Navigating the Emotional Wreckage of My First Car Crash

                “I’m okay. I’m okay.” I didn’t know how many times I said it, or when I started to realize I was saying it not because it was true, but because I knew it wasn’t and was trying so desperately to convince myself it was. I started to throw a “yeah” in front from time to time, as if the casual nature of such a word might diminish just how serious I had begun to perceive the situation to be.
                They kept asking, so I kept saying it—“I’m okay.” I finally started to realize they weren’t looking for that answer; they were calling me out on the falsity of my statement, simply waiting for me to admit the truth. That’s when the first tears started. Unwelcome visitors bringing the reality of my panic uncomfortably to the surface. The tears were the inescapable proof that I was lying: I was not okay. And although they had already known it, now I could no longer pretend.
                I didn’t want the tears to gush—no sprinklers masquerading as tear ducts, no wailing cries—all I could think of was how desperately I wanted to not make a scene. This was a wish completely devoid of any semblance of possibility, considering the fact that the right side of my windshield was currently being invaded by the left end of a tow truck, while my passenger door hugged it like a stubbornly terrified preschooler who couldn’t fathom why his mother would abandon him in this foreign hellhole. The intersection had already become a stage, privy to the curious eyes of passersby; a weeping young woman would only prove to be another player. When Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage”, car crashes were not what he had in mind.
                Impact. That’s what everyone talks about, right? Moment of impact. That’s the point in the movie when the slow motion kicks in, the driver or passenger rolling—almost twirling—quite gracefully through the air. The glass shards twinkle across the screen to the soft crescendo of classical music. They make it look artsy. Unless the beauty of the music and the subtly selected camera angles are meant as an ironic and clearly purposeful juxtaposition of the hideous and jarring nature of a car crash, it’s really all wrong.
                The moment of impact isn’t the one that stuck with me, though. There’s a brief moment where it just seems wrong—I cannot even begin to fathom the measurement of time during which the brain registers this, or how long it takes for the thought to blossom into the realization of the root cause. There is a recognition that, according to the logic of mere seconds ago, your vehicle and therefore the body inside it should be in motion, and they simply aren’t. But these thoughts are not what stuck with me. Nobody talks about the disintegration of logic in your body’s reaction, the diminished sense of prioritization. The minutiae that you focus on.
                “You’re bleeding.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear it—blood at the scene of a car accident is a far cry from unexpected—and yet, like everything else, it seemed wrong. It was true though. Left knee. Small cut. It was a surprising amount of blood for such a cut that size, gruesomely disproportionate. I didn’t know what I had hit my knee on, or how long it had been bleeding, and I’m sure the tow truck driver and his passenger took the expression on my face to be horror at the sight of my own blood—terror spurred on by the tangible proof of my bodily harm.
                It wasn’t. I was embarrassed.
                All that blood, and not a single Band-Aid in my car.
                Oh, the things I would have given simply to have one tissue to wipe the blood away. It was a blatant reminder of my complete and utter helplessness: I couldn't even wipe away the blood from a cut. Perhaps, in some small sense, my mind recognized this. My focus on it was not quite compartmentalization so much as a shifting of priorities to cope with the confusion and discomfort: If I can wipe this blood away, I can take care of this. I can handle this situation. In the days that followed, I made a joke of it: of all the things to focus on—the shattered windshield, the ruined headlight, the dented passenger door, the tears, the confusion, my mother’s suffocating hugs—I had just wanted a Band-Aid. And the jokes brought laughs, because I could stand there and tell them. We could laugh, because I was fine.
                The soreness came the next day, and the day after that, a familiar sensation made foreign by the nature of its origin. I grew to accept it, as I adjusted to hearing myself referring to the fact that I’d been in a car accident. As I write, it still seems wrong. It still sounds wrong, too—and as much as I loathe the sight of the word “wrong” written over and over again, I am at a loss for any superior or even equivalent wording or phrasing to accurately reflect my sentiments. Hearing it, it seems someone else’s voice should be greeting my ears with the phrase, someone else’s lips should form the words. It’ll pass, I know it will, and the cuts will close and the bruises will fade and the sun will rise and set and the seasons will change, and there will come a day where the tires of some car—possibly the black 2007 Mercury Milan which, on a fairly average Wednesday morning, hit the back of a tow truck in my home town—will roll over the pavement on that intersection, and my heart rate will barely register a jump.
                But until that day comes, I’ll settle for appreciating the irony of hitting a tow truck which, of course, would not tow my car home.

Words Forever Unheard: An Open Letter to My Grandmother

                I’m not quite sure how to proceed with this blog post. To share one’s writing is an act of indescribable intimacy, a glance into the deeper machinations of the mind, and also of the heart. And so it is with hesitation that I confide this to be quite possibly the most intimate of my writings thus far—as I cannot possibly foresee what I will write in a day, a week, or a month from now. Yet I feel compelled to share.
                My intention is not to inundate you with painfully emotional overshares or anecdotes, but I wish to share this piece—not only as a means of self-expression, but also in the hopes that those who are familiar with the pangs of loss may find some comfort and solace in the words expressed herein, and the sentiments behind them.


Dear Grandma,
                I miss you. I suppose that’s the simplest thing to say, and the easiest way to say it—it is the entirety of my emotions summed up in the neatest possible way. Three short words. Simplicity for a situation that is anything but simple. I suppose that, next to true closure, that’s all we really want in mourning—simplicity, a lack of complication in the swell of emotions that breaks over the daily monotonies and the uncertainties in how we’re supposed to proceed with our lives. Simplicity, however, does not come, not really, and while it has taken me this long to realize this, there are days where I long for it nonetheless.
                People say it gets easier with time, and I think to an extent that might be true. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t days when I believe that to be the most commonly spoon-fed lie to ever grace the ears of the human race. I think the truth is really a bit of a secret—and that secret is that you learn to live with a little bit of pain, but that pain is tempered. Not even tempered, really, but eclipsed, by all the glories and affectionate reminiscences of past moments. It’s hard to let the tears continue to fall when I think of us singing (you, beautifully; me, not so much) “Animal Crackers in My Soup” times too numerous to count.
                There’s something inherently pleasant about grandmothers, the archetypal ideal of motherly love, but I’ve heard the horror stories. Comparison to the cold indifferences of others is one of the quickest routes to instant appreciation, some say, but with you, such comparisons did not breed appreciation, for it already existed—it simply allowed the well of love within me to spring forward with a ferocity which had been previously unattained. I didn’t need bad grandmothers to show me how beautiful mine was. Is, really.
                People say beautiful when they talk about faces and art. But that’s not enough. Real beauty transcends, a true testament laying siege against the ravages of time. Your beauty will transcend time in the remembrances that we allow to live on. The most beautiful thing someone can be is a good person—and that phrase will never do justice to all the beauty that you both brought out and placed in the world.
                There is no cure for grief. Even those who depend blindly on the passage of time to kiss away the wounds of loss and fill the empty spaces will find that such hopes do not bear delicious fruit—rather, they should find a burst of saccharine sweetness followed by the blandest of aftertastes, almost bitter at the end. The reality is that loss is pain, and all the pieces of that pain may not disintegrate. And I know that pain can breed strength, and that in that strength, one can find something beautiful. Knowing you are gone is difficult. But knowing I had you—and in a way, will always have you—that makes it easy.

Love always,
Sarah

Sunshine and Rainbows: An Argument for Optimism from a So-Called Pessimist

                One of my closest friends is, by all standards, a real, genuine, bona fide optimist. I have never considered myself one, and our friendship has been wonderfully tempered by the glaring disparities in several of our viewpoints—we frequently joke about the balance that exists between her peppy sunshine-soaked idealism and my undeniably darker views, which occasionally cross over into the territory of outright cynicism. It’s from Kaitlyn that I garnered one of my favorite adages: “everything is a learning experience.”
                There’s something inherently beautiful about such an idea. It’s not as clear-cut as drawing a line between good and bad and dismissing people or events to one side of the line and one side alone. Instead of making such a black-and-white—and quite frankly, unrealistic—distinction, there’s an opportunity that arises: a chance to explore those grey areas. A chance for personal betterment, for self-awareness, for the recognition of hidden realizations buried under layers of denial. The darkest moment can lead to the brightest knowledge, and that is something I can stand behind. What this idea really means is that even in seemingly powerless moments, you are not truly helpless. Everyone has the chance to choose how to move forward from their most challenging moments. We can choose to remain stagnant in our development, or we can choose to grow. We can hide in the shadows of our pain, or we can choose to crawl out of the darkness and face the sun.
                Take a break up, for example—be it the termination of a romantic relationship or the end of a friendship. Not all breakups are devastating messes, true; on occasion they may not even prove to be painful for one party, or even for both—but they are not black and white. They can be painful, they can be little eruptions of emotion, they can be agonizing, but they can also be cathartic. Heartbreak is not easy—and it does not get easier with each new occurrence. Heartbreak is scary—and it’s much easier to dismiss something which scares us than it is to face it and open ourselves up to all that it really entails. And while the heartbreak may be scary, the thought of opening oneself up again can be just as terrifying, if not even more so. Could we not choose to use the ruinations and wreckage of heartbreak as an excuse to employ the life of an emotional hermit?
                But are we not also capable of accepting the difficulties that such an experience lays at our feet, and moving past them to seize the possibility of some currently unknown marvel awaiting us in the future? Is this not a chance for introspection and personal growth, to find beauty in misery? True, it may also be a chance to run through a box and a half of tissues in less than twelve hours and to cry until your eyes are puffier than a Chow Chow’s fur coat—and as emotionally painful, and in the case of those tear ducts, physically painful, as that may be, we can choose to be okay. It’s easier to write people off as cruel and selfish—judge them solely by their harsher moments—and close ourselves off to the possibility of emotional vulnerability than it is to recognize that people can have moments of weakness and callousness, yet still have the capability of human decency. And even if they choose not to exercise it, is that really a reason for us to do the same? If people put cruelty out into the world, wouldn’t we be better off putting more kindness out there to counter it? People think kindness is the weaker choice—I disagree. I think we should be better than the people who disappoint us. Be kinder, be more understanding, be more forgiving. Because while some people might think that's weaker—it actually takes a lot more strength to recognize someone’s cruelty and coldness and choose to override their own desire to resort to the same behavior.
                I have long thrived on a melancholic mentality that discounted the utilization of optimism, as indulgence in such ideas opened up the possibility for disappointment. It was with the slightest of smiles that I would elucidate my outlook to friends: if you expected the worst, and that was what the situation brought, then you were prepared, and not disappointed—if, however, you expected the worst and reality was anything less, well, then you were pleasantly surprised, even if it was only mildly so. It was, I informed them with a less than comforting laugh, a win-win situation. Such thoughts were dismissed by most friends as the simple machinations of a soul that had been beaten and broken by various small moments in the fabric of her life—patches held together by stitches that simply couldn’t be cut. What people didn’t do was dismiss it for what it truly was—a coping mechanism being employed by a young woman afraid to face the possibility of pain. If anyone did recognize it for what it was, they didn’t tell me, and my ignorance was indulged—ignorance may be bliss, but that ignorance is no part of a life I want to lead. It’s much easier to hide from the negative than it is to face its existence, let alone face its actual occurrence and all that it entails.
                I still find myself using this coping mechanism from time to time. The difference now is learning from it—recognizing that I cannot truly enjoy the chance to grow and expand as a person without embracing the possibility of being hurt and disappointed. Even recognizing this coping mechanism’s true identity is a learning experience—it brings to light not only its inherent flaws (in order to truly achieve the personal growth and happiness that I desire in my life, I must grow emotionally, and the only way in which I can do so is to undergo the trials and tribulations of emotional upset), but also a recognition of my own conscious fears, such as the fear of once again opening myself up to the possibility of emotional vulnerability.
                I don’t know if I’m an optimist. I don’t know if I’m a pessimist. I don’t know if I’m a realist. I don’t know if I’m some sort of amalgamation of all three. And that’s okay—because what I do know is that everything is a learning experience, and for now, I’m learning, and that’s enough.

Living the Teenage Dream, Post-Teenage Years

                So this past July, as part of a birthday present for my boyfriend Gabe, I got a chance to live my sixteen year-old self’s dream—I finally attended Warped Tour. Now for those of you who have only known me in my more recent college years, you probably won’t truly comprehend what an exciting occurrence this was for me—but for those of you who can recall the angled MySpace photos, the wardrobe replete with band tees and fishnets (OBVIOUSLY worn under jeans with holes in the knees), an almost unnatural affinity for eyeliner, and, of course, the one time that I put turquoise highlights (can they really be called highlights in that case?) in my hair, you’ll probably understand the gravity of my happiness. Or if, like some of my college friends, you devote an almost obscene amount of time to unearthing some of the very few—and I repeat, VERY few—remaining bits of proof which populate my earliest Facebook photos, then I suppose you can recognize to some degree what an experience like this would have meant to that girl.

                It was that same girl who covered almost the entirety of my high school room with cutouts from Alternative Press: interviews with band members, reviews of albums—all the “important” tidbits which, when combined with the whole of my musical interests, culminated in a physical representation of my musical self-identity. There remained, for the longest time (and when I say longest time, I mean probably about five years), several interviews with band members who were about to headline Warped Tour, circa 2009. Eighteen year old me would have hacked off my right hand for a chance to attend that show and had the opportunity to scream my fangirl voice raw at the sight of three of my (then) favorite bands—and yet, sadly, I was unable to attend. Months passed, and years, and my musical interests not only shifted, but they EXPANDED. I emphasize “expanded” here because while I no longer align myself completely with the bands who brought me so much joy in the later part of my teen years, I do still enjoy rediscovering the adoration which I held for them when they shuffle into my music. Yet I hardly see sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen year old Sarah comprehending that twenty three year old Sarah would greatly enjoy the musical talents of a twenty seven year old baby-faced white rapper, one George Watsky, one of the performers who happened to be part of my incentive in attending the music festival.

                Now the point of this post is not simply to elaborate on the somewhat dramatic shift in my musical taste that has taken place over the last few years—yet recognizing it is essential to understanding the full scope of my experience of Warped Tour. There is a certain degree of intimacy that is bred at a musical festival, whether it be Warped Tour, or Lollapalooza, or Bonnaroo. Its point of origin is more difficult to trace than one would think; some will want to simplify it and write it off as the obvious fact that we are, as with most concerts, physically close. You are almost inevitably going to end up talking to the person next to you, whether it be out of an almost unmanageable sense of excitement as your musical idol takes the stage amidst waves of unchecked vocal adorations, or because this person has miraculously managed to step on your toes more than five times in the last three minutes, and you didn’t have the forethought to wear close-toed shoes (*actual problems.). Others may chalk it up to the actions of the bands and performers themselves, who go out of their way to interact with their fans pre- and post-show, doing formal and informal meet-and-greets and signings of merchandise at the small tents they have set up. There were several points during which Gabe and I were forced to maneuver around lines which must have constituted a minimum twenty-minute wait to meet bands, who dedicated more than a little time to the signing of hats, albums, shirts, phone cases, and various body parts. On another level, this intimacy could be attributed to the general setup of Warped Tour—the arrangement of several small stages throughout the concert arena. And while these are all essential tenets of the intimacy, I don’t believe any one of them alone accounts for it. On a deeper level, what really brings the attendees together is the desire to witness their favorite artists putting forth their musical talents in a way that is much more raw and emotional than fans simply listening to it through their headphones and the speakers of their car. There exists a relationship between performer and audience in live performance that is lacking in the day to day streaming of music, and that relationship becomes obvious from the moment the performer steps on stage. Microphones are stuck out to the audience for crowd participation, requests are taken, hands reach and, in some cases, actually grasp the idol who has more than likely touched their lives in no small way.

                On another level, Warped Tour can be a musical smorgasbord, something which I highly doubt sixteen year old Sarah would have truly appreciated and utilized. Gabe and I have highly varied tastes in music, yet such a fact doesn’t come into play in the attendance of a music festival like this, where we can experience everything from punk rock to acoustic folk to alternative rap, as well as metalcore and pop reggae (which we totally didn’t know was a thing). For roughly fifty bucks a pop you can choose to expand your musical repertoire at least twenty fold, depending on how you choose to break down your day. Craving a little metal? Hit the Monster Energy Stage. Feel like toning it down and cruising on some indie ballads? Why not check out the Acoustic Basement setup? Wanna feel the bass drop, bro? Beatport Stage it is.

                Sixteen year old Sarah may not have had the chance to live her dream, but somehow, twenty three year old Sarah doing it seven years later seems so much better. That isn’t to say twenty three year old Sarah didn’t fangirl like sixteen year old Sarah would have—I did, no shame; I accidentally walked away from a photo opportunity because I was so nervously overwhelmed by the physical presence of one of my favorite performers—but twenty three year old Sarah fangirled over a completely different genre of music, a performer who didn’t grace my iTunes until years after I had parted ways with my last Hot Topic purchase, and in a larger part, with subtler aspects of the music festival which I had not noted in my younger years. This isn’t me telling everyone to plan a day of Warped Tour next summer, because not everyone will do that. But attend a music festival. Go to a concert. Check out the openers. Feel yourself melt with a large group of strangers who came to a place to appreciate the hard work, talent, and drive of a musical act that is there to entertain you. Do it, I promise you won’t regret it.

The Black Dog in the Background

                I find that the words do not come as easily the second time around. This blog topic may take me more than a day to tackle (and it did), even if it only results in one single post, not simply because of the girth of information which I can (and may attempt to) integrate into this post, but because of all the topics I can choose to discuss, this one hits closer to home than any other, and I have never felt more of a need to censor—and even that word seems inadequate—my word choice. What I really want is to make sure, with each individual word, that I am making the proper choice to express myself.

                We are taught by some of the best writers to write what we know—and I am a firm believer in this. This allows the writer to provide experience which then allows their writing to resonate with a genuineness, occasionally subtle, sometimes almost palpable in its nature. Honesty between writer and reader builds not only a relationship of trust and respect, but also in some cases can allow the reader a glimpse into first-hand accounts of topics which would otherwise remain shrouded in a certain degree of secrecy and unfamiliarity to them.

                In a world populated so immensely by social media websites which insist upon the sharing of mundane bits of one’s daily activities, I occasionally wonder if we have become somewhat crippled in our ability to share the more important things. People often seem to be torn between two extremes: whether or not they should share EVERYTHING (and let’s be honest, the correct answer is no; your sushi lunch may have been delicious, but we are really not that interested in how #yummy it was) or share virtually nothing, as everyone ELSE seems to be oversharing. Again, the answer is no—there is always something to be said or shown, and always someone willing to listen.

                And that is one of the most important things I could possibly say, as today I’m going to talk about depression. Depression is never an easy topic to discuss—we shy away from it so frequently, because that’s easier than facing the grim reality that is this mental illness. I’ve heard countless mentions from someone whose recollections about her upbringing are sprinkled with what she now recognizes to be glaring signs of this same disease in her mother. It was, she tells me, completely ignored—swept under the rug, cloaked in the darkness of silence, a problem the words for which were known, but knowingly locked away behind the tight lips of society.

                I was diagnosed with depression pretty early on in life—as least, it seemed early to me. My struggles seemed normal in the face of youthful ignorance, as well as in the face of the growing pains which we all stumble through in the rougher years of adolescence, that rugged terrain of teenage years. I had no concept that my problems were of a more severe nature, as I was so hesitant to share them. I was blessed, and have continued to be blessed, with a phenomenal support system found in the kind arms, and more often the ears, of friends and family who have been invaluable in my ability to cope. I don’t recall feeling stigmatized by that first diagnosis in my earlier years, mostly because it was not something made public unless I chose to do so—but it did come later, and it hit hard. I felt at times that my depression was an inescapable tenet of my self-identity, a hideous leech that tore and sucked at the flesh of my happiness and comfort, and at times at my sense of self-worth. Even on good days, I would worry that I would carry such a burden for the entirety of my life, a thought terrifying in the enormity of its scope, and a thought which I felt had already been solidified as a reality for my future, with no hope of an alternate route.

                There are no green buttons or red levers to pull in the mind that immediately eradicate these thoughts; it is never that simple. Ricky Gervais summed it up in the most perfect of ways on a recent Facebook post: “Telling people with depression to “just snap out of it” is as about as useful as telling people with cancer to “just stop having cancer”.” It’s much easier to ask someone to “cheer up” than it is to face the reality that it isn’t that simple for them. Many people may not recognize that depression can have biological roots, linked with chemical imbalances in the brain, such as that of serotonin, as well as problems with the limbic system and neurotransmitters. Certain distressing emotional episodes can trigger a major depressive episode for some, this is true; but we must recognize that the presence of depression as a disorder is not as simple as thinking someone is upset over a bad day.

                I mentioned the difficulties that depression brought into my life. These must be balanced, however, with the immense personal growth which my diagnosis has provided me with, the most important being a recognition that I am not my diagnosis. My depression does not define me as a whole, yet I do not disregard its existence. I own my diagnosis—and am all the stronger for recognizing that my flaws make me who I am, in no way diminishing my value as a person. Properly coping with depression is difficult, that is undeniable—but, as I said, I have been blessed beyond words (although I will try to express myself nonetheless) with the finest and most loving of support groups, who may never know just how important their words and actions are to me. Proper therapy, and in some cases, added medication, can help alleviate the difficulties that depression presents. As someone who has gone through this, I feel the need to remind everyone else going through it that there is always hope out there, and happiness to be had.

                This post is not to dampen your day, it’s not to elicit pity in any way for what I have gone through, or for what anyone else goes through on a daily basis when they suffer from depression. In fact, I would like to take this time to remind everyone reading that those who suffer from this disease are not weaker for it. I found an image recently, shared by a friend brave enough to circulate it on her social media site—I hesitate to say brave, as it then makes inescapable the rather unfortunate reality that many wouldn’t share such an image on their Facebook page for fear of some sort of negative judgment on the parts of their friends, again linked with the stigmatized topic of depression. The image starts out with one of the most wonderful summations that I have come across: “Depression, anxiety and panic attacks are not a sign of weakness. They are signs of having tried to remain strong for so long.” It ends with a reminder to the reader to do one of the most important things anyone CAN do for those who struggle: “Let those who struggle know—they are never alone.” In a few brief sentences, this image has taken the negative assumption that those who suffer from depression do so because they lack some sort of strength, either in their soul or their mind, and turned it completely on its head, while reminding everyone—those both familiar and unfamiliar with it—that the most important thing you can do is simply be there for someone. I think we often forget that just because the world is so populated does not mean we are not subject to loneliness and feelings of isolation—and the kindest thing we can do for someone subject to such feelings is to remind them that there is ALWAYS someone there.

                As I said, I know such discussions are never easy. But it is my hope that in posting this, and bringing this subject to light once more, we can cast aside the mask of fear and ignorance that has kept so many quiet about such a substantial issue, and take steps—be they small or large—in our daily lives towards a greater understanding of this problem.

"Twinning": Much more than a hashtag

Hello again!

                We’re just going to blatantly ignore the lengthy passage of time between my last post and now. I will not feign an exhausting sense of busyness, because in my opinion one of the cruelest lies is that there is never time to write—be it a novel, a short story, a journal entry, a love letter, a simple reminder of the fact that at this moment in time you are living and breathing and capable in some manner of conscious thought. There is always time for the written word, for without it where would we be? On the whole, as a race, and on a much smaller scale, as an individual? Do we not glean a fair amount of our self-identities from the written word and all it has brought about? But, I transgress; these are topics for another time, perhaps tomorrow?)

                Today I bid adieu to my sister as she departed for Barcelona, Spain. She’s accepted a teaching job there, you see, at an international school, a position which has brought a great sense of excitement and pride to her, as this is a job she has secured through only her own skills and drive. It was only yesterday that her departure was solidified; her attempts at securing a visa have resulted in extensive aggravation and uncertainty. For now, she will leave on a tourist visa, and complete her full working visa at a later point.

                I won’t attempt to elaborate on her emotions during the process, as I could comprehend but a fraction of the feelings which must have dominated her waking hours: excitement, anxiety, a certain terror at the future which now loomed before her, undoubtedly daunting to some degree. Leaving the nest is an essential experience of life, true—this fact, however, does not abate the nerves which accompany such a transition.

                For weeks now we have known that she would leave, without the privilege of a set date. The simple fact of knowing that she would be moving to Spain for a year (with a small break in December to return home and grace the family with her enigmatic presence) spawned a question which I was continuously bombarded with: “So, are you going to miss your sister?”

                I’m a twin, which in the eyes of what seems like a ridiculously large majority of the world, makes my relationship with my sister very special. It’s as if the moment it’s discovered that we shared the womb for nine months, my interesting factor skyrockets in the eyes of the public. “Oh! You’re a twin! That must be so cool!” “I always wanted a twin!” “Is it awesome? It must be awesome.” “So you guys are like, best friends right?” The only surface that could keep a tally of the number of times I have been subject to these statements is probably the Great Wall of China. Anyone who has ever made these statements to me has never been a twin themselves (as goes without saying for the second one), and so to them the idea—more accurately stated, the ideal—seems a carefully crafted fantasy of sibling intimacy and friendship. And as much as I hate to shatter that ideal, here goes: it’s not that amazing.

                To me, being a twin has never proved to be an extraordinary experience. In reality, or in my reality at least, the fact of my twinship (it’s not a word, but for all intents and purposes of this blog post, I shall utilize it as one, with the loosely given definition of “the friendship and sibling relationship which extends from being a twin”) has simply been that I have grown up with a sibling my age. There seems to have grown this idea that twins share not only the womb for nine months, but a wide range of similar interests, aspirations, tendencies, and mannerisms. This has never been the case for my sister and I. When I recently had the privilege of Skyping with one of my favorite artists, who I also knew to be a twin, I was again reminded—from the opposite side of the gender fence—that not all twins need to be close or similar in any way shape or form, as he recounted to me the divide which exists in their self-identities and the effect it has played on their relationship.

                The fact that most people’s first introductions to twins, at least for my generation, were the Olsen twins and Tia and Timera Mowry only helped to ingrain such fallacies. Truth be told, Liz and I have never been best friends—elementary school found us friendly, but separate, while middle school only deepened the divide which had always existed between us. High school, needless to say, was not much kinder in bringing us together, and college brought about a physical distance as well as the psychological one which already existed, as she studied in upstate New York and I studied in southwestern Virginia. While Liz’s interests spanned dancing and pop culture, mine dwelled in the literary realms with a spark for theater. We did not grow up hating each other; cat fights with hair pulling were never the norm with us. We simply never meshed in the sense that most people (who are not twins themselves, be they fraternal or identical) expected twins to do. I’m sure the fact that we are fraternal, and, as I like to so frequently stress when enlightening people to the existence of my twin, “as fraternal as fraternal gets”, served as a great basis for the exacerbation of our differences in the later years. Physically, we have always looked different, to such a degree as many people often mistook my cousin for my sister more quickly than they guessed Liz to be her. In the past year, however, many have asked us if we are related—sisters is the first thing they say, although a kind cashier at Dunkin Donuts the other day left us momentarily speechless when she asked if we were twins.

                I have always thought of Liz as a sister first, and a twin second—she the same, I think it is fair to say, as she frequently refers to her best friend as being closer to a twin to her than I am. I take no offense to this—M, as her friend likes to be called, fills a gap which I wholeheartedly recognize I will never be able to fill. The two of them have a relationship based solidly on shared musical interests, a healthy affinity for bars, and a wealth of shared experiences accumulated over the years as they studied in college together. Yet I recognize that at the same time I cannot fill M’s place, she cannot fill mine. I have found that there is a certain relationship which can only grow to fruition between siblings living under the same roof—and as a subset of that, there is a certain relationship only sisters can have, if they so choose to nurture it. And, finally, there is a special relationship which only twins can have—in our case, two girls, destined to experience many of life’s trials and tribulations at the same time—but not all; it must be worked at. It is the accumulation of these experienced which are shared at the same time, formulating a comradery which cannot be simulated, and those experienced at different intervals, which allow the imparting of wisdom between twins, which mold such a relationship.

                So when asked if I will miss my sister, I said no. To me, the distance which exists between us proves meaningless—our relationship will not dwindle with the passing of weeks and months. Many may think this cold and distant, not to miss someone with whom I have shared so much. My only reply is that “not missing her” means in no way that my love for her is lessened in any degree than it would be should I say that I do miss her. The important thing to me is not whether or not I miss my sister—but whether I wish her all the best in this new endeavor, and all the faith that I have in her ability to work towards the future that she wants. And both of these are boundless.

"In Dreams" Movie Review

              As far as horror movies go, Neil Jordan’s “In Dreams” is a bit hard to classify. In basic terms, it’s a psychological slasher flick, a category which nowadays seems to be dwindling quickly. Most slasher flicks have completely disregarded the aspect of mental instability or deterioration that was once so characteristic of serial killers (excluding Freddy Krueger, to a degree).

                The film opens with some dramatic, dark-shadowed shots of a drowning town which the audience is introduced to in stark white block-lettered captions: “In 1965 the town of Northfield was evacuated to create the Northfield Reservoir. Two billion gallons of water flooded the empty streets, obliterating all memory of the lives once lived there, leaving a drowned ghost town.” The block letters are quickly replaced by a credit font resembling the chalkboard scribbles of a child, accompanied by some striking underwater images of scuba divers probing what one supposes to have previously been the town of Northfield.  Resurfacing in the midst of a lake near police boats, the atmosphere of discomfort is palpable, but the reasoning is unclear. From here the camera pans out to the angelic Rebecca Cooper, the embodiment of innocence, wandering with her mother Claire (Annette Bening). Within the next 1:51 minutes, the plot becomes apparent: Claire suffers from clairvoyance (no pun intended). Measured by Aidan Quinn’s carefully uncomfortable expression, her complaint of dreams is nothing new to her husband Paul. What would be a simple case of missing child quickly falls along the lines of the show “Medium” as Claire proffers to use her gift to locate a missing child from town, who is clearly not going to return. Whether or not Claire’s decision to assist is rooted in a desire to escape the discomforts of such a chimera, or because of the all-too-noticeable resemblance between the young child and Claire’s own daughter, is a choice which the viewer must make, as Jordan doesn’t adequately answer such a question. 
             She frequently bemoans the misfortune of her visions, feeling the unbridled skepticism from both her husband and Detective Jack Kay (Paul Guilfoyle, reminiscent of his CSI character Jim Brass, sans-sarcasm). Claire’s perception of such an inconvenience quickly shifts when she realizes that the connection she seems to hold with the serial killer may be manipulated, if she can manage to interpret the images dominating her mind. 
               What I will commend Jordan on is his unrelenting imagery. The obvious symbolic meaning of the color red, throughout the movie, can in no way be lost on any audience member, however they should interpret it: passion, life, vulnerability, love, danger, take your pick. Jordan’s costume choice for Bening in several scenes, a flowing red chiffon gown, is absolutely essential, giving physical vent to Claire’s unwavering passion. 
                Yet another powerful aspect that Jordan engages in is the use of parallels, an element whose presence seems rare in such films nowadays. Perhaps the most constant is that of Snow White, the best explanation for the inescapable presence of the radiant red apples throughout the movie. The indisputable innocence of the abducted children clearly mirrors that of fictional Snow White, while the “evil stepmother” is rather redefined in the character of the killer. Yet another example, that of Claire’s mental institution breakout, is beautifully paralleled in a series of flashback scenes to the serial killer’s own childhood escape from the same hospital: same room in fact, a coincidence which would be laughable if not for Bening’s ability to exude a sense of mental instability. 
                While it is necessary to reveal the killer’s identity in order to truly review this movie, it is my sincere belief that such knowledge in no way detracts from the enjoyment of this movie.  Robert Downey Jr. is phenomenal as Vivian Thompson, the emotionally volatile killer with an obviously disturbed childhood. Downey is perfect at projecting the childlike innocence of a man who was never groomed for adulthood, yet has always had the misfortune to know violence. The combination of script contents and line delivery is absolutely chilling: “I am so so sorry sorry sorry Claire. All I wanted was a family.” The soft, lulling tone with which he says “family” would render any heart broken, should his vicious tendencies remain unknown. The simplicity of his sentences and the desperation with which he craves Claire’s approval are irrefutably reminiscent of a child. One wants so deeply to believe that Claire is truthful when she promises Vivian to love him “like Momma loves Dad.”
                It quickly becomes clear through the abducted child Ruby’s childlike obliviousness, however, that Vivian’s psychological deficiencies are profound: he has been known to dress like his mother and modify his voice to fit the role. Freud would have a field day with such a character as Vivian.

                While “In Dreams” is far from a gem of a movie, it is reasonably enjoyable, and on a deeper level, somewhat thought-provoking. Whether or not Jordan is making some form of commentary on fate versus choice, if one were to analyze Vivian and Claire and their subsequent actions, is a question which will never grace the world with a proper answer. Perhaps that is for the best: it is uncertainty which makes the mind yearn with even more passion.

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