Writing is my Drug

July 25th, 2002. Your 24th birthday party, two weeks before you passed. You loved your nieces and nephews more than anything and we loved you right back. 

Dear Uncle Jeff,

I got high for the first time last night—in my oral surgeon’s office, no less. Novocaine numbed my gums, and laughing gas permeated my nose. I felt the euphoric rush of tranquility wash over me as the doctor yanked out that little monster of a wisdom tooth. It truly was an outer body experience and when it was over I looked wildly at the surgeon and through a gurgled sedated state said, “Holy shit, can we do that again?” I know what you’re thinking. Me, the ‘say no to drugs’ gal. I made a promise to you and myself from a young age to help people who were struggling with addiction and fight the mental health stigma. 

You’d be surprised to know that well into 2017 people are still abusing narcotics (Think: Heroin and painkillers) more than ever. In a New York Times poll earlier this year, the study reveals drug overdoses are now the leading cause of death among Americans under 50 with 59,000 people dying in 2016 alone. (Holy smokes, I know). In a lot of other ways too it’s like we never really left the 90’s. I even went to go see one of our fave bands, RHCP, a few years back. Anthony Kiedis is still alive and well, can you believe it? His bestselling book about addiction, ‘Scar Tissue,’ is one of my all time faves.  

But I digress.

Whether you know it or not you taught me a lot about perspective, how to view the world and the people who inhabit it. You’ve taught me not to judge people based on their internal fight an outsider like me might not know they’re fighting. Because I know now how hard you tried, how hard you fought to overcome it. That bad and good are blanket words and don’t factor into a person’s whole being. Because we’re all many different people. Sometimes I feel 8 people living inside me, sometimes 10. We’re multifaceted creatures, and that’s a beautiful thing. I try to look at people’s character separate from their actions. Because when I think of you I don’t think of you in your struggle and in your death, because I never knew what you were going through. I think of you in your life, the short time we spent together, through your letters, and see a pure sweet soul. I think of you standing on my doorstep in the pouring rain handing me my 6th birthday present. A light up lamp occupying one of the bedrooms in the doll house my parents got me. How fitting as you emitted so much light in the 24 years you spent on this earth. After you passed I carried it around school when I missed you, so that I could always have a part of you with me.

I never used to say the word drug without flinching but over the years, as I will soon be approaching the age of your death, I’ve realized everybody has a drug. Everybody has a remedy or a vice to take away their own personal struggle. From a young age, writing was my drug. It continues to be my drug and I don’t plan on stopping my addiction any time soon. As soon as pen hits paper I feel transfixed. I get so caught up in the English lexicon; it never ceases to fascinate me. Words are my cocaine. Syllables and adjectives and hyphen’s are my euphoria. Idioms and platitudinous proverbs are my high. I snort my words like they’re freshly lined up, waiting for me to breathe in. It gives me life.

 Crafting a piece for me often times creates itself. I say creates itself, because sometimes the voice replicated onto paper flows so naturally it takes on a life of it’s own. One syllable after the next till there’s a string of words, sequenced together like they were fabricated solely to be adjacent to one another. I keep a journal near my bed side and in my backpack at all times in case I wake up in the middle of the night with an interesting thought or read a book on the subway with an interesting new word I want to explore. You see? There are so many more good drugs than there are bad. Creative addictions like writing, painting, building, that makes the world a better place. And music. You would know, because you were a total rockstar. Your feelings covered by lyrics and the strum of your guitar. Not all drugs take people away; artistic remedies enhance the world. I’d like to think my writing enhances the world for somebody the way your existence enhanced mine. 

You were a writer too, Uncle Jeff. In the last few years I’ve discovered old letters you mailed us during your year in Israel. Scripted handwriting, like poetry sprawled onto crisp paper. I love crisp paper, its ability to recycle and turn into something new. Isn’t that what life's about? God gave us creation for us to recreate. Seeds to make trees to make paper, to make words, to make writing, to make life. Everything comes back to life in the end. You sparked so much in me that the least I can do is recreate the blueprints you left for us to finish for you. I hope my zest to reach people through words like you always strived for, makes you proud. 

Excerpt from a letter: I'll call you soon, don't forget to listen to mommy + play nice with Isaac- I love you + miss you. See you soon. Uncle Jeff

  When I read those letters I see the depth you held, I see a lot of you in me. The vulnerability you encompassed, the caring persona you embodied, the passion, the free-spirit, and most of all the authenticity. I remember you most for being real. You wouldn’t like this generation very much, the age of social media. People lost their authenticity cards over the years and replaced them with fake captions and personas. Just recently I mailed my friends obsolete post cards during my study abroad. But that’s a rarity. Usually I’d send concise texts trying to convey a message far greater than 250 characters can ever truly say. 

Your old friend and bandmate prefaced the song he played for you last year at the SBH event we organized in your memory by saying you had a “complicated but gentle, soft nature.” All your friends said you were the first one to call and check up on them or sit with them at a party when they looked alone. Always empathetic and transparent, so aware of your surroundings and other people’s pain even through your own. Your best friend finally (after much nagging over the years) gave me the Zines you both published in the 90’s. You were the raddest. How lucky am I? 

Love,

Your Baby-Bop Bon

P.S: Hope you’re rocking out with Kurt Cobain in heaven. I won’t tell him you kissed Courtney Love, if you don’t. Deal?  

Zine from the 90's part 1

Zine part 2

The Girls' Room

Everyone has a group chat. Unless you're amish.

Either that or you still haven't upgraded from a flip phone.

Or, you don't have a group of friends that want to participate in the same activities, thoughts and ideas as you. I give you an unscripted raw version of some things said in my group chat over the span of two days, that I must say, really reflect on our personalities and commonalities as a whole. 

"You know when you give someone a very big hello? And they don't big hello you back? I'm very serious about my big hellos. Anyone feel me?" - Well, do you? 

"Wolf and lamb is sick, you need to try the apricot bacon." - Group chat is like your personal Wine 'n Dine. 

"It's very hard for me to keep up with this chat, you guys go a mile a minute and I never have service." -  Chat participant currently in the negev hiking her way through all of Israel. 

"There are so many weddings coming up, cannot wait. Need a ton of dresses. Fun, but also not fun." - FUN BUT ALSO NOT FUN is a great tag line for almost anything. Going to equinox = fun but also not fun. Running into an old ex = fun but also not fun. 

"Let's hang soon!!! Tomorrow night maybe??" - Tomorrow night turns into next week turns into bump into each other at a wedding or at, like, Element Nails only to say yet again, "We need to hang out!!" 

"Need an idea for a couples costume." - This was met with sarcastic raunchy suggestions which in turn was met with a HAHAHA  I hope you're kidding he would NEVER do that. 

No one seemed to think my ideas were very funny

"I have to choose a political topic for my research paper comparing two political systems with an issue. So if I want to do it on the Israel Palestinian conflict, which other country can I compare them to? On another note, is anyone around to go shopping now?" - The former question was met with fearless crickets. The latter question posed seemed to get a better response. 

"If I clicked on his Snapchat story 100 times, can he see how many times I clicked it??" - A simple link response sufficed.  Thankfully, the answer was no. Creepiness averted. 

Cheesiness is welcomed in the chat. But we will only laugh past 1AM. Also, we're very over this bitstrip app Mill. 

"Let me have my weekly meltdown." - Me, after my weekly meltdown. They let me have it. Because they're all pretty great. Meet the chat!

Shelly likes food. Food likes Shelly. Shelly is currently the director of photography at Solifornia. This summer she hopped on a greyhound and backpacked her way through Southern America. We were not surprised. 

This is Frieda and Frieda's tongue. Frieda likes to find adventure in her own backyard now as she already traveled the world and didn't come back from India with Malaria but did come back with great stories so we are thankful for that. 

This is Millie pictured with a lion because she spent her winter volunteering in South Africa. Which is so Millie-esque of her. A good 60% of her chat participation entails speaking about her Bae. 

This is Grace currently freezing her ass off somewhere in the Negev. We miss you so much Grace! 

I chose an overly filtered picture of myself because it's my blog and I call the shots. But I don't actually take the shots. Shelly is the photographer after all. (It's 1am, cheesiness is allowed)

Friends with Benefits

   The girl to guy ratio in my friend group is an estimated 2 to 8—the latter of the numerical values denoting the guys and the former denoting my friend and I, the so called “Jess and Cece” of the group. I was led to believe I had a pretty cool social structure throughout high school, but when guy’s night out rolled around this summer my friend list came up short.  So Cece and I, (I made her Jess because her bf looks exactly like Nick), ended up sitting like middle-aged housewives sipping wine by my Jacuzzi as if we were waiting for our husbands to come home. And I, a big believer in not waiting on anybody refused to desperately pick up the phone after our guy friends made it clear there would be no girls at this only guy’s night. I.e. Beer pong and Fart jokes. Unless movie culture completely screwed with my mind and what they’re really doing is talking about their feelings.

 Aside from guy’s night and other obvious downsides like catching feelings or having to divide your time between the guy you’re seeing and them, there are quite a few upsides to having many guy friends:

1: The Wing Man/Woman Effect:

Being a Wing Woman really tests your womanly charm. Point being, I really suck at it. On many occasions my guy friends have asked me to be their Wing Woman and on every occasion I’ve failed.  It got to the point where they’d avoid me at parties after we walked in together, because I was “holding them back from meeting girls.”

 You’re probably thinking, “She’s THE worst.” BUT last week I met someone who was even worse than me.

 In between agreeing to go with one of my girl friends to a bar last week for someone’s birthday and agreeing with that same friend that it was time to leave said bar because essentially we were at a Bar-Mitzvah-frat-party screaming over One Direction lyrics and sipping on solo cups, a rando girl approached me.

 “Oh my Gd! Were you on Birth Right last year? I totally recognize you!” She asks. I wasn’t in the mood to schmooze, and was silently cursing my blatantly Jewish appearance. I really was on birth right last year though, do I pretend to remember her?

“I don’t remember you!” I say. Fake toothy smile.

 “OMG! Maybe my friend will remember you! I’m going to go get him.” She runs and gets her guy friend.

 After a series of one liners, small talk, and Oh My Gd's, she asks, “So what was your favorite part?” Of Birth right? Jesus, are we still talking about this? I don’t remember you. Or your friend. “Oh I don’t know… the camels?” I respond. The conversation slowly dissipates and they walk away. I watch the guy walk back to the rest of his friends with a thumb down saying, “I couldn’t get with her. She didn’t get it.”

Using birth right as a mechanism to wing woman your Jewish guy friends at bars?! Can’t use that one at an SY party now can you?

 There was supposed to be an upside to this: Upside is even if you’re a bad wing woman or bad wing man, at least you’re seen with someone at a party who is of the opposite sex. It doesn’t mean you have any game (clearly), it just makes you look more appealing and approachable (in my opinion).  And extra points if the opposite sex you’re with is good looking!

2: Pretending He’s Bae:

 Some guys just don’t get the hint. They don’t even get the truth. They don’t even understand that one word responses and exclamation mark free texts mean She’s Just not That into You.  So when you’ve already said your cat died on one occasion and you’re busy building legos with your niece on another, tell the persistent guy that’s on your case next time that you have a boyfriend. The following convo for realz happened:

 Persistent guy: Hey, what are you doing tonight?

 Me: My boyfriend is coming to pick me up now; we’re going to lighthouse.

 Persistent guy: I saw a guy last week at the party to-ing you all night.

 Me: Yep! That was my boyfriend.

 Persistent guy: I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!

 **Never texts me again**

 You say boy friend, he says boyfriend affirming he understands to back off. You’re now on the same wavelength.

 Another scenario would be to pretend he’s your husband/boyfriend to get into a party. It really happened. Husbands are the new bracelets.  

3: You can ask them guy things:

 “Do guys know if a girl is wearing makeup?”

 “ If you were my boyfriend and saw me in this outfit would you think I look hot?”

 “Red dress or purple dress? Or does it not matter?”

 “What’s it take for him to notice me!” *Crying emoji*

 “ Are guys going to care that I’m a mess? Like you’ve seen what my wallet looks like and you always look horrified.”

 “Can you please be my date? Or at least pretend you’re with me? Fine you can just stand beside me."

 “Did I say anything stupid last night when I was drunk? Cmon you would tell me if I ranted about you-know-who." 

 “Do you guys read my blog or do you just say you do the way you say you’re going to miss the Mets game to hang out with me when we both know that’s total BS.”

 “ If all my girl friends get hitched before me, will you be my bridesmaid? Or will you marry me by the time we're 40? 

Wine for Dummies

   I met Abigail one year ago today. Dr Polov’s waiting room smelled like daisies that morning—an aura of warm tones hovered on the surface of my nostrils and I covertly gagged through my mouth once the smell drew closer. I didn’t catch the culprit till she walked by my peripheral view into his office and I saw a trail of her scent abandoned as she closed the door behind her. I heard murmurs from inside and the only full words from the English language I could make out in between the buzz of the air-conditioning were, “Father,” “Them”, and “ Why”.  

   She emerged from the room some 45 minutes later still mysterious as ever and I caught the shadow of her hair—wild and free— and the shape of her nose; slightly crooked in a beautiful sort of way. I didn’t know it at the time but the loveliest woman in the world once sat on the chair beside me—a queen on her thrown. She left a book behind and I grabbed it before any other prince charming could.

“David, come on in.” I heard Dr. Polov’s voice, but chose to drown it out for several more seconds so that I can envelop myself in the imagery of spring and smell the remnants of fresh daisies.

   ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  “Wine for Dummies,” the book title read. A girl who smells like daisies, hair wild and free, nose crooked in a beautiful sort of way—what could she possibly be doing with a book called wine for dummies?

   I wash my hands with purell.

Usually I spend the 10-minute subway ride home from Dr. Polov’s office trying to think of all the ways I can incorporate all the ways he tries to fix me in our session prior into the banalities of my daily routine.

I wash my hands with purell a second time.

 I skim through Wine for Dummies.

My foot taps the ground in a consecutive motion.

I learn new things. Brut is pronounced Brute. Now that’s just silly. Tannic wine leaves the mouth feeling dry. The oldest winery is founded in ancient Armenia. Interesting.

    I read it on my walk home. I continue reading it in the bathtub. I read it before I head off to bed and almost forget to check if I locked the doors and if I shut the oven off. By the end of it I know nothing more about her than I did before. She must be seeing Dr. Polov every week because she’s an alcoholic. It’s the only way to make sense of it all.

I count the tiles on the ceiling. 1, 2, 3, 4. I count them clockwise. 1,2, 3,4. I dreamt that night of crooked noses, hair wild and free, and the smell of daisies.

   The following week I make sure to pack her book in my briefcase, the one my mother got for me as a Christmas gift 5 years ago and I swore I’d never wear. If she knew I listened to her just once she may badger me to rid of my ginger beard that I felt complemented my blue eyes the way the sun only could.

   It didn’t fit in the satchel I usually carry to and from Dr. Polov but I emptied out my belongings and transferred them over to the leather briefcase making sure to organize them exactly as they once were.

  I got there early in case I should miss her by one wild hair. She was sitting there. She was lovely. I approached her with the book outstretched in my raw hands.

   “Excuse me, Miss?”

   “Yes?” Her voice was saccharine-sweet.

“ You left your book here last week, “ I replied hesitantly.

“Hm. Oh gosh. I was wondering where that disappeared to,” She responded.

“Wine for Dummies?” I couldn’t leave her be without an explanation.

She looked at me for a moment and opened her mouth before closing it again. When she finally got her thoughts together she said,

  “I saw this book left behind at a bar one night. I presume, by a bartender. I’m the type of girl who finds pleasure in reading all kinds of things. The encyclopedia fascinates me. I didn’t think twice about bringing the book home with me the same way you wouldn’t think twice about bringing home a pretty girl.”

She was wrong. I think twice about everything. I check. And I count. And I make sure of things. I clean. I clean some more.

But with her, I never thought twice.