#ukrainian poetry my beloved

[bamboo-vulture]

even when you're hanging between the rails,

even when you're being dragged along the ocean floor,

always remember that behind every door

someone is waiting for you with hope and wine.

(a poem by serhiy zhadan)

[kivino]

Platonic!Task Force 141 x Eastern European!Reader

Word Counter – ~1.9k

Summary – a compilation of headcanons about how reader’s Eastern European background would affect interactions with Task Force 141 during an undercover mission together.

Tags/Warnings – Gn!reader, Eastern European!reader (obviously), Platonic!TF141, fluff, mostly.

A/n – RUSSIANS DNI (this is a personal boundary, so I ask you to respect it, if you don’t like it just scroll past this post). Very self-indulgent. Just showing more love to my fellow Eastern European readers. Since it is mostly based on my own experience growing up as a Ukrainian, I’m sorry if certain things don’t resonate with you! This whole thing was made for fun and fun only.

So, let’s assume our beloved Task Force needs to go undercover to get some information on Makarov and his merry band of goons. Obviously, they can’t do it without at least one team member, who is familiar with the way of living in Eastern Europe. So, naturally, Laswell introduces you to them – born and raised there, ready to help them and stop your sworn enemy from escalating an already pretty shitty situation.

“So, allow me to introduce your new team member for the duration of this mission” Laswell nods to the door when you walk in, saying your name and callsign, already catching some looks full of curiosity from Task Force 141.

First thing they noticed about you? Resting bitch face for days. Who needs a mask when you have a death stare that will give the heebie-jeebies to most if not all of your teammates? However, they feel even more taken aback when you suddenly greet them with a warm, welcoming smile and a firm handshake, not a trace of that sour expression on your face.

One would think that you’d spend hours preparing four of them for the mission by teaching them language, helping to memorize names and faces of contacts, Makarov’s trusted allies, and potential targets. Naturally, you did your job, but those precious hours were also spent with you standing next to a whiteboard, ranting about the politics and societal issues of your country, explaining certain national jokes, and teaching them swear words or poetry you studied at school. But hey, they’re not complaining (maybe a little).  

They were skeptical about this whole deal at first. However, there was a shared understanding between the four of them that they needed to do whatever it took to stop the spreading of Makarov’s influence and diminish his resources in other countries. With time, however, they’ve found things that made their life in a completely new environment a bit more enjoyable and interesting.

Soap would pick up on your native language the fastest out of the Task Force. Under all these jokes and goofiness Johnny’s a smart guy, inquisitive as hell too, which makes a pretty good mix. He’d try to write down how you pronounce things in his sketchbook, dedicating pages upon pages to making a small vocabulary of what you say, searching up the translations of words any chance he gets. Convinces himself that it just helps him to get more into his new way of life, and not at all because he likes seeing you all excited when he slips a word in your language somewhere in the conversation.

“So how do you say it?” he points to the sentence, messily scribbled on the page with the ballpoint pen he slipped from Gaz. There is a slight frown between your brows – the word looks unfamiliar, more like gibberish than something in your language. You can practically feel the gears in your head screech and come to a halt as you drill Soap’s handwriting with your eyes.

“Oh, wait. You made a mistake here. No wonder I have no idea what this is.” You quickly take the pen and scratch the right version of the word on the paper, while Johnny chuckles at your brutal honesty. He doesn’t say anything though. Some time passes and you’re already correcting other words he wrote down, explaining the right way to say them. And you can feel a pleasant warmth spread in your chest when you can see Soap’s utmost attention directed at you.

Johnny can’t help but feel that moments like these were somewhat of a way to bond for you two. He’d jokingly offer to give you some Scottish classes each time you playfully flick him on the forehead for a word he pronounced wrong. He never expected you to take him up on the offer until the five of you got stuck in a countryside safehouse and essentially had nothing to do while waiting.

On the topic of Eastern European countryside, Price is not an old man by any measure, man’s not even forty yet, but it would grow so massively on him that it’s concerning. When you finally got a good, reliable contact that gave you some useful information you had to lay low for some time in a safe house not far from one of many Makarov’s places where the next weapon deal would be held. And while you waited several days for his people to show up there, obviously almost all of you were bored out of your minds. Not Price though. The man went exploring. Of course, taking you with him (he only wanted company on his small journey through the cozy countryside, don’t blame him).

Soon enough, during your walk you two come across the abundance of berry bushes and fruit trees everywhere, and while you pick something to munch on from them constantly, Price only scolds you. You smirk in response, giving him a handful of ripe mulberries, your lips and fingers now a dark red color from the juice.  

“It’s going to rot if nobody eats it. People who plant these trees would rather someone enjoy them instead of fruits just falling on the ground, getting squished, and going to waste.” And Price takes note of that with a small smile. Soon enough the two of you find a spring the whole village uses, a willow standing tall beside it, providing shade for you two to rest, chat a bit, and cool yourself off with fresh water. The fact that there are not many people around also doesn’t miss him. It’s quiet and peaceful, Price finally feels like he has room to breathe with his whole chest.

“You know, I could get used to a life like this.” Price finally mutters, enjoying your simple, comforting presence, walking along the river shore, and hearing the distant sounds of a train passing through the village. You look at him with understanding in your eyes, as you see the tension in his shoulders finally slipping away. Your captain relaxes, which is a pleasant change of pace from the frown on his face that you got used to.  

All five of you had to live in the same apartment in an old panel building closer to the edge of town. Not the best place to live, but a good opportunity to blend in with the locals and find leads on Makarov’s criminal “friends”. More than once you’ve found yourself sitting together with Ghost on the balcony that creaked with each blow of the wind, in complete silence while he was smoking some cheap cigarettes that smelled more like burnt paper instead of tobacco.

“Can I join you?” Your voice is a quiet rasp, as you lean against the doorway, pushing the mosquito netting to the side. You couldn’t sleep. Not when the whole world will go down the drain if you fail your mission. Not when it’s been a month already and it felt like you were still right where you started.

“Knock yourself out” the man shrugs, patting the stool near him. You shuffle your bare feet on the newspapers that were laid out on the balcony floor, plopping down on the seat, your eyes immediately getting glued to the view, enjoying the breeze that seeped through the open window. You two sit in silence for so long, but it doesn’t feel awkward, quite on the contrary – weirdly calming and serene.

After that night these nightly smoke breaks became a sort of tradition for you two, a way to wind down after a long day. Ghost would nod towards the balcony, a silent invitation reserved only for you. Regardless of whether you’re a smoker or not, occasionally he would offer you a cigarette from his pack or a hit from the lit one. A gesture of camaraderie.

“Thought you’d be more talkative.” Ghost’s voice sounds gruff after the whole day working your asses off just to discover the lead that you had was absolute bullshit.

“And I thought you weren’t a type for small talk.” You grumble in return, just as annoyed about coming back to this dingy apartment with nothing.

“That I am” He lets out a low chuckle, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray in his hand, avoiding eye contact with you.  

Kyle found himself liking your cooking above everything else. The way he would eat anything thrown together in a hurry by you was quite flattering. So soon enough you offered to teach him how to make some of your favorite national dishes, and he couldn’t say no to your offer. So, you decided to start easy – picking out the fresh ingredients. And where do you go to do that? Not a grocery store, no way in hell. The market filled with tons of people is the place you need. A lot cheaper than your usual supermarket too.

The number of times you got discounts for fruits and vegetables on the market from older women just for Gaz’s pretty eyes was insane. He would just blink at you with confusion written all over his face anytime you glanced at him with that smile and refused to explain why you spent a lot less money than expected on the fresh vegetables. At some point, Gaz even questioned his ability to count before you told him just not to worry about it since you got a “very special bargain”. And, obviously, Kyle was the one carrying the plastic bags filled to the brim with fresh produce.  

“You know, your version of the dish is not half-bad,” You say, licking the spoon and giving Gaz a wide smile, which he immediately returns to you tenfold. Spending time like this with him was a pleasure. Each minute spent together made you loathe even thinking about the time when you’d have to part ways and you won’t be able to teach him your cultural cuisine like this anymore.

“Well, I have a great teacher to thank for that.” Gaz gives you a charming smile, so glad to finally have a distraction from the constant looming presence of Makarov in his thoughts. Right this moment he caught himself thinking that he was happy they had you here with them. It would be a lot harder if not for you supporting and guiding them through everything. He felt…thankful.

You’d bring the whole Task Force to different cafes that serve your country's most famous dishes, but Kyle would be the one to enjoy these outings the most, barely raising his eyes from the plate to participate in the conversation.

“Wow, are you in a hurry or something? The food won’t run away from you.” You chuckle, while Kyle ignores the odd saying coming from you and continues to eat with the huge appetite he had ever since this undercover mission started.

However, nothing lasts forever, so after finishing their business with you, getting all the information they needed, and “cleaning up the mess” Task Force 141 bids you farewell, returning to their usual duties. Saying goodbye is never easy, even if you knew each other just for several months you still got attached to them, just like they grew very fond of you (as much as some of them hated to admit that). But hey, they promised to visit you after they finish up with Makarov. They promised. And the four of them keep the promises they make.

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[vasiliquemort]

*runs excitedly*

*clears throat*

@sandpixieden

I. Am. So happy that you said that!

It's not only the title of the song by Light in Babylon - from Hebrew it means "Thou art beautiful" and the text is actually the Song of Songs of Solomon (and I am having a *tender* connection to it) in ancient Hebrew.

I often use lines from this poetry in some works, and even in Secunda - for example, Arkes quotes them to the Archon during their first meeting to emphasize belonging to the cult of Desires.

Because I associate this poetry with Charet deeply and firmly - a part of the Old Testament dedicated to love as a religious experience. This is not just romantic / allegorical lyrics - but to some extent pure eroticism.

While the historical / cultural origin of most of the characters was immediately clear to me (Takhisis is a Lithuanian, Edwardis is a Dane, Titian and Rakhyl are Georgians mixed with Greeks, Margot is Ukrainian, Holt is from northern Russia, and Arkes is Persian), the origin of Charet was difficult - there are Babylonian, Byzantine and Persian, and - so far away, the Baltic origins, but closer now I prescribe the Israeli one for them.

The most personal thing for me is that I listened to the song a long time ago and it was special for me, and after a few years - without realizing that it was the same text in different languages, I was absorbed in the Song of Solomon. Not long before writing that scene in Secunda, I started translating - and, well, I got electrocuted, as if I had met a long-forgotten friend.

Arkes:

- You are beautiful.

- As an apple tree is among forest trees, so is my beloved among young men. In its shade I love to sit, and its fruits are sweet to my throat.

Archon:

- He brought me into the house of the feast, and his banner over me is love.

The words of the anthem - a poem, escaped against my will, but they were too intimate to remain silent - especially for me.

The bearer of this hymn.

The bearer of.. Logos, and when my hand pressed against the exhausted interior of my self-flesh, the human eyes did not ignore this - and their face brightened, and their eyes - black cherries, became even darker.

They were special. They knew the words, the right words - songs of Charet, countless, but full of passion, desires, and love, and they are all a mystery, and the knowledge of something secret, devilish and godlike, like love itself.

The man, imposing and soft, suddenly came to life - they laughed softly and affectionately, then pressed their hand to their cheek, and then turned away, taking the bottle in delicate hands.

[voices-from-ukraine]

IMPORTANT/ ВАЖЛИВО

UKRAINIAN: Зверніть увагу, що вам не потрібно приєднуватися до цієї групи чи приєднуватися до Tumblr, щоб мати можливість читати повідомлення нижче. НАТИСНУТИ НА ПУБЛІКАЦІЇ. Ми працюємо над варіантами, щоб змінити це. Дякуємо за ваше терпіння. Напишіть мені будь-коли на coraschwartz@gmail.com або напишіть мені на сторінці моєї книги в Facebook (Кора Шварц) або в месенджері FB

ENGLISH: PLEASE note that you do not have to join this group or join Tumblr in order to be able to read the posts below .CLICK ON POSTS.   We are working on options to change this. Thank you for your patience. Email me any time at coraschwartz@gmail.com or text me on my face book page (Cora Schwartz) or FB messenger.

                                           ***************** WELCOME: Olga Kobylianska (1863-1942) is a Ukrainian writer, feminist and nationalist who is as revered, celebrated and loved today as she was in her day. She promised that her spirit would remain after her death, that she would always be with her people, and so it is.  My mission is to share what I know about Olga.  Do you want to know the personal story about how and why I became so interested in her? How could she be a feminist before there was even such a word?  How did she ignore ridicule regarding her beliefs, indignity and advocacy?   She taught women that they could in fact be independent in their (very) patriarchal society. She spoke for the marginal peasants and Gypsies where she lived and was quoted as saying something quite revolutionary for her time, "We are all God's children, Gypsies and whites alike."  What was Ukraine like in Olga's day and how about now as Ukraine is in the news, fighting for their freedom once again? We will present art, old photography, videos and opinions that originate in Olga's Ukraine. We will give you references to let you know about offers and announcements;  topics related to Olga's philosophy.  We know you will like what you see.  I held a conference in Chernivtsi, Olga's beloved city, a few years ago.  The theme was "What would Olga say today about ...?" There was standing room only! Now we want to use this theme again with regard to what would Olga say if she saw what we are about to present on this site?   *  Olga's most ardent dream was to present Ukrainian women writers to the outside world.  We look forward to Ukrainian's original work, not just from women of course (short stories, poetry, art)  Please read SUBMISSIONS page before sending any work.  All messages that you send, to introduce yourself will be kept personal and reviewed for acceptance.   Ласкаво просимо: Ольга Кобилянська (1863-1942) – українська письменниця, феміністка і націоналістка, яку сьогодні так само шанують, славлять і люблять, як і свого часу. Вона пообіцяла, що її дух залишиться після її смерті, що вона завжди буде зі своїм народом, і так воно і є. Моя місія — поділитися тим, що знаю про Ольгу. Хочете дізнатися особисту історію про те, як і чому я так зацікавився нею? Як вона могла бути феміністкою до того, як з’явилося таке слово? Як вона ігнорувала насмішки щодо її переконань, приниження та відстоювання? Вона навчила жінок, що вони насправді можуть бути незалежними в своєму (дуже) патріархальному суспільстві. Вона виступала від імені маргінальних селян і циган, де вона жила, і, цитували, що вона сказала щось досить революційне для свого часу: «Ми всі діти Божі, і цигани, і білі». Якою була Україна за часів Ольги, а як тепер, коли Україна в новинах знову бореться за свою свободу? Ми представимо мистецтво, стару фотографію, відео та думки, які виникли в Ольгиній Україні. Ми надамо вам посилання, щоб повідомити про пропозиції та оголошення; теми, пов’язані �� філософією Ольги. Ми знаємо, що вам сподобається те, що ви бачите. Кілька років тому я провів конференцію в Чернівцях, улюбленому місті Ольги. Тема: "Що б Ольга сказала сьогодні про ...?" Було лише місце для стояння! Тепер ми хочемо знову використати цю тему щодо того, що сказала б Ольга, якби побачила те, що ми збираємося представити на цьому сайті? * Найпалкішою мрією Ольги було представити світові українських письменниць. Ми з нетерпінням чекаємо оригінальних робіт українок, а не лише від жінок, звичайно (новели, поезія, мистецтво). Будь ласка, прочитайте сторінку подання перед надсиланням будь-якої роботи. Усі повідомлення, які ви надсилаєте, щоб представитися, залишатимуться особистими та перевірятимуться на предмет прийняття. Laskavo prosymo:Olʹha Kobylyansʹka (1863-1942) – ukrayinsʹka pysʹmennytsya, feministka i natsionalistka, yaku sʹohodni tak samo shanuyutʹ, slavlyatʹ i lyublyatʹ, yak i svoho chasu. Vona

Chernivtsi,  Ukraine           Shevchenko Square                          Nov. 2013 

Freedom is all they ever wanted, and still want today

[queerkeitcoven]

7 LGBTQ Ancestors To Invite to Your Sukkah

On Sukkot, it is traditional to invite honoured ancestors ("ushpizin/ushpizata") to join your festive meals in the sukkah. As some of you know, I am currently compiling an anthology of primary sources for LGBTQ Jewish history for publication (more info on that coming soon — stay tuned!) and my friend gave me the brilliant idea to pick some LGBTQ ancestors to invite as ushpizin/ushpizata this year. There are so so many wonderful stories to honour, but if I had to pick seven — here are the ancestors that my boyfriend and  I are inviting in this year. Feel free to share, or add your own!

1. Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea, a Palestinian amora [rabbinic scholar] ca. 300 CE. Rabbi Abbahu taught his students a midrash from his colleagues that Mordekhai nursed Esther himself; when his students heard him talking about a man nursing, they burst out laughing at him. What I would say to him: "Thank you for reminding us to amplify marginalized voices, even when they are ridiculed or dismissed. And thank you for your courage in imagining a diversity of bodies and gender expressions for our Biblical ancestors — that makes it possible to continue broadening our vision of Jewishness today. Welcome, Rabbi Abbahu of Caesarea, to our sukkah."

2. Ishaq Ibn Mar Sha'ul of Lucena, a Spanish poet and grammarian, ca. 975-1050. He was the first medieval Hebrew writer to compose homoerotic poetry, a genre which blossomed into such richness in the following centuries, comparing his beloved to figures like Joseph and David. What I would say to him: "Thank you for bringing such beauty to the expression of love, in words which resonate across the centuries. It doesn't matter whether your poems reflect your experience or not — what matters is that you brought them into the world, and in so doing gave a language for others to speak their feelings. Welcome, Ishaq Ibn Mar Sha'ul, to our sukkah."

3. Issach Mardofay [Isaac Mordekhai], a Catalan rabbi who was burnt at the stake for "sodomy" in Barcelona in 1365. What I would say to him: "Your death was a tragedy, a crime, and an unhealed wound in our historical memory. But you have not been forgotten — I draw my strength from you. Welcome, Issach Mardofay, to our sukkah."

4. Sarmad Kashani, a Persian Jewish poet, ca. 1590-1660, whose love for a Hindu youth inspired him to devote his life to the pursuit of spiritual unity, reciting mystical poetry and teaching across the Indo-Pakistani subcontinent, and who was executed by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb for heresy. What I would say to him: "Your life and work are an inspiration to all of us whose sexuality and gender do not push us farther away from our spiritual lives but rather draw us in. Thank you for refusing to live any other way but as your truest self. Welcome, Sarmad Kashani, to our sukkah."

5. Berel-Beyle, a young man from a small Ukrainian shtetl who was assigned female at birth, but always knew himself as a man. Born around 1870, he left his home for Odessa at the age of 23, where "a famous professor" helped him become the man he knew himself to be. When he returned to his shtetl, he was welcomed with open arms; he married his childhood sweetheart Rachel, joined the minyan, and was known by all as an upstanding Jew. What I would say to him: "Thank you for your courage to make your way in a world which barely had the words to acknowledge what you were. And thank you for returning home, allowing them to demonstrate that open-mindedness and communal hospitality to LGBTQ folks are part of our ancestral heritage too. Welcome, Berel-Beyle, to our sukkah."

6. "Agnes W.," the pseudonym for a Jewish lesbian who was interviewed by Magnus Hirschfeld in Berlin around 1910, at the age of 18. A music student, she admitted that she had struggled with social rejection and suicidal thoughts in the past, but declared that now "I consider myself innocent, totally healthy, and natural... I am satisfied with my natural sexual tendency and do not think any change is worthwhile or in my case even possible." What I would say to her: "Your strength of conviction in yourself was right — your love is innocent, healthy, and natural. We welcome and celebrate you for everything you are, and you have no need to hide anything anymore. Welcome, Agnes, to our sukkah."

7. Leo Skir (1932-2014), a gay Jewish activist, poet, and writer from New York, who was friends with beat poets like Allen Ginsberg and other activists like Frank Kameny. Skir published articles, theatre reviews, and even a novel, but after the 1970s was ignored and forgotten. He died in Minneapolis (where he had lived for decades), alone and unknown, the year before I moved here. What I would say to him: "We have forgotten our responsibilities to honour and respect our LGBTQ elders, even as we benefit from your legacy. We commit ourselves this year to doing better. If you are willing to forgive us, we would be honoured by your presence. Welcome, Leo Skir, to our sukkah."

Hag sameah to all!

[patoka-pal]

So, here’s a word-to-word translation of a poem «Не говори печальними очима» by Lina Kostenko. I’m not going to actually try and adapt it because I’ll have to basically completely rewrite the poem in order to do so, as what works in Ukrainian language doesn’t work in English.

I recommend you check out some readings of her poetry because Lina Kostenko is an important Ukrainian poet and she needs more recognition.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about poetry, really. I only write prose, so this translation will sound funky but I tried to preserve the connotation and the meaning of the poem as much as I could. There are instances of some obscure repetition, however, they’re important to the original text.

Don’t say with those sad eyes of yours

what no words can utter.

That is how the spontaneous tenderness arises.

That is how the thunder(stormy) silence appears.

Are you my dream, or my imagination,

or just some black magic of(in) my head...

What a rainbow stood between us!

What an abyss [now] lay between us!

Even in memory, I won’t say - beloved.

And still, [you] remember me someday.

Two fates were heading down two different paths.

[They] Embraced each other on the crossroads...

I’m in physical pain right now because I found a perfect poem that fits V’s route Ray so much but it’s in UkrAINIAN AND IT’S NOT POPULAR ENOUGH SO I HAVE TO YET AGAIN TRANSLATE IT MYSELF ;;;;;

You're doing the Lord's work over there.

Translation and translations are hard to come by because it takes a lot of work to change one thing to anothers rules. Why can't language be easier to sort through and why do we have to struggle forever to note the little differences? Commend people who know more than one language. Maybe cry for those that know at least 3 or 4 because I can't imagine jolting between that many at once.

But, if it's about a boy struggling for love and realizing that it is not in the cards for him but he loves so much that he is willing to let the MC go and be happy in their own way because all he truly coveted was their happiness. Then, we all crying tonight.

[frankcastorf-blog]

Annie Laurie Daniel

Non Fiction Writing

14 November 2016

DBT: A dark comedy

(My Experiences in a women’s treatment facility)

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, colloquially known as DBT, is a technique of therapy best described formally as: “a cognitive behavioral treatment that was originally developed to treat chronically suicidal individuals diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) and it is now recognized as the gold standard psychological treatment for this population. In addition, research has shown that it is effective in treating a wide range of other disorders such as substance dependence, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and eating disorders.”

THE ONLY THING THAT ENERGIZES ME IS THINKING ABOUT MYSELF

The waiting room was harshly lit. My eyes were heavy and swollen, my throat sore from chain smoking on the curb minutes before and my nose dripping from remnants of  DOC (drug of choice. DBT is filled with terms for all of our “trigger worthy” vices that land us in such intensive care.)The day after I graduated high school on June 12th, 2015 I was checked into a women’s residential treatment facility in Venice, California. I was eighteen, manic depressive and fresh off of a two year stint influenced by cocaine, harmful and traumatic sexual relations, liaisons and experiences and an overall toxicity that had me fifty-one-fiftyed too many times. A kind therapist and intake specialist had a thick clipboard with all of my information. I was crying, cold, and thirty pounds lighter than I am today. She went through a series of questions required for all intake’s into residential facilities. “Date of Birth?” “March 11th, 1997.” She paused. “Does that mean that you are seventeen?” No, I shook my head. It felt like a pumpkin that had been smashed by angry preteens, orange and rotting, seeds spilling out all around me. “I just turned eighteen.” She continued. “When was the last time you did a DOC and in what quantity?” The night before there were fifty of my classmates packed into my house in Bel Air. We had graduated from Le Lycée Français de Los Angeles less than 24 hours ago. I remembered all the thick white lines and the pink marble of my mother’s bathroom, several bottles of champagne consumed in my honor by myself, and the thick black smoke filled lungs heart and (soul?) before men used my body as their ashtray and I didn’t know how bitter other people and parts of myself could taste. Lonely and lost and very confused. Little to no self worth or inherent values or morals. Manic episodes weekly. Incredibly unstable, drug addicted, borderline alcoholic, uses sexual relations to fill the void and male figure left empty by absent father. “Cocaine and Alcohol, less than 12 hours ago. Moderate quantity.” She wrote it all down. “Why, aside from the obvious, are you here?” I remember shivering in that waiting room, although in the middle of June it must have been quite warm. She offered me a blanket and I accepted. Wrapped up like a baby. Poetry from the dirtiest of mouths makes them howl in delight. An atrocity committed for the amusement of others, a struggle to be heard amongst an unforgiving crowd. An attempt to connect to those who see the filth and hear not the words. “Sexual assault?” I nodded. “Suicide attempts?” A slower nod yes. “Well, then you’re in the right place.”

I checked into treatment alone while my family was on a two month vacation in India, many thousands of miles away. I checked out of treatment alone while my family was in France after their exotic adventure.

(The difference between a relapse and something you can get away with)

There’s something amazing about recovering addicts, regardless of the addiction. We were a small group of women in age ranging from eighteen to late fifties. We each had one roommate in separate room’s of two incredibly well kept houses on the West Side of Los Angeles. We weren’t allowed to use the phone or take a walk without permission from a “Community Consular”, one of the many qualified and over motivational 24/7 staff on location. We had curfews and set schedules and rules and requirements for every section of free time not spent in one of our many therapy groups including but not limited to: ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is a unique empirically based psychological intervention that uses acceptance and mindfulness strategies), CBT (Cognitive behavioral therapy), Mindfulness, Art Therapy, etc. We were loaded into minivans and escorted everywhere we went. It was posh, expensive, exhausting. To be forced into a position and required to examine and evaluate your every flaw and how to potentially...fix it? Absurd. I was an adult, legally speaking, I knew that much. I had lived on my own since I was fifteen, I didn’t need to be babied at rehab. Silly thoughts from a silly girl. I was there for a purpose, for a reason. My extreme emotions that had fueled my art and every action I made in my life for years was now diluted and told to be quiet. Quiet your unquiet mind, someone is paying for you to get better. Someone is paying for you to be healthy and function. I didn’t want to be functional, and I’m not sure I wanted to be alive. Life can be a cunt with its whirring wheels, wheels that are not intact but never stop. That's not to say that there have not been sweet moments among the bitter and alone. There have been sunny afternoons and sleepy mornings and nights that shake steadily until the sun rises. There has been wine poured and champagne kisses that were fucked out of me in baths and showers and beds all across Los Angeles and Paris. Tormented by a love that we cannot grasp. Too much love for the things that hurt us, that fill us temporarily with a feeling of purpose and meaning. Indulging in emptiness and romanticizing pain. Windows open, arms outstretched.

Some really cool people that i met and were really cool to me but the world was a huge dick to them

My roommate was Yasmine. She’s still one of my best friends to this day, the other night we went dancing in Lincoln Heights and drank Gin & Tonics and smoked spliffs and cigarettes in her apartment in Hollywood and laughed and cried about our time in Venice together. We are both Hollywood women, not meant to be confined by the ocean, the salt in the sea only wishes it could mirror the salt in our tears. We stopped crying out of sadness and started crying out of happiness over the summer. On June 15th, 2015 she barged into the house we resided in during those months by the saltless sea off of Lincoln and Rose and screamed “I’mmm baaaaack !” I hadn't met her yet, but she had been temporarily discharged after her insurance failed. 9 years older, 7 inches shorter, beautiful brown haired expat raised in Saudi Arabia with a similar manic depressive bipolar diagnosis as my own. It was love at first sight. We painted in the evenings, and we smoked in the mornings. We waited in line together twice a day outside of the “medicine chamber” where our beloved caretakers would sit patiently as we choked down our cocktail of numbing mood stabilizers and antidepressants and antianxiety and a few others just for fun. We gossiped until early in the morning about our lovers and our dreams and she read “Tropic of Cancer” out loud to me as I wrote her letters in French. The world was unkind to her in Burbank where she worked by day as a “creative assistant”. Men used her body as they used mine and left her strapped into hospital beds hazy and manic.

Ann loved frozen bananas. She was in her early fifties but looked a decade older. A mother of many from North Dakota, she was almost always silent, a woman raised in a time where women weren’t allowed to take up space with their bodies or minds, especially when they were as unquiet as her’s. There was a smoking bench at the facility, a beautiful stone slab covered with vines. I’ve never met an addict (recovered or in process of) that doesn’t smoke, aside from Ann. She would sit with us while we smoked on breaks between groups, our only vice still indulged. We would bitch heavily about our group leaders, our therapists and the many rights we no longer had, choosing to ignore the fact that we were there for a reason and had willingingly removed the toxic black tar from our eyes and hearts. While we blew out smoke and tap tap tapped our hands against our heads, legs and into the dirt Ann would quietly smile and nod. She knew the tax of being a woman too loud for the men around her. There was a girl my age that came into the program in hellfire. Court ordered, a self proclaimed sex addict, borderline personality queen high on compulsive lies. She would regularly reach into the freezer and eat Ann’s frozen bananas. Ann learned to yell when she confronted the frozen banana thief. The gang of gals was sitting in our usual smoking spot waiting to be driven in a godforsaken Honda Odyssey to Pottery Therapy off of Venice Blvd when Ann screamed for the first time, standing up for herself and her stolen frozen bananas. She doesn't deserve to have an abusive husband or resentful daughters. She deserves to live far, far away from Bismarck, North Dakota, with as many frozen bananas as she wants.

I miss myself a lot

I didn’t need help. I was older. I was mature. When I was fifteen my parents moved back to the east coast, the dirty south my father hailed from. My parents always hated LA. When I was fifteen my mother gave me the opportunity to live on my own. He was 56 when I was born, the last after several marriages and children, and he was deeply uninterested in my existence. I was a pet in my parents home. I didn’t have the brains that landed my sister at The London School of Economics, and it was clear I wasn’t going to be following in their path of super-lawyers. “Annie Laurie is such a hoot ! You know she’s an artist ?” I lived with a boy named Max in Hollywood, he was 21, Swiss-Ukrainian, would wear a thick pea coat and scarf even in July and rolled his own cigarettes as he waited for the mail. I went to Lycée and would illegally drive my mother’s BMW to school. It was a charmed life. Shortly after I fled for France for good, elated to be free of smog and freeways once again. I went to school and I took the métro or sometimes the bus. I had a lover named Anthony and I read lots of poetry and I got drunk on Tuesday nights and sometimes smoked hash. I didn’t do any drugs and I didn’t sleep around. I went to all my classes and I made films with my friends on the streets of Paris and I wrote in my diary and slept in on Sundays and kissed a lot of my friends for fun. Independence is earned. I thought that I had earned adulthood by living without my parents, cooking and cleaning for myself in a small apartment, I didn’t ever think I would be a manic, drug addicted, suicidal lady of the night. When I entered treatment I knew that I needed something, but there was no clear self diagnosis. I went back to Paris for a long weekend in May of 2015. Somber and skinny, my friends contacted my parents and suggested something dire needed to be done. I don’t remember that trip very well except for crying on the train from Rennes to Paris. I suppose that’s the trip that saved my life, but I guess I’ll never really know.

Leave me alone;

To be 14 in the south of France

Holding hands with a Romanian girl who I swore was my best friend and who’s name I cannot remember after 3 cocktails, 2 mimosas and a tall Pacifico.

She had black hair and a laugh that was pure. Her hand was smaller than mine, and we laughed while running through traffic in the streets of Nice, before there was terror and her passport rejected by Sarkozy.

I had my first wet kiss, my braces thick and my hair frizzy without my western appliances. I left my purse on a beach in Nice and lost my phone, wallet, and self esteem with a man much older, the first of many to come.

I remember drinking clear liquid that resembled rubbing alcohol but was purchased from a French man in a liquor store that merely mumbled “put in in your purse, don’t tell the police you bought it here.”

My first cigarette in the park, a Marlboro Menthol stolen from my sisters pack. Finally, feeling apart my of my culture. Many men have said “but you’re not really french, are you?”.

No, I was not born there. My parents are not French, one a blue blooded Boston bred heiress, the other a southern gentlemen that worked his way from nothing into deep wealth and the miscommunication and distance that comes with it.

But yes, I respond. Drunk, almost always, do you want to see my EU passport? My father always hated LA and I suspect he’s always hated me. I’m not resentful or angry at my parents. They provided me with so much……..opportunity. They allowed me to fend for myself with a platinum Amex. That was all they knew how to do, burried in their work and their lives. They were happy that way.

 DEAR DIARY: (THE CLASSIC OVERSHARER) (ARE ALL ADDICTS OBSESSED WITH THEMSELVES LIKE ACTORS OR JUST ME) Friday, June 12th, 2015: It is over. I am empty and alone. I am aware that this is the best thing for me but I am sad and scared. I am so deeply sad. Saturday, June 13th, 2015: They say that the first few days are the hardest. I believe it. I’m not allowed to make phone calls or leave this building until tomorrow. Play the game and try and get better. It’s all I can hope for. There’s one woman I’ve met that said she has a finacé and a boyfriend and has been in and out of treatment for over a year. Her mother told me that I look like I’m coming from the stables or a barn. Sunday, June 14th, 2015: Whenever I sleep I have nightmares. Wednesday, June 17th, 2015: The mornings here smell like ocean and grass and nice wood. We don’t have mornings like this in Bel Air. It reminds me of when I was a kid in the south of France, when I was little and very happy to be alive. Tuesday, June 30th, 2015: Today I feel frustrated, untrusted, apprehensive, nauseated. How’s that for mindfulness?

A question commonly asked in mindfulness: “When do you remember feeling loved? Happy? What brings you purpose?” I remember not feeling loved for six months in Echo Park. He was a sculptor, how ironic, as if I wasn’t already made of stone. I wanted him to see the value in me beyond my pussy but as he so often told me “If I can’t commit to my art, how can I commit to you?” I remember not feeling loved outside of dirty punk shows, a place I once considered a community had left me behind as a groupie and nothing more. Now that some time has passed I’m lucky that I escaped those dark sweaty rooms alive, they had nothing to offer me but toxicity and cruel partners with hard hearts and fast fast fast fucking guitars. I remember not feeling loved on the métro from République, raining quickly, my body moving slowly. Are these memories of wasted energy and soulsucking relations and using my body to validate my very existence to all men and mostly myself the reason I was in this situation in the first place? Reflection is key for a good memoir. While I had plenty of time to reflect on every poor life choice and abhorred interaction I had gotten myself into, there’s plenty of thoughts and memories that are still absorbed in the pink cloud of recovery. Sobriety is a mystical concept to me still. I’m livid that cocaine was done in my bathroom in my house a few weeks ago while I slept ten feet away. Friends don’t mess with other friend’s addictions, but my comfort and safety wasn’t a priority when a crisp 100 dollar bill was passed around by my classmates. When I was seventeen I was sleeping with a heroin addict. He was tall and skinny and very mean. YOU DON’T REMEMBER TELLING ME YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH ME WHEN YOU WERE SPEEDBALLING ON HEROIN THANK GOD YOU DON’T REMEMBER WHEN I SAID THAT I LOVED YOU TOO. I had to pull him out of my bathtub when he was nodding off one night at a party. He was wearing a red silk kimono. The dye had started to leak and melt off of his robe like blood. It got all over me as I carried his lanky body into my bed. I locked the door and cried as I put my cheek to his chest, cheek to chest, cheek to chest to hear his heartbeat. I took bumps of cocaine every time I made sure he was still alive. This was my senior year winter formal after party. I remember feeling very alone as I smoked a cigarette in my room waiting for him to wake up. The sun rose, and he eventually rose with it. Gave me a kiss on my face, did a bump of blow, and called a friend for a ride home. “You’re a good girl, Annie.” I nodded. I was a good girl, indeed.

Cocaine changed me in a way that I really liked. I lost a lot of weight and I sure did feel great ! Everyone I knew was a casual user. Most people I know still are. My year and a half sobriety is on December 12th, and I’m getting a cake. You can have some if you’ve never done coke in my house (most of my friends and one of my roommates did not pass this test.) I was aggressive and really happy at parties. I made myself vomit and I felt sublime. I slept through classes and broke into the bathroom at school to stop my bloody noses. I was happy to “function so well on such a great drug.” I had the money for it so I was fine. I was a compulsive liar, and so were all of my friends. I was satiated in my own misery and musically masturbated to my own crash. No one was stopping me, and the numbness that I lived in was far more enjoyable than living in a mediocre emotion of existence. Mundane rituals of Dicté and SAT prep were interrupted when punk boys in beat up cars would pick me up in Culver City and fuck me in dirty apartments in Santa Monica before taking me home to Bel-Air. I really missed my room in France. They didn’t like me talking about it very much. My connection to my home was pretentious and I was a bore. Cocaine made me interesting and more importantly, desirable (the drug and my constant possession of mass amounts kept my musicians happy and unkind.) I had shitty friends and no support system and no stability and that is the end of that.

 THINGS MY MOTHER HAS TAUGHT ME:

NEVER TAKE YOUR PURSE OUT AT THE PIGALLE METRO STOP

HOW TO DRINK WINE WITH DINNER (AND AFTER DINNER AND BEFORE)

HOW TO REGULATE AND RESTRICT EATING. THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE CALORIES ARE THE ONES IN YOUR MARTINI

GUILT TRIPS

THINGS MY MOTHER NEVER TAUGHT ME:

HOW TO FORGIVE OTHERS AND MYSELF

HOW TO LOVE SOMEONE, FUNCTIONALLY

PUSSY IS SACRED, DICK COMES FOR FREE.

The first time I was raped was April 2015. Outside of a party in Palm Springs during Coachella weekend, I waited for my Uber. I was there with a man I had met at a party, we flirted a little and did lots of cocaine. That was it. It was warm out when a stranger pushed me against the side of a truck, pulled my pants down, and fucked me. I was in shock. I didn’t start crying until the next day, when my friends abandoned me at the festival. Alone, I drove home. Pussy is sacred, dick comes for free. It comes when we don’t want it. Now we live in a time where over wine me and my best friends talk about the first time we were raped instead of first kiss stories. Losing a part of myself the second time I was raped by an older student at CalArts, the third time I was raped by my older boyfriend the fourth fifth and sixth times I was raped and I started losing count. When my mother was seventeen in 1973, driving outside of Portland, Oregon her Jeep broke down. While she attempted to fix it herself, two men in their 20’s pulled over and offered to help her jumpstart her car. Instead, they took turns raping her on the side of the road. Against her car. Like mother like daughter, raped by strangers in the night. Strange men with fast hands and a female timidness that won’t leave my bones after years of instruction to smile and make eye contact and be friendly and inviting. Pussy is sacred, so sacred men are willing to do anything to take it from you. Sometimes people don’t believe that you were attacked because they saw you arrive and leave the party together, regardless of the fact that your dress was broken and you were falling everywhere and couldn't open your eyes and your shoes had blood on them and he said that we was going to take you home. He said he was going to take me home. He told my friends he was getting me water and would clean the blood. I hope my blood stained his sheets I hope it never washed out. He said that red was his least favorite color. Funny, because there were dashes of it everywhere (RED LIKE my blood my hair my blood my hair my blood my hair).

I could write about why I ended up where I did and how I got started and the first line I ever did and the first manic episode I ever had and every infuriating moment spent being babysat and driven around in a Honda Odyssey and all the things I couldn’t talk about and all the things that I did anyways. How my art is fueled by my traumas and elations. But for now this is enough and I am enough as I am at least for today. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Cumbacksoon.