of shit tends to kind of carry over into other shit. I regret the lies that I told, but at the time, stopping wasn't an option, so I did what I felt I had to.

Eventually, the anxiety that I would feel before a party started to mount up so immensely that it actually made me feel sick to my stomach. It wasn't a negative anxiety, it was more like an excited anticipation, but it still messed me up. I would take my pills regardless, but all it did was intensify the bad stuff, and soon I stopped using it as much I had been, and eventually I stopped using it at all. Meeting Nathan was the biggest turning point in my life, since raves were such sexual hubs, conduits for exchanges of carnal electricity, and he filled the portion of me that truly needed that (no pun intended).

Now, recently I've become rather unemployed, although at the moment I'm doing this temporary receptionist gig, which is what is affording me the time the write this obscenely long letter to you, my dearest of Australian friends (read: only Australian friend). I had been working at a bookstore for over a year and a half, but business was dwindling, and alas, I couldn't afford to stay. I hated leaving, because I loved my job, fucking LOVED it, but I felt that I needed something full-time. I had just moved in with Nathan, and figured it would be a perfect opportunity to save up a sack of money, what with my low living costs (since Nathan could support himself and his kids on what he brought in), and maybe buy a car or something. So I got this new job, working as an Individualized Support Worker for the company that I'm working as receptionist for right at this very moment. ISW's work one-on-one with adults with mental handicaps; helping them find jobs, going to and assisting them with it if they need, going to the gym, just providing company and support as they go about their day.

Then I remembered that I am physically incapable of saving money, realized that I hated the job, and came to the conclusion that the only way I would be happy is if I finally went to university. So I quit the job, applied for admission and a massive student loan, and am now in the process of waiting not-so-patiently for someone to tell me that yes, my dream of post-secondary education is indeed possible.


I concluded with the usual inquiries, well-wishes, etc. But you get the idea. Happy FolkFest!