Last week, James and I landed in France. We spent the days in Pharmacies trying to find Miralax, trying to interpret French words we knew nothing about. Trying to navigate the absolute nonexistent crowd control. Trying to communicate to French taxi drivers that cafe means a coffehouse rather than the French word for coffee- and that no, we did not want to take a coffee with us into the cab but rather we wanted to be dropped off at a cafe. Navigating how to tell the French taxi driver Abdul that Trump is just as bad as Merkel and we both have populists running our nation. Except Abdul was not that French taxi driver’s real name and the only person who can pronounce that name is James. He has a knack for those things. So for now, he is Abdul.
We spent a love-filled night in Paris on a boat that took us from one end of the Seine River to the next- enjoying an absurd amount of bread and foods. Loving every bit of it. Making love in the shower and enjoying the thimble-sized amount of espresso that was perfect for him and learning how to deal with my caffeine-withdrawals.
Meeting DC in the airport and the first handshake between James and my brother- and the first night of whiskey-grilldown in which James told my bro that he was in it for the long-haul. Getting DC and Polly’s admittance that DC has an absolute bromance with James- or whatever name he has given him. It’s constantly changing. One day it’s ‘Jewster,’ the other it’s ‘Mack.” We saw Kinky Boots at the King’s Theatre and toured Bath Street, hand in hand, getting lost in the culture, the crowds, the endless cigar smoke. It was frazzling yet comforting. Being lost in a city so rich of history and character, thousands of different lives made there. And destroyed just as quickly. Some of the buildings in Edinburgh still have black ash on them from the industrial revolution.
The human language we all speak is so interesting. All of us have feminine and masculine qualities, some more than others. All of us have a burning desire to be loved and accepted in the culture that raised us- and yet only some of us realize it. But we want so badly to feel like we’re home. Whatever home means.
After a night’s fight that almost finalized our relationship, Jewster left early in the morning on Friday, May 13th. Wee David walked him out to the taxi and thanked him for spending his time with them. Jewster thanked them for sharing their country, their humble abode, and their whacky stories that attribute them to the Van Alstyne Clan. I then turned to food to satiate that void I concocted in my head. The perceived loneliness is much worse than the actual loneliness I feel without my vices- whether it be James, wine, food. These comforts that have been there for me are only psychological, and only last momentarily. Then comes the chaos of dealing with the after-effect. Whether that rear its head in the co-dependent behavior I portray or overexercising after a night’s binge. The unclear head I have from wine isn’t comforting. It’s inconvenient and sets me back, blurs my memory and turns everything I can’t understand into self-hatred.
I met all of DC’s coworkers at BioCity. I was given a personal tour by Wam, and yet the only thing I could focus on was how absurdly large my arms looked in the reflection of the windows. Or how my thighs rubbed as we walked the premises. I was just counting down the moments until I could shut my brain off and breathe and comfort my voids. Void of self-acceptance and void of self-discipline. Finding momentary pearls of life to be mesmerized by to interrupt my psychological and involuntary self-hatred were only that: momentary. They were exhausting. So I would comfort myself with an ‘upper’- alchohol, and an outrageous amount of food. I would pour it in a mug- oatmeal, bread, crackers with fry sauce, chicken, a concoction of food that was so absurd it really couldn’t amount to be food anymore- more like slosh of caloric intake.
And that caloric intake would find a habitat in my hips, around my before-pertruding ribcage, around my ass, on my legs. And the reason why I hated it so much is no longer because I desire to be accepted by men or because I need validation from every living being other than myself. I hated my body so much because it reminded me of my own self-sabotage. My lack of self-discipline, mixed with laziness regarding moving my body, mixed with excuse after excuse for not CUTTING IT OUT.
But I have come to the point where I am sick of that cycle ruling my life and interrupting conversations with my soul. I miss my soul. But that cycle was not complete until a grueling weekend in St. Cyrus.
After nights of dinner with DC and Polly, barely being able to focus on conversation without a self-deprecating thought interrupting my mind, I figured I need to be able to good at ‘vacationing’- after all, Dr. DeSarbo said the people with the healthiest minds are happy doing nothing. But that nothingness was taken to a secluded part of Scotland, in a cozy but too-small cottage in the northern part of Scotland- right across from the North Sea. Anyone would go bat-shit-crazy for a view like the one I got. But I didn’t. I felt trapped in a psychological prison.
As we escaped to St. Cyrus, I was met with a blessing in-disguise: I forgot my meds. And to make up for that, DC left me two pills: his “smart pill” and his “sleepy pill,” in which I took none of because… ya know. Don’t take pills offered to you from people you’ve only met once. Rule of Life.
But even though I was trapped in a psychological marry-go-round, I was able to think more clearly and feel EMOTIONS. I was able to string together thoughts and sentences without them being interrupted by a new train of thought- which is what my brain needed for a while. But not so much anymore. Interrupting the constant redirection of my brain enabled me to focus on whatever’s in front of me, but also to imagine. I can now imagine what life could be, as well as what life IS now. I am no longer being robbed from my own life experiences by constant perceived comforts and self-deprication.
I was blessed with the opportunity to meet Uncle Tommy, though. He was Mary’s cousin, and he met Uncle David when he came back from his LDS mission to marry Mary and adopt her two sons- DC and Glen. Uncle Tommy’s big, sad, and oh-so-passion-filled sea blue eyes were guarded by his bottle-bottom glasses. His short stature was protected with a Scotch-Whiskey belly and his short, stubby fingers were adorned with callouses from playing guitar for over half of his 72-year-old life- and still rocking it at Irish pubs.
And yet, my mind was trapped in a vortex of food-alcohol-body-hatred thoughts that lasted much longer than any conversation I was able to participate in. No more of this. No more of being trapped in my mind’s dissatisfaction with my arms while members of the Gunn tribe-my own heritage- are sharing their souls with me. It’s time for me to remind myself of my values.
So, I’ve stopped drinking. It really just doesn’t make me feel very good. No more for the month of June. Back to a daily, normal, exercise routine. Back to veganism. I’ve been adventuresome long enough to know why I have my values in the first place and it feels better to stick to them.
After these revelations, I was alone with DC for a night. After undressing and showering, I’ve realized what taking comfort in food has done to my body and I collapsed to the floor in tears. Absolute shock and disgust took over, and I called my tribe members- Mama and Papa Bear. I told them my thoughts and they asked, “Do you want us to book you a flight home?” I said yes. They told me that this is a crisis, because I voiced to them that the thoughts I’ve been having are similar to those pre-Avalon. They told me I needed to tell him- but I couldn’t. I was in a house alone with a man I only knew for a couple weeks and the only reaction my brain would concoct was to flee. I couldn’t dare provide any explanation for my needing to flee because that would run the risk of disappointing him. And the last time I was alone in the house of a man I disappointed was that atrocious day in Draper when Dad shook Olivia by her neck because we didn’t want to go wave-running. What happened next was the most painful of all:
I put myself together and got myself to go downstairs and make dinner with DC, despite the illogical uncomfortability. Then, he received a phone call from Papa Bear explaining that I called them in crisis and needed to come home. DC said, “Dad, I’m sitting right next to her and she’s fine. You’re fine, right Emily?” I agreed, adamently, not wanting to own up to my illogical need to flee. So I took the coward’s way out; I literally pretended to not know what they were talking about. In shock and absolutely appalled by my own actions, I went along with it. Because it was my only comfort in a situation where I felt as if I was put naked on a spinning dartboard by my very own trusted loved ones. I felt utterly betrayed, even though I was the one doing the betraying. And I knew it as I was doing it. I just needed to get through the night, I told myself. I’d do anything to make up for it in the future, but I just needed to survive the night. So I exploited my very own parents, after the psychological, financial, spiritual support they have UNCONDITIONALLY provided for me, I used them.
I don’t know how I’ll be able to make up for it, but I am so much more clear-headed now than ever before. I know my own psychological lies and traps. And that lesson is much better learned than avoided. I will use it to take the next step in my life to ignite passion, effervescence and magic into my life. I will remind myself of my values and take the correct steps forward. That is how I will, and must, repay them.
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