What is Fandom?

Fandom is focus. Fandom is obsession. Fandom is insatiable consumption. Fandom is sitting for hours in front of a TV screen a movie screen a computer screen with a comic book or a novel in your lap. Fandom is eyestrain and carpal tunnel syndrome and not enough exercise and staying up way, way past your bedtime.

Fandom is people you don’t tell your mother you’re meeting. Fandom is people in the closet, people out and proud, people in costumes, people in T-shirts with slogans only fifty others would understand. Fandom is a loud dinner conversation scaring the waiter and every table nearby.

Fandom is you in Germany and me in the US and him in Australia and her in Japan. Fandom is a sofabed in New York, a roadtrip to Oxnard, a friend behind a face in London. Fandom talks past timezones and accents and backgrounds. Fandom is conversation. Communication. Contact.

Fandom is drama. Fandom is melodrama. Fandom is high school. Fandom is Snacky’s law and Godwin’s law and Murphy’s law. Fandom is smarter than you. Fandom is stupider than you. Fandom is five arguments over and over and over again. Fandom is the first time you’ve ever had them.

Fandom is female. Fandom is male. Fandom lets female play at being male. Fandom bends gender, straight, gay, prude, promiscuous. Fandom is fantasy. Fandom doesn’t care about norms or taboos or boundaries. Fandom cares too much about norms and taboos and boundaries. Fandom is not real life. Fandom is closer than real life. Fandom knows what you’re really like in the bedroom. Fandom is how you would never, could never, be in the bedroom.

Fandom is shipping, never shipping, het, slash, gen, none of the above, more than the above. Fandom is love for characters you didn’t create. Fandom is recreating the characters you didn’t create. Fandom is appropriation, subversion, dissention. Fandom is adoration, extrapolation, imitation. Fandom is dissection, criticism, interpretation. Fandom is changing, experimenting, attempting.

Fandom is creating. Fandom is drawing, painting, vidding: nine seasons in four minutes of love. Fandom is words, language, authoring. Fandom is essays, stories, betas, parodies, filks, zines, usenet posts, blog posts, message board posts, emails, chats, petitions, wank, concrit, feedback, recs. Fandom is writing for the first time since you were twelve. Fandom is finally calling yourself a writer.

Fandom is signal and response. Fandom is a stranger moving you to tears, anger, laughter. Fandom is you moving a stranger to speak.

Fandom is distraction. Fandom is endangering your job, your grades, your relationships, your bank account. Fandom gets no work done. Fandom is too much work. Fandom was/is just a phase. Fandom could never be just a phase. Fandom is where you found a friend, a sister, a kindred spirit. Fandom is where you found a talent, a love, a reason.

Fandom is where you found yourself.

Don't let the monsters win

This does not begin the way they tell you,
The way they promise you as
you wait in the hospital watching
your friend heaving into a paper bag
There is no way for your body to
make sense of a poison so close to the
heart and so engraved in the mind
They will tell you it is possible to
live a normal life if you remember to
take your pills, and drink your water
and chart your feelings. Like a child
learning the alphabet, I have learned
my way through sad-angry-mad-happy
I have felt my way through the dark room
and slept at the foot of the monsters bed

He smiles at me in the dark, he tells me
He controls the light. You never know
When its going to get better.
The map it leaves is scars running
from your hip bone to your inner thigh
that no man will ever kiss in the moonlight
and you try the new words, tasting them
on your tongue –

“I’m okay.”
“I’m fine”
“How about you?”

Nothing could taste worse than the
uncertainty of being left cold and dead
in the arms of your own self.

My best friend tried to kill herself twice.
I remind myself of her presence, of the way
she is the sun in my sky, the moon in my path.
I cannot feel anything.

My heart stops in the base of my throat.
I remember what it feels like,
lying alone at the bottom of a bathtub,
lungs filled with water.

I have been learning to breathe since
I took my first breath out of that tub.

I have spent too many months,
washing my hands of my own blood,
Tasting the trouble I caused
on the inside of my gums
I am sorry for those I hurt
when I was trying to gauze myself up.

This is remembering that growth
begins with the rough plough
of a man bigger than a seed
But even trees grow larger
than any man.

I wait for the monster to turn on the lights.
Today could be a good day.
If only you take your medicine.
If only you make your train.
This begins with a word
Recovery
and it never truly ends.

This poem is for all my friends.
The ones who gulp for air, and the ones
who are scared to sleep at night.
The ones who became more than statistics,
and subway delays.

I’m happy your monsters didn’t win.

And

This is for every
Personal injury at track level.

I am here in your memory

Dear Douchebag, Thank You.

Dear Douchebag,

I could sit here and make a list of every single reason I hate you and why you should be unable to reproduce…but being bitter is no fun. Instead, I will say thank you for all you made me suffer through because I am so much better for it.

First of all, thank you for making me feel worthless. Without your hurtful comments or all the times you ignored me, I may have never seen the value in compliments or appreciate someone taking the time to pay close attention to me. I may have never felt the compassion of someone who tries to understand me and all the crazy things that I do. I may never have learned to love my own quirks instead of trying to hide them.

Thank you for making me cry. Without that pain, I may not have known the comfort that best friends can bring in times of heartbreak. I may have never learned how valuable these friendships were and possibly taken their constant love and support for granted. As they say, we can't appreciate the rainbow without a bit of rain. Thank you for being the thunderstorm.

Thank you for playing games with my heart. Without your wishy-washy, fickle attitude regarding our relationship, I may not have recognized genuine love when it presented self in my life. I may have set aside those who really cared and instead settled for someone who just considered me another level of some game. I may never have learned how deep the love of friends and family really runs. Without you, I would never have learned how important it is to love those around and to learn how to be truly loved. Not lusted after.

Thank you for disrespecting my body. Without your objectification and infatuation with “going as far as you could” with me, I may not have ever felt the respect of someone who understood my beliefs on waiting until I was ready. I may not have seen myself as the beautiful person that I am, and instead felt hollow and empty. I may have only seen myself as a pretty face, but only after putting a lot of time and effort into hiding behind a mask. Thank you for helping me realize that there is more to me than surface appearances. I am a deep, complex individual that I may not have known without your lack of respect.

And finally, thank you, thank you , thank you for walking out my door and never coming back. Without your abandonment, I may  have never felt the love and happiness that comes with a relationship that can withstand anything. I may never have learned all of this about myself. I may never have come to appreciate the good, the bad, and the ugly in life.

I wish you all the sweet nothings of the world.

Sincerely,

A valuable, strong, happy, beautiful woman

Why must we romanticize depression?

My sadness was never beautiful. My depression was not poetic. It was swallowing pills and and laughing to convince everyone that I was fine.

Depression is not Lana Del Rey music, with smeared black eyeliner and tears running down your face. It is not a blood-stained tub, or the blade sitting across from you. It is not being rocked back and forth by a boy as he kisses your head and whispers “I love you,” repeatedly in your ear.

Depression is not the dread you feel when the person you love the most doesn’t text you back. Depression is disgusting. It is low and filthy and dirty and it eats you away, bit by bit. Depression is the stale smell of your room and your clothes, because you have no energy to clean anything. It is sitting in the bathtub for hours as you feel that dirty type of clean, letting the hot water run down your body in no aims to stand up and turn it off. It is the hunch in your back and the the defeated slouch in your shoulders, the kind that your parents always try to fix, exclaiming “Sit up straight,” but what good does that ever do. Depression is the hours spent lying in your bed, trying desperately to fall asleep but never being able to. It is your eyes being so heavy-lidded and the circles under them that don’t fade, even after a good nights sleep.

Depression is the sinking feeling you get when you enter school and your mind is already set - why would you care about your grades when you don’t even care about your life? It is the darkest kind of dark, the kind that intoxicates your brain and turns your best friends to enemies, your family to people you simply push away so they don’t have to hurt just because you do. It is the raw feeling of emptiness, the kind that gnaws at your very insides and leaves you nothing more than a walking skeleton, incapacitated and incapable of feeling anything but sorrow and sadness for nobody but yourself. Depression is the deepest hole you could ever think of, the only one you could ever think of because you dug it yourself. It is being not only unable, but unwilling to pull yourself up, having the darkness swallow you whole.

Depression is not rain. It is being unable to see the sun, even after the rain has passed.

The fear of falling in love

Falling in love.

It seems a foreign concept to me. While I know very well what love is, for I have loved and am loved, I have yet to find out how it is to be IN love. I’ve had the butterflies, I’ve felt the tingling, my heart racing and I’ve had breathtaking moments that accompanied these sensations. But somehow, I’ve never allowed myself to go beyond the mere attraction, the primary stages of curiosity and affection. For so many years I saw examples of long-lasting relationships, happy marriages as well as those less successful partnerships, and for some reason I’ve decided to assume that the latter would be my fate. Truth be told, perhaps it’s the in-built feeling of being unworthy of love, undeserving of someone who would devote themselves to me, resulting out of fear that I will let them down. So, afraid of disappointing my potential, significant other, I assume that they will do the same to me, and what would be classed as rejection, makes me fear the idea of neglect, so I reject them first. Crazy? Yes. Unjustified? No.

I have a similar issue with travelling. I not only fear that I may be late for my plane, but I am scared of the idea of fearing that I might miss my plane; this consequently leaves me in panic, stressed about being stressed over failing to be early enough in order not to be stressed that I might miss my plane. I suppose that, colloquially, we’d call this a classic case of paranoia.

Not to say I don’t simultaneously enjoy the thrill of travelling and the adrenaline rush that comes when everything is down to the last minute. I guess it’s a love/hate relationship I have with risk. Don’t we all.

I’ve digressed, but allow me to get back on track and link the two cases.

The potential of love, for me, is like a plane. I have a ticket, I’m at the right gate (at least most of the time), but despite all signs pointing me to that one plane, I still need reassuring that it is the right one. I need to know for a fact, that once I get on, I won’t find out that it’s indeed, the wrong one, taking me in the opposite direction, somewhere, where I don’t know anyone, where I’m vulnerable and unarmed. So, I stand there, at the gate, checking my ticket, staring at the departure board, then checking the ticket again, checking, checking, checking…and then the plane takes off, slowly gaining air.

And I’m there. Still standing – both disappointed in myself for not having the courage to get on, and relieved because, well, I’m still me, untouched, in one piece, undamaged, unmoved. The only damage done is that I’ve deprived myself of happiness... but, I’d rather blame myself for slowly taking myself apart, than be torn into pieces in one tear by someone I trust. So I guess I’m the kind of person who would choose a slow and painful death, than a quick beheading. In spite of it all, I get to half-enjoy the pleasures life has to offer: I get to experience lust, desire, friendship and the dream of something more, but that’s as far as I can go. A dream.