Читать книгу Brain Drops - Jeannie Tyrrell - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Leaving Home

I received a different kind of blow to the head while I was attending school. I mingled around campus for a while, made friends, and I managed to enjoy myself outside the escapism. But the addiction still held a strong grip, and I slowly continued to split myself more and more into two. The landlord that I lived with passed away unexpectedly. My mother called me and told me that my bear-wrestling, jewelry box—creating companion had gotten in a car accident, and I needed to head to where I lived.

I got on the bus and took it across town. He died early that morning, and the news got to me late in the afternoon. By the time I reached the room I rented for $100 a month, his “family” was already emptying out his home. His belongings were being organized on his porch, and they were going through his stuff. I almost had a heart attack. I had no idea who they were, and they had no idea who I was.

I identified myself to his “children” and explained that I lived in one of the rooms. They behaved like vultures, and it was something that I will never forget. When I compare their behavior to some members of my own “family,” I begin to feel a little ill.

Long story short, I was kicked out. I packed my stuff, and I left. Luckily, I found a room that was right down the road from the school. My rent increased by $300, but I didn’t mind. By that time, I secured a spectacular job at a fast-food restaurant. Everything was within walking distance, and I was able to save some money.

I was also hired on at the school’s newspaper. Things were going good, and I think the hold that escapism had on me was beginning to loosen up. I wanted to get to know everyone, but I had no interest in getting to know myself. That thought had never crossed my mind.

My former landlord passing away was not the intense blow to my head. That moment occurred when I walked into the school counselor’s office to discuss my pathetic grades. I do not remember the counselor’s name. I remember he had a monkey doll with long arms. It was strategically placed in the corner of his office. I could also see the school fountain outside his window.

I wasn’t technically listening to him. He began our conversation on a boring note, and I tuned him out immediately. I knew that academic probation was in my future. I read up on it when I looked into finding a counselor. My mind was on other things until several comments were made.

The counselor told me that I didn’t “want to be like the black kids by the fountain.” I specifically remember turning my head. I looked at him for the first time. I remember his weird shirt. He also told me that I was spinning in circles, failing my classes, and I didn’t want to end up with a “litter of kids.”

I remember my face becoming very warm. I felt like I was back in a place that I wanted to leave behind. That was the first time I had experienced a comment like that spoken openly. Before that moment, I only heard those prejudice comments from several family members growing up.

Those comments were said in public, and I didn’t know what to do. I came to a few realizations that day, and it was an intense blow to the head. I awkwardly brushed off the conversation, and I left the office feeling nothing but discomfort. I tried to replay what I had heard and said. I began to wonder if I had said something. Was I the reason he decided to speak about other human beings in that way?

I told one of my classmates what had happened and my instructor. As I write these words, I just remember being completely stunned. I asked myself over and over, do I look like a person that just nonchalantly spouts insensitive, racist garbage out of my mouth? I didn’t think so, but the casual manner that the counselor exuded made me doubt myself.

I did grow up hearing comments that were geared toward people that had a different shade of skin. I know that they were bullied, and I had been complicit about it throughout my entire childhood. I sat at the same dinner table, and I said nothing. It made me think that the comments were rooted somewhere within the temporal lobe of my brain. But, at that point, I was renting a room from a large family that was from the Philippines. It had two other rooms upstairs beside mine.

One room was occupied by a woman from Germany. Her husband was in the army. The other room was occupied by a mother and daughter that came from China. Each individual was so unique. I enjoyed them, and I wanted to know more about them. So why was any of that said? I continued to ask myself that question as the incident made it to the college dean. I sat in front of that kind man, and I explained what happened. It upset me greatly, and I wasn’t empowered after I spoke up.

That event sparked a stress in me that I was unable to handle. I shut down and mentally checked out. Someone from my class wanted to move to Santa Monica, California. She asked me if I would like to go with her. I told her that I would go because I felt like I had nothing there.

I quit my two wonderful jobs, dropped out of school, and I packed up my things. I was officially “leaving home” at that point in my life, and I was mostly indifferent about it. I didn’t have a concrete plan formed in my mind either. I was heading on an extravagant expedition with barely any money, no car, and no job. I just needed to get away, attend concerts, and become that famous individual that I constructed in my head. So in order for me to accomplish that, I prioritized one giant goal. I intended to sell a movie script (that had no plot) for three million dollars.

That is how I intended to fund my Santa Monica adventure. I told my idea to a few people, and I don’t think they took me very seriously. None of that mattered, of course. I needed to skip town and see the world. Santa Monica was our one and only stop. My younger brother helped me move. When he left, I cried like a baby. All of this is hysterical now, but it was pretty serious for me at the time.

Now my memory recalls the fact that I was a terrible roommate. I was beyond awful. I used my roommates laptop, complained all the time, and I barely made any money. My contribution level to the arrangement was null and void. My charm and good looks weren’t even up for grabs. I was a total monster, and I had some serious karma heading back in my direction.

At times, I attempted responsibility. But when you’re not present with the world beforehand, how does one become a present responsible human being overnight? I tried to go to school again, but that was a bust. I took a course that focused on the portrayal of women in film, the history of England (for some reason), and screen writing.

I was wasting my time and the time of everyone else, yet again. I was also completely broke and stressed out to the max. I used my roommates laptop to engage in my online forum role play of lame, and I barely paid any attention to her. There were times when she was really hurting, but I didn’t see. She knew that I was physically there. But in reality, I was never really there. We were very different people. She was professional and actually trying to make a difference in the world.

She had plans, goals, ambition, and class. I was just messing around because I was under the impression that I had the freedom to do as I pleased. I had no reason to do anything. Do you see where I am going with that? When I did have money, I threw it all away. I went to concerts, gothic clubs, or secret absinthe bars.

That situation went from bad to worse, and I ended up leaving. I skipped out on my roommate and began to couch surf. I stayed on a couch in North Hollywood, and then I ended up renting floor space somewhere in East Los Angeles. I don’t remember much of that. I did have access to the roof, and I remember that the elevator was ancient. I sat up on the roof often and wrote in my journal.

Los Angeles was rough, but I enjoyed it. I literally had to dress like a man just to avoid interactions that continued to occur. My incognito attire consisted of a bulky sweater and a hat. My walk was altered, and I actually pretended to be a man when I walked home from the bus at night.

I had to work two jobs when I lived out in that area. I worked at a pizza shop for half a shift, and then I’d commute to work another half a shift at a sandwich shop. It sucked, and I burned my arm on the pizza oven. I became heavily invested in my online persona in order to feel better. I pretended to be a rock star in an online forum, so I started to emulate that in real life.

I considered myself to be a “free radical.” Sandwich maker by day; heavy metal rock star by night. The duality between me in my pizza jersey to my street attire was pretty comical. My hair was always a crazy color, and I wore multicolored contact lenses. I basically paraded the clubs and streets in emo freak wear.

My living situation did not get better. I was technically homeless throughout most of my time in the Los Angeles area. The friends I made while I lived out there basically spoon-fed me the encouragement to continue that image. As I couch surfed, I met a woman who actually brought musicians to America from other countries. She was housing a musician from Japan, and he was as sweet as one could be. He told me that I reminded him of Nikki Sixx from Mötley Crüe. I agreed with that.

I had no home, but I was surviving. I was actually connecting with the people around me and really getting to know the area. I have so many beautiful memories from that crazy time. But my memories of Los Angeles have really been put into a blender. I remember sports bars, fashion shows, a white tie, and my first introduction to music created by someone named “Lady Gaga.”

Later on down the road, I will return to Miss Gaga. Just put a pin on her for now and understand that I was living in a bubbly bliss. I stopped living the fantasy in an online setting. No one was bullying me, tormenting me, or wearing me down with those things called responsibilities. I became the fantasy out in the real world. I became the characters in my notebooks.

Those amazing characters I created or portrayed in my head were being executed all the time. You don’t know how exciting that is for someone who was picked apart all their life. It was liberating and addictive. I never wanted it to end.

At no point, while I was out there, did I ask the question, Are you being yourself? I felt like myself. I was being myself as far as I knew. My friends and I were having fun, and we felt free. I wasn’t technically doing anything, but I was free. I inhaled so much of that area. Memory sends me to all the graffiti and art on the walls as I roamed around, and I stormed the streets with actual friends.

I forgot all about my online life. I didn’t have a computer or cell phone. I didn’t need anything like that, and I didn’t have a care in the world. Gravitationally speaking, what goes up must come down. The bottom fell out when I completely ran out of money. I couldn’t support my bliss any longer. I lost all my belongings in a cold storage unit, and I had to return home with nothing.

Leaving home was the highlight of my life, but returning home was a nightmare. When I parted ways with Los Angeles and returned to that evil diabolical troll town, I wanted to die inside. I felt physically ill when I grasped the fact that I had to return.

It wasn’t my family’s fault either. They had no idea how happy being out there made me feel. Everyone in my family also had no idea that I was returning to a place that caused me so much inner grief. I was emotionally and physically scarred for life, but I absolutely refused to show it.