Rescue Me

I've fallen down on the job, my babies.

For reals.

The last few months...I don't know.

Transitions are so rough. So, I left South Central and moved up here to Rust City, and everything was so different. Rust City is a great place and all--no complaints here--but it's so different from South Central that I think I got the culture shock. I mean, once the initial distractions of moving and unpacking and junk fell away, I started having a bit of a panic. The panic of realizing I was basically alone in a new city--once again, a girl completely on her own. I mean, there are folks here in Rust City I can call in the case of an emergency, folks that I can count on for the occasional work lunch and once-a-month knees-up at a karaoke bar in the country, but there's no one local that's really a part of my everyday life, you know? No one I can call up after work to chat about the crazy things that happened that day. No one to plan strange art projects with. No one to cause trouble with. No one to go to concerts. Or on road trips. Or watch movies. Or stay up all night with and have those conversations you only have at 3am. You know, just no one.


And that's kind of an intense realization, yo. Especially after being in South Central, which was so remote and really, so awful in so many ways that I wasn't equipped for that kind of realization. Because Rust City was going to be the land of milk and honey, where everyone was nice, and no one was going to think I was a horrible heathen whore just because I was over the age of 21 and unmarried and not in The Church. Rust City was going to be the place where I could live in all my peacock-feather glory without getting glares from the Stink Eye Gang every time I left my apartment or getting photographed by children with cell phones when I went to the park. Rust City was going to be a place where I could breathe, you know? And it is, and I don't think I've met a single rude stranger here, and I have yet to be documented on film or thrown the Stink Eye, so that's all great. But I'm by myself.

And South Central...well, it's a horrible, hateful, oppressive place, and I would never, never, never move back there for all the money and John Fluevog shoes in the whole wide world, but I had some people there. Very, very few people, but they were awesome. And the thing about bonding with people in really awful, remote places is that it makes your attachments so, so intense. So when I think about the ones I really consider my people there, I love them so much I want to bite them, or at least shove them in my mouth and hold them there for a while. (I know that Clark--King of the Ferocious Love Bite--understands this impulse completely.) But then I moved up here in a whirlwind and when the dust finally settled, I was floating around completely alone, like a big, pink balloon some child had accidentally let go. And after all the rigid social rules in South Central, it was like I didn't know how to communicate with people without fear of reprisals, or at least fear of firing. I didn't have anyone here to really connect with, and I didn't really remember how to connect, even if I did.

And it reminded me a lot of when I moved back from Wales after those four crazy, brutal months in that crazy, brutal town by the Irish Sea. I stood out so badly there that I couldn't leave my bedsit without attracting some kind of attention, good or bad--and the bad was awfully, violently bad. So those of us who got tight got tight. We worked and trained together all day, every day, and we went out together all night, every night. And there was perhaps an element of dependence in there, for survival. There was on my part, anyway. And as the one who always seemed to garner unwanted attention, there were members of our little gang--a certain Mr. Fox in particular--who took it upon themselves to protect me, which was new for me and, at the moment, was exactly what I needed.

I had never been so lost as I was Over There. Really, there was this perfect storm of factors that contributed to the complete loss of myself. I had been told I was being brought to begin research for a book, but when I got there I discovered I'd be taking inventory of a library and organizing parties for visiting artists. When I began planning the trip, I had plenty of money to make it through the summer, but just as I left the American dollar totally tanked, leading to an exchange rate of a little over 2-to-1, which left me destitute as soon as I arrived. My phone didn't make international calls, and my landlady wouldn't let me use hers, so I couldn't get to anyone back home. And a bunch of other stuff, you know. But so when I got there, I was vulnerable as a newborn. Vulnerable and helpless and so, so lost.

That's how Mr. Fox found me. And then one night early on that summer--the first night I went out without Mr. Fox--I got jumped by this huge, drunken bull of a man who had just got out of prison that day, leaving me to show up at the theatre the next day sleep deprived, terrified, and, you know, kind of humiliated, sporting big, finger-shaped bruises all up and down my arms.

Mr. Fox saw the bruises, and he didn't leave my side for the rest of the summer. And it was completely his choice--I didn't ask anything from him. But I don't wonder if it made him feel like more of a man, you know, protecting "his girl", as he called me sometimes. And I didn't raise any objections to that. Because while he wasn't the greatest with words, his presence was so, so comforting. When he was there, I felt like I could breathe. I felt like I could relax and let go after so many years of having my guard up. You know, because he was looking out for both of us. And the first time he held me, I marveled at how strong he was. I mean, he weighed a lot less than me, which isn't the biggest surprise, but I remember being shocked at how much strength, how much power was packed into the space of his body. And the first time he said he loved me...there was a fierceness there, a raw force that I had never seen before when he gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look him in the eye when he said, "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you." With all of that force working to protect me, how could I ever be anything but safe?

Of course, as it ended up, all that intensity was more about owning me than protecting me. It was more about exercising control over me, so really, all the danger was actually coming from him. But I didn't realize that until much later. So when he drove me to the airport in Manchester at the end of the summer, I started crying at the first airport sign on the highway, and I didn't stop until my plane touched down in the US. I was crying so hard at the Manchester airport check-in that the awkward, middle-aged floor manager led me over to the handicapped-only ticket desk--a pregnant lady, a man in a wheelchair, and me. I don't really like to admit it, but it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. Not the healthiest reaction, but it was real.

And when I got back to the States, I just floated around. After four months of no contact with the US, I forgot how America operated. I forgot that it was okay to say hi to people on the street, you know? That cashiers will make nice small talk with you and mean it. I forgot there was such a huge selection of beauty products in drug stores and that the prices in the grocery stores were so, so reasonable. After four months of eating expired food from the grocery store, or drinking 99p vodka-lemonades or whiskey-and-gingers instead of eating at all, the Ps took me to a Chinese buffet for lunch when I touched down. And I started to cry in the restaurant because I didn't know how to choose. I didn't know what to do when I didn't have to eat whatever I could get for 50p or whatever I could find on the wild blackberry bushes that grew on along the pathway to work.

And when I got back to A Town Near You, back to all the people that I loved and had missed so much the whole time I was Over There, I didn't know ow to connect with them again. Because I no longer knew how to operate in the world without someone looking after me. Without Mr. Fox. You know, like he had been my only protection in the world, like he had been my skin and now that we were separated, I was just raw, vulnerable flesh moving through the world and every little speck of dust, every little shift in the wind burned like fire and left me reeling. So I got a temporary room at a friend's house, which I hardly ever left. I didn't go out. I stopped eating and lost about 15 pounds during my first month back--in addition to the 35-40 pounds I lost Over There due to the combination of poverty and constant physical training. I just. Could not. Function. I was lost. Somehow, I just slipped away from myself, and all I wanted was for someone to take care of me again.

Not the most flattering depiction of my life at the time, I know, but that's what happened. While I do claim to have SuperPowers, I never claimed to be perfect.

And these first few months in Rust City...well, they've kinda been like that. Not quite to that extreme, but it's a little too close for comfort. Sometimes, the day-to-day functions of life--like getting groceries, cooking food, doing the laundry--seem like insurmountable tasks, let alone big projects like learning the city, fighting bats, getting a driver's license, or finding a second job. And while I love driving around with Sugar Magnolia, my constant companion, sometimes she's just not enough, you know? So I find myself looking towards the sky, waiting for someone to swoop in and come to my rescue. Waiting for some random SuperHero to come along and say, "Just relax for a minute, and I'll take it from here. Everything's going to be just fine." Cape and tights optional.
And dude, that's crap, you know? Such total crap. And I think, "Hey, I'm a total badass. I don't need anyone to rescue me. I rescue other people. I don't need anyone's help." But goddamn, transitions are rough. It's so, so rough to leave people behind and move on and be alone again. And constantly soldiering though life without asking for help, trying to save yourself over and over and over...well, sometimes a girl gets tired. We're talking beat.

And sometimes a girl--even a girl with SuperPowers--starts to think, you know, wouldn't it be nice to be able to let go for a little while? Wouldn't it be a nice change of pace if someone did fly down and save the day for you? Wouldn't it be nice if your name came up in the Justice League Lottery, and you got your very own Hero-for-a-Day? I've been dreaming about that since July.

That's where I've been the last few months. And that does not lead to optimal job performance, you know, when your job is to save the day yourself. But how can I stick it to The Man when I'm thinking like this? How can I fight for justice for the Pink-Collar Worker when all I want to do is rest? And think of all the ladies in Rust City...how can I get my girls' backs when I can't even get my own right now? It's a conundrum.

I wonder, too, what would happen if I stopped fighting it. If I just allowed myself to be weak for a while. What's the worst that could happen if I just let my guard down without anyone to step in and protect me? My fear, of course, is that my world would come to an end, that I would lose my SuperPowers, and that I would be as helpless in the world as a hunk of fresh meat thrown into a lion's den. But maybe nothing would happen at all. Other heroes would pick up the slack, the world would keep spinning, and I'd be...just a regular person. Ordinary.

Human.