a prayer for the wild at heart
a girl, interrupted becomes a girl, domesticated
It was easy to sneak out of 8th period guitar class. Dave (Mr. Rose when I wanted to annoy him) had assigned Tool’s “Forty Six & 2”, allowing for a solid nine minutes to disappear through the back door. Today’s after school adventure? Getting my eyebrow pierced. Was I 18? Of course not. Did the shop care? Also, of course not.
Ashley asked, with genuine concern for my life, “Dude, isn’t your mom going to kill you?”
I adjusted my Hello Kitty crop-top and shrugged, “Right after she rips the ring out herself, yeah. We all gotta die sometime, Ash.”
Some nights, as I get to step 4 of my skincare routine and reach for my avocado melt eyecream, while the gentle lull of Seinfeld re-runs provides the soundtrack to my 30-something life, my fingertips linger at the scar. For a brief moment, before I get to the moisturizer segment of my GRWM (to go to sleep), I am 16 again. Making decisions with the reckless abandon of a teenager who has nothing to lose.
Ashley was the kind of friend I couldn’t list as my emergency contact, she’d be in the ER room or jail cell next to me. When I wanted to take a drunk stroll through St.Marks and end up getting a Tennessee Williams line tattooed on my forearm, Ash helped me pick out the font. When another boy broke my fragile heart, she’d be at our usual park bench with two pints of ice cream ready to list 10 reasons that douchebag didn’t deserve me anyway. As we’d walk out of the drugstore she would proudly whip out the electric blue mascara she stole for me, because she remembered it made my brown eyes pop. And when one of our Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-style benders landed me in my first (and last) Narcotics Anonymous meeting, Ashley knew to give me the space I needed to ground myself.
A few blacked-out years later, I’ve settled into a life that doesn’t call for rebellious 3pm piercings on a Monday. Those have been replaced with a few strategic tattoos my mother somehow hates a little less. The only heart I break is occasionally my own when I purposely re-read Wuthering Heights. I have a doting boyfriend and our biggest area of contention is over how loudly I play the Deftones (not loud enough if you ask me) and how often he does the dishes (never). There is no longer a desire for drugged adventures that end up in Hartford motels or Lower East Side trap houses. Now the only highs I seek are from finding my favorite cheese is still in stock at Trader Joe’s. From stumbling upon a first edition of a favorite book, a really solid workout or afternoon walk, from discovering an exceptionally terrifying horror film. My friends and family today have me listed as their emergency contact. The same friends who staged an intervention for me at a bar (it’s the only way they would be certain I’d show up). As for Ashley, she’s a whole functioning adult herself. Raising a beautiful baby girl and nurturing a new career, with a loving husband.
Yet still, I get the urge to call Ashley, and not just to say “hi”. To see if we could still get kicked out of a pub again. To see if we remember all the words to Garth Brooks Friends in Low Places 4 shots of Jameson deep. Does she have the numbers to any of our old dealers? Damn, I know I don’t.
Every now and then I want to pick a fight with my boyfriend, whose only transgression would be that he didn’t pick one with me first. The melancholy monster inside wants to live out her tragic sad girl destiny, to break something so she can write about how she cleaned up the mess afterwards. When things get too light, I look to the familiar warmth of the darkness to call me back home. I want to pay that girl a visit, because goddamnit she knew how to have fun.
Those little moments that bring destruction, they still bring a glimmer to my eye. It is my own siren song I am trying to tune out. Or turn up. Sociopaths are made, they say. Is it possible to be your own Lestat?
I spoke to Ashley recently. Her daughter is turning 2 and asks if her cool aunt Susie will be there. A different kind of party for us these days. And yes of course aunt Susie will be there, what color slime do you want?
Once you hit your 40’s the urge goes from burn it all down to run into the woods and never engage in society again. I can’t decide which one is worse.
I admit that I play Passenger, by Deftones a few octaves higher than their other songs