War Games: Video Games in an Era of Digital Militarism

“In this sense, then, war has always been a virtual reality, too traumatic for immediate comprehension.  But now there is an added danger, a further barrier to understanding it . . . In this high-tech rehearsal for war, one learns how to kill but not to take responsibility for it, one experiences “death” but not the tragic consequences of it . . .we face the danger of a new kind of trauma without sight, drama without tragedy, where television wars and video war games blur together.  We witness this not only at an international level, but also on the domestic front, where two teenagers predisposed to violence confused the video game Doom for the high school classroom.” (Virtuous War, Der Derian 10)

It is unsurprising that as the holidays approach, we see more and more television commercials advertising the sale of video game consoles and their games.  There is no doubt that video games are one of the most popular forms of electronic media. They submerse users in a realm of virtual reality that has the ability to teach as well as entertain.  In February 2013, Sony Computer Entertainment announced a successor to the PlayStation 3, the PlayStation 4, that would be released in November 2013—as of December 3rd, over 2.1 million units have sold in over thirty countries worldwide.  This is a record breaking rate of sale with 1 million units being sold in the US in just one night of its release.

Consumers clearly have a high demand for new consoles and the video games that are to come.  However, the dilemma that is on the concerned parent's mind is the implications of people (particularly young adults) who are constantly exposed to video games and very graphic scenes of violence.  Frankly, could the exposure to so much virtual violence have negative consequences?

The video taken from the documentary Joystick Warriors seems to explore how the immersive experience these games offer link up with the larger stories we tell ourselves as a culture about violence, militarism, guns, and manhood.  One of Der Derian's arguments in his book is that video games are becoming more and more appropriated by the MIME-NET (Military Industrial Media Entertainment Network) and that there seems to be a level of disconnect between the realism of users and the levels of violence they experience in virtual reality.  On page 89 of Virtuous War, Der Derian discusses the military itself appropriating the video game Doom and adapting it for military training purposes into Marine Doom.  He notes that the game Doom was not intended for military use, yet the military complex saw it so useful as a combat-training tool that they decided to use it and just replace some of the graphics (instead of shooting monsters, the users shoot terrorists and masked men).  It's clear that some violent video games intended for citizens may actually be useful as shooter training tools for the military.  Even Der Derian himself says that he thought he’d be good at the military’s version of the video game because he had played many games like it in arcades.

"War as entertainment; A leisurely activity."

Is there a danger here? Some would argue yes because they believe that violent video games can cause an increase of violent tendencies in their users.  Worse yet is that if these violent video games are truly causing aggression, then what does it say when the MIME-NET seemingly tries to recruit youths via video games to prepare them for future militaristic endeavors?  Is it a shocking perspective that the military industrial complex may be taking advantage of hobbies such as video gaming to essentially brainwash younger people into toy soldiers?

This is where the debate gets very touchy:  While many agree that unsupervised violence in ANY form of media can have a negative impact on a young person's psyche, they argue that the video games themselves are not what causes aggression, and no less makes a person a militarized killing machine.  Yet there are theories that exist that do make the attempt to link video games with increased aggression in kids and teenagers.  

Theories such as Cognitive Neoassociation and Symbolic Catharsis seem to be the most popular when addressing this debate.  Cognitive Neoassociation posits that the discharge of aggressive emotions in video games, through behaving aggressively at inanimate objects, should increase rather than decrease angry feelings and aggressive behaviors. These aggressive thoughts form an associative network in memory so when stimulated in real life, it will provoke aggressive action based on the in-game behaviors and ideas.

Symbolic Catharsis on the other hand claims that the aggressive content of video games could allow players to release their stress and aggression in a nondestructive way, which would actually have a relaxing effect on the users.  Thus the users are actually discharging aggression by purging aggressive emotions, hence they arrive at an emotional purification (or catharsis).

While both theories seem compelling, neither seem to offer concrete solutions to the MIME-NET dilemma. Nor do any of the highly varying studies which try to prove or disprove a link between video games and aggression itself.  Not to mention leaving the issue of whether or not the military would seek to abuse this link up in the air.  Der Derian himself seems to struggle with the issue.

“The social sciences, especially its dominant methodology of rational choice, have shown a reluctance to enter into proximity talks with violence.” (Der Derian 38)

 With this in mind, perhaps the commentary of Der Derian towards the relationship between the MIME-NET and video games is not to take any one position, but rather draw awareness to its existence in ways that many might not have noticed before.  As anyone who has taken Dr. McVicker's English 500 course would ask: What is the role of the intellectual?  Is it simply to know facts and make claims, or does it imply a bigger responsibility in the public sphere of raising awareness to issues?  I for one would hope that discourse such as this would open the floodgates of civil debate, and at the very least draw attention to these issues in ways which highlight their importance.

American Identity in the Eyes’ of an Observer.

People get so weirded out by the fact that I came to “Fredonia” from Iran. They may have the right to be so skeptical since this is not the America I had in mind! The vision I had about the United States differs immensely from what I feel now that I live here.

As stupid as it may seem I signed up for the American Identities course because I thought it would be about American literary identities. I had no idea that this course would be so much about American politics and racial matters. And yet I’m glad I’m able to dissect my own identity to try to relate it to American Identities. So don’t feel shocked if I try to relate everything to literature, music or movies.

A little bit about me:

Honestly, trying to acknowledge who I really am what I struggle with in my mind every day in order to be able to celebrate who I am. This procedure has become much more intense since I’ve moved to a different country. As figures like Hemingway have suggested, self-realization happens when one immigrates to a different country. It’s like all of a sudden you put this magnifier on your identity and try to dissect what’s within. However I can never disagree with the fact that it’s a life time process. It also changes constantly based on the places you go, the people you encounter, the things you read etc. There are inseparable aspects to a person’s identity that can never be ignored. The filters, as I want to put it that no matter where you are sieve your judgment of the world. They are, I believe, what makes a human being unique of their kind.

I seriously don’t know where to start. If I travel through time and land in the time that Taraneh came to being brings us back to 1991. I was born in Tehran thirteen years after the country went through to the Islamic Revolution and three years after the eight-year war between Iran and Iraq ended. Having said that, I do not need to clarify how the country’s political and economic conditions were at the time. I’ve obviously witnessed different hardships people have been through all this time. There was also never an end to it. The country is under different sanctions to this date. I’m grateful my family and I were all born and raised in the capital. It made things a lot easier since the job opportunities and access to public education is much more difficult to achieve in other cities in Iran.

 With that picture, I believe I don’t like a luxurious life. I’m not sure if it scares me or repels me but I’m positive I’ve never wanted a life of fancy houses and expensive cars. This is very important in my life because I feel it has formed a main part of my identity. Now I’m not suggesting I can easily be satisfied. I’m something close to a perfectionist. I expect so much of myself. This can lead to destruction and success at the same time like the baobab trees versus the rose in The little prince’s planet.

I strongly believe as it has been proven that family, and your parents to be more specific, have the most important impact on a person’s identity. I start with my father. He’s an avid book reader and has masters in librarianship. A great part of my love for literature, cinema and music goes directly back to him. I’ve been exposed to all kinds of literature since childhood. That made literature has thrown shade on my whole life.

My mom is the most tender-hearted and self-sacrificing woman I’ve ever known. Growing up with her, I find some of her characteristics in me in different ways. For example, I basically cannot hurt people easily and I count it as an important part my identity. The reason is it has a huge impact on my social life. I’m often afraid I’m going to hurt people or get hurt by them so I keep away from them.

I’m extremely obsessed with literary characters and stories to the extent that I cannot imagine my life without them. Characters like Holden Caulfield, Huck and Victoria Lucas have definitely formed a part my identity. They are introverted characters constantly questioning what’s going on around them and what’s going on in their heads. They have helped me see who I am. When I was reading their stories I was telling myself “There I am! That’s me! That’s what I’ve been doing!”

One of the important aspects of my identity is being a city girl. I know how important that is in forming somebody’s character but now that I’m studying and teaching in an extremely small town, I can feel the difference with all my bones. It’s rather ironic talking about identity in a city. In a city you almost have no identity whatsoever! It’s crazy how I feel like home whenever I visit Buffalo! I can’t wait to experience being in New York City!

Just like the father in Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author states, we are not only one unified person all the time, we transform into different people encountering each person. This is much stronger when you live in a city. You’re always lost. You can always go to a place where nobody knows you. You can create another self for yourself. You can choose not to go the same place twice. If you don’t like your friends, you can always and I mean always find new ones with new habits and new ways of thinking.

I have been here for almost three months. Thus, I believe not being able to introduce one fixed version of myself is still a part of me. To tell the truth, I like it. I like having different identities in different place. I like being able to change, to evolve whenever I choose. It’s all because I like flying. I like the freedom to go in and out of my comfort zone and it’s a bit suffocating to live in a small town where you’re bound to see the same people even in shopping malls. It’s ironic how you can run away from people more in the city than in the countryside.

Speaking of running away from people, I’m one of those beings who need solitude. I’m fully aware it’s something we all share as a human being but I require a considerable amount of solitude to live on. This preference may originate from living in the city (the whole story about the freedom to encounter who you want) or it may be something I’ve gotten from my dad since he is the same way.

Being suspicious is a main part of being Iranian. We have been lied to through history and our collective unconscious pushes us to question everything, to have second thoughts about people, places and races. We have been betrayed by different governments just like all the other countries have been at least once ( or always?). It’s time to stop being gullible. Being an over thinker has made me analyze events and people’s behaviors all the time. It brings us back to the struggle I was refereeing to in the very first paragraph. There are constantly all kinds of different struggles going on in my head.

 The way I relate myself to American identities

The way I relate myself to American identities may has obviously a close relation to how I became interested in United States and American literature. I started listening to English language songs from a very young age as I grew up in a house full of love for music. To this date, I’m positive I can’t pass one day without listening to music. Since the rock scene in Iran was on the road to perdition for a long while after the Islamic Revolution ( I’m not forgetting the fact that Rock was invented in the US in a way), my attention was drawn the rock scene belonged to United States when I was growing up. I started to become familiar with American bands and music. The lyrics and the melodies helped me experience ecstatic feelings which now have made me a music maniac if you will!

I cannot ignore the relationship between literature and music. Sometimes songs tell you a story just like a book does. Above all the music genres, I came to like American folk music the most, since it was very close to American literature I was so amazed about. I started to love the works of figures like Bob Dylan. I have always believed that one should follow what one truly loves to find out whether s/he is made for that path. I used to attend solfege and vocal classes for 8 months and covered a folk song myself.

George Eliot said, “Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.”  The great Alexander Pope also reminded us that, “Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.” It may be true that the reality is ninety nine percent of the time far from your expectations. I was reminded of Eliot’s quote when I first came to this country. American media is huge! We all know that! No doubt about it ! 

Me and my friends used to watch the TV series , Friends, so religiously that it was all we talked about for a long time. I still make Friends references when talking to my friend in Iran! It has been a topic of my conversations with people I’ve met from Czech and Germany! Isn’t that crazy? I’m not going to exaggerate since me and my friends don’t form a large portion of Iranian society obviously! But here’s the link to a famous song by a famous Iranian Rock band that moved to New York a couple of years ago (to give you an idea what people think about America in the country I was born in):American Dream

 Also, as much as I adore Iranian children’s programs to this day, I also grew up watching Home Alone series!!  “I'm gonna give you to the count of 10, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off my property…before I pump your guts full of lead!...Keep the change, ya filthy animal!” Having been under the media’s influence and before setting foot in America, I had this idealized image of the United States in my head that I still haven’t gotten rid of. I’m not sure I ever will ( I’ve seen a lot of Americans haven’t even gotten over it)Anyway, I built up all these towers in the streets of my mind. I just wanted to hurry to the land where Salinger and Carver were born!

I thought I’d be setting foot in the most multi-cultural place on earth! This was intensified when the police officer in Chicago airport complimented me on my hair!! ( I know it sounds stupid but you had to be there!) Everything “looked” good until I actually started living in Fredonia, a very small village in western New York! Imagine moving from a populated, polluted and hectic city to a calm , very small village! Just to give you an idea about how it’s like to live in Tehran, let me remind you that New York City’s population was 8.337 million in 2012 and Tehran’s population was 7.804 million in 2006!! Okay, I think you can sympathize with me now! Don’t get me wrong! I‘m not favoring any kind of living situation over the other! I actually was escaping the frenzy, the crowd.  It’s just that now I know I need to live in a crowded place unless I decide to be a hermit!

I had in mind Obama being president and probably (?) chosen by US people. I had in mind “liberty mads” (Foner 12) who are able to acknowledge different voices from different races. I had in mind going to America not a land that was once Britain’s colony.

I thought there are so many different people from all around the world that I wouldn’t even be noticed. However, that is unfortunately not what happened. I do know now that actually living somewhere is nothing like what you read in books or see in the movies. 

I’ve been observing Americans ever since I came here. It’s not something that I intended to do but it’s what happens to you when you immigrate to a different country. Apart from the self-realization being in progress and concentrating on you own behaviors; natives become your mind’s subject of study.  Let me tell you about the comparisons I made and the interesting things I came across.

People are basically the same everywhere!

Don’t look so shocked! Just leave the country and you’re gonna know! You’ll be amazed by how many times I’ve actually told myself, “Gosh! That’s exactly how that Iranian friend of mine acts, or speaks.” My roommate, surprisingly enough, has the exact sets of beliefs as a lot of people I know in Iran and she’s not in any way related to them. Everything about them is different, their race, religion, language, school system etc. and yet I feel like I’ve heard the exact same words with the exact same reactions when I heard her talking about abortion to her sister.

Something else I’ve noticed about Fredonia (let’s not jump into conclusions about the whole country since I’ve heard every state and even every city is different. And also it would be so “unprofessional” of me to pass judgments without any proof) is that people do not talk as much as we do in Iran. It may simply because of the fact that I’m still not a part of any special group and that they may talk just as much when they’re together. However, I’ve noticed so many times in the bus or even in my house with my own housemates that they spend not interacting with one another. The sense of individuality has become incredibly significant that the sense of being part of a community seems trivial to people. I’ve even witnessed those in charge trying so hard to bring students together to help them build a community. I was reminded of Gus Van Sant, American independent director, and his movies about American experience. Paranoid Park and Elephant made more sense to me now.

Do you also smile at strangers when you see them in the street?. I found that extremely strange when I first got here. When someone when from outside looks at these conventions and realize those smiles seem meaningless, they may feel uncomfortable. I even felt scared the very first time. I thought I did something wrong. It’s only because there’s no such convention in our country. People don’t smile or say hello to strangers on the street. I need to go so much deeper in American culture to be able to grasp the meanings of these. After are, people are strange when you're stranger !

Obama writes in his memoir about the difference he feels when visiting Kenya. He goes, “It conformed to my idea of Africa and Africans, an obvious contrast to the growing isolation of American life, a contrast I understood, not in racial, but in cultural terms. A measure of what we sacrificed for technology and mobility; but that there-as in the kampongs outside Djakarta or in the country villages if Ireland or Greece- remained essentially intact: the insistent pleasure of other people’s company, the joy of human warmth.” And at times it can be true. You can feel like you have things bottled up inside you that you need to talk about. A friend of mine who lives in California, my cousin who lives in South Carolina and some of my American friends have also pointed this out to me and honestly, I never would have thought!

As an Iranian who just set foot in US three months ago, I have been observing American interactions and moral codes. This is of course not something that I intended to do; it's rather something that happens to you when you move to another country. I have noticed that there are not a lot of interactions between white people and African-Americans even in the campus (especially among younger generation)! My housemates who are three American white girls do not have any African-American friends, boyfriends etc.

 Now I know that of all American states and cities, I have only been into a small village in western New York. It's just that I didn't expect these attitudes from a country that is being advertised as “Land of Freedom” and full of people of all ethnicities. I'm sorry I read about the unfortunate lives of Washington DC African-American residents! I assume discrimination is still a part of living in America. I'm just reporting what I have witnessed in my few weeks of living here. I'm not trying to overgeneralize anything.

Now again, as someone who is not a US citizen, I have experienced some sort of being looked down upon or hearing some inappropriate remarks like “Oh, You just came to America and they gave you a job!" Of course I forgot about them because I have been welcomed by so many other kind Americans.

I can’t help but notice that the country that is so famous for being multi-cultural is still suffering from a white dominance at least in the country side. You sometimes feel like you’re an alien just because you’re not blond and you have a tiny bit of an accent. 

If we take a look at many educational channels such as schools, colleges, TV shows, Magazines during all these years we could see that most of these channels try to show the real face of discriminations. 

On the other hand, I personally believe that this amount of education is outstanding but it’s not enough. The implemented educational methodology usually tries not to shape the idea of children whose characters are not shaped yet. I believe that these types of education need to be provided for small children. Why do we even bother to go to universities and get Masters and P.H.Ds?

After reading The History of American Freedom and Abolition Democracy, visiting city of Buffalo I’ve come to understand that I have rather mixed thoughts about American identities. I wish I could write this after I visited New York City so I could be a little bit more aware of what’s going on. I need to live here much longer to acquire a good understanding of American identities, their moral codes and their understanding of freedom nowadays. Because I’ve learned that it is only by living among people that you reach that state.( I know this such a cliche!)

Deconstructing My Identity: A Work in Progress

"A person whose head is bowed and whose eyes are heavy cannot look at the light."

Christine de Pizan, 1429

All of Me

Prologue

Of all the characters I have studied, mine own is the hardest to understand. The narrative and the themes in this text are set around the dichotomy of a protagonist that has yet to become fully developed. In the end, which has yet to be determined, she will be transformed into something much different than when these words were first written, and her life will have evolved greatly by the time they are ready for any audience.  As in all great literature, life is revision within itself.

 I claim no authority over the text, but draw from experience only to guide my words.  It is my hope that the result of this reflection will resonate with those who wish to peel apart the layers of their own identity, however horrifying the task may appear, and realize that through reflection, acceptance, and forgiveness- an emotional, vulnerable being can overcome, and transcend the boundaries that bind us to a world we may not have chosen, but were nonetheless subjected to. By opening a stuck window in a neglected room, and letting in the fresh autumn air, we somehow survive.

This essay is about me, and you, and all things human.

Part I

Who I Am Is Not What They Call Me, or What’s In A Name?

My name is Melissa Mallaber. Everytime I say that, a loud voice screams in my head, “No, it isn’t!”  Let me explain, and to do so I must go back to the beginning, back to 1972, the night that The Allman Brothers Band was playing in Buffalo.

Mother, 1973

My father had an apartment upstairs from the bar which he owned, and after closing, he took my mother upstairs and I was conceived. Just like that. My being was sparked with the echoes of music, and passion, and lust. Later, she would bring me into the bar, all bundled up on a cold day in January, and he would say “Is that my baby?” He then left for Florida. Tired of the bar business. Tired of the Buffalo winters. Twenty-one years will have passed before I would see him again. My mother loved him too much.  Sweet Melissa.

Of course, I didn’t take his name. Benson never quite suited me anyway. My mother did her best. My grandfather was the best. I fell in love with him immediately. My mother never told him she was pregnant, so when he learned the news and finally came out of his room (after three days of contemplation), he held me in his arms and never let me go. Throughout my life, he has been the force that drives me, the wind that carries me, and the love that measures the rest of my love that can never truly compare. In my office, you will find a picture of him. My hero, and my best friend. My name and his are the same on two documents: my birth certificate and my degree. To me, I will always, proudly be Melissa O’Hara.

Best Friends

That changed in third grade. My mother married the man I will call Dad from now on. A wonderful man who, to the best of his ability, put up with my shit as if I were his own flesh and blood- which I wasn’t.

My Dad

Changing your name in third grade is confusing. People would say, “Why did your name change?” or “Are you adopted?”  I was different, all right. We were the poor people in the rich neighborhood. My dad didn’t have a stable job after the steel plant closed, and we were forced to move fourteen times in the seventeen years that I lived with my parents. I waited in lines for free cheese and peanut butter with a feeling of hunger and shame more times than one. My Christmas presents were donated. We had no washer and dryer, no fancy toys, no extras. I remember my mother heating up water on the fire, and hoping that by the time she brought the kettle to the bathtub, the water wouldn’t go cold. The thought of sitting in a tub of cold water still brings me back to the time when electricity was a luxury. My birthday parties had more of my parent’s friends at it than my own. We would spend the entire summer at the beach, my parents and their friends drinking more alcohol than I’ve seen consumed at most college parties, and trying so hard to enjoy their youth. The days would often end in fights, and the police were familiar with what side of town we were staying in. Despite the hard times, I enjoyed my childhood.

Age 7

My parents were young, and we went camping and sledding, and I have wonderful memories of good times. I also learned a lot about life rather quickly. I became very skilled at how to handle this thing we call addiction, but I was just a little girl, who wanted to be normal, and blend. The outcome was a messy collection of displaced anger, confusion, blame, and hatred for the things I did not understand, or could not fix. I hardened. I couldn’t love like most people. I couldn’t love a man. I used them. Perhaps abused them. I couldn’t love myself. The creative, emotional being within me was silenced and safe, and my outer shell was in desperate need of cracking. Healing was necessary, but I was ill equipped. My identity was hidden under a mess of emotions.

The day I graduated from high school, I rented my first apartment. My dad had a decent job as a truck driver by this point, and my two younger brothers knew nothing of the past. Things were on the up for them, and my mother seemed to be figuring it out. She went to every hockey, softball, and football game they played in, for years and to this day. My bond with my brothers is shallow and distant, but I am much older, and different than they are.  Perhaps it is my fault.

At eighteen, I began dating a beautiful man who would be the father of my oldest daughter, Alaina Marie. Insert song. I had no intention of being with him forever. I believe now that I must have wanted his seed, his wonderful genetics, and I left him to raise her on my own. I repeated the cycle, but I left first. Before he could leave me.

She and I are one, and everyone knows that. My baby. My name certainly wouldn’t change this time around, but my child would take his. Sullivan-O’Hara I like to call her. She is a stunningly dark, Irish girl with the strength and beauty of a team of wild horses, and the compassion and empathy of a gentle true spirit. Her father and I stand united in her upbringing, the best case scenario of how a situation such as this can result in a positive example of parenting.  It is possible to make something beautiful out of something so non-traditional. 

My Daughter and Myself Last Summer

In a search for stability and driven by the desire to not potentially grow old alone, I met a man whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. He was a police officer and I was the president of the PTA. He promised me the world and made me feel like anything was possible. We married. My name changed, as did my identity. My house was always spotless, and I was about to have my second child. Carly Brooke, my sweetheart, was born into a very “normal” household.  We had money; I was running our small café in the country. Things were great. Our log home in the woods was good for me, but not so good for the children, so we moved to a village to assimilate with society. The kids needed friends. I would soon come to realize this was a terrible mistake, the beginning of the storm that would take me to the place I am at today.

Part II

Sometimes life throws us curve balls. And they hit us right in the face.

I was bartending on the weekends at a very lovely place in the country and had made several friends in my new community. A terrible profession for someone who has known issues with alcohol, I began to take my work home with me. On Memorial Day of 2006, after a night of drinking shots of whiskey and beer, I thought it would be fun to sit on the window sill of the truck and let the wind blow through my hair. The alcohol had lowered my inhibitions to the point that I had zero fear or sense. I felt free for about five minutes. Then, I fell right out of the window of our truck and into the road.  I was pretty banged up, and it took me a year to bend my elbow. During rehabilitation, I received prescription after prescription, after prescription, for narcotics that were unknowingly beginning to control my life. I knew better. I began taking pills not to kill the pain, but to give me the strength and desire to keep my house spotless, my mood up, and my body high. I introduced them to my husband. I did.

Five or more years went by. My world looked good through my rose colored glasses, but in actuality, everything I had was on its way out the door. My house, my business, my marriage, and my happy family were crumbling. I was living in a nightmare.  I woke up one day, reached for my medicine and glass of water to start the day, and realized that I, we, had a serious problem.  I spent the next two days in bed, sweating, crying, and mourning the fact that it was over. It had to be. He was not so lucky. I’m still in the process of addressing that guilt.

I couldn’t watch him kill himself any longer. It became difficult to live with someone who didn’t want out. Drugs alter one’s personality. They take over everything. I dropped him off at rehab, and I began to try to put the pieces of my broken world back together again. That was the end of my marriage. I had to learn how to take care of myself. My grandfather wasn’t there to save me, my father couldn’t help me, and my husband had to save himself. He did. He just needed more help. A different kind of help. He is sober, and doing quite well. He cares for our little girl, and he is a wonderful father. But I can’t go back. I just can’t.

Part III

The Aftermath

On December 10^th, 2012, the old pellet stove broke for good. Tired of seeing our breath, and tired of being hungry, I had hit rock bottom. I knew that in order to survive, literally survive, I needed to break free. Alaina and I turned our backs on that house, and all that was in it, and took charity from a friend of mine who had an empty house for rent in the country. I am writing from the front porch right now, surrounded by a field of tall goldenrod and open space. My small boat sits on the pond and my chickens eat bugs out of the lawn without any concept of how they got here.

My Favorite Rooster

A miracle is what happened. That’s what I say.

These words are hard to say out loud. We are instructed to keep our secrets secret. I speak for those who have had a problem with addiction. We are not freaks, we are not dirty, and we are not a secret. We are your neighbors, your friends, your parents, and your lovers. We are the people that you love.  If you know someone who is struggling with addiction, do not shame them; they are full of pain enough.Get help.
Check out this video from the Website PainkillersKill.org. if you don't know firsthand about addiction.

I’m not sure what will become of me. My oldest daughter met a boy and stays with him most of the time. My little Carly stays with her father, who has a television, food, and neighbors, while I attend grad school, in hopes that I will someday be able to establish myself in this world, and stand tall on my own two feet. I’m still putting the pieces back together, differently. I promised myself I will never be cold again.

The Unwritten Chapter/Reflection

Determination is a powerful tool. If you do not refuse to be beaten down, if you cannot silence the voices of those who have told you that you will never be more than you are right now, if you do not believe you are worthy of happiness, and your identity is constructed according to what relationship you are in at any given time, then you will never get the pleasure of getting to know you. You are a capable of change, and capable of growth.

first college graduate in the family, age 38

Healing is done through accepting the fact that the ones we would like to change the most, may not live up to the expectation. We can begin to heal when we realize that in order to grow, we must forgive, not only those who hurt us so deeply, but also our vulnerable, flawed selves. If we do not honor the emotions that are buried deep within, and tear down the walls that keep us from being completely and wholeheartedly free, freedom from this bondage to the past will not be possible. We must learn to forgive. We must write, and honor our own history, but to do so, we need to discover who we are. We cannot forget our own identity, whatever that means. Someday I will change my name again. When I have reached the fullest potential of my autonomy, when my identity is not defined by any outside influence, but confidently resides within me, only then will I be free. Until then, I can be grateful for the experiences that I have had. I have had a wonderful life thus far. It may be hard to understand, but I wouldn’t want my life any other way. I know who I am, where I came from, and I can do anything.

Contemporizing Alisoun: 
A Fictional Story of a Search for Identity

"Yes, I am a Free Lover. I have an inalienable, constitutional and natural right to love whom I may, to love as long or as short a period as I can; to change that love every day if I please, and with that right neither you nor any law you can frame have any right to interfere. And I have the further right to demand a free and unrestricted exercise of that right, and it is your duty not only to accord it, but, as a community, to see that I am protected in it. I trust that I am fully understood, for I mean just that, and nothing less."

Victoria Woodhull

Before He Leaves:

Let me tell you about my love. He is as beautiful as a full moon, and as gentle as a morning star. His hair falls softly over his forehead and curls in ringlets of sun-bleached waves that beg me to touch it. I do. A lot. He isn’t my first love, but he sure feels like it. The night we met, he kissed my cheek, and I let him in. I abandoned all of my fears. My walls came crumbling down, and I let him in. I do not grow tired of him, and he is never too familiar. His habits don’t annoy me. His selfishness goes unnoticed. We speak sweetly to each other, and I remind him of how pretty he is, and how proud I am of him. I cannot get enough of his curious conversation, his beautiful body and his unique spirituality. I wake up and send him a text “Good morning, love.” He sends me one back, “Good morning, sweetheart.” There is nothing I would rather do. Years have gone by and nothing has changed. He is the definition of beauty and art, in human form. He and I, years and worlds apart, have created love. This feels good. Don’t get lost. Nothing gold can stay, Pony Boy.

Watching Him Turn the Corner from the Road:

I’m standing where I can see his truck drive away and he makes a right turn and I can’t see anymore. I stand there. Alone. I’m not used to being alone. Before any fear sets in, I am numb. I tell Alyssa (Tim’s girlfriend), that we have to go because we have a lot to do and that six weeks isn’t that long after all. I drive home and for twenty minutes I do nothing but think of his truck turning the corner, and what that means. I’m afraid to be alone with myself. How can I love him if he is gone?

I come to two realizations:

First, that I have constructed my identity around my relationship with another person, again. Unknowingly, blinded by a powerful emotion, I sacrificed myself, again.  I can’t breathe.

Second, I must be free. I must free myself from this relationship before I lose all sense of myself. I’m suddenly surrounded by mirrors.

I can’t find myself. I search and search but can’t find me. I am in a long dark tunnel and I can’t find my identity. I know who I was, by definition, but I’m not sure who I am right now. I have to get to know myself. I need to spend some time with this person.

I stop texting happy thoughts, and I become desperate and pathetic. My words are weapons used to get some kind of reaction, to no avail. I push him further and further away. Distance has brought out my insanity. He cowers from my emotions like a scared kitten. I’m ruining it.

I write on my bathroom mirror. I count on my friends, and on the calendar. I cry. I can’t stand to be without him.

I start to feel like I care about him more than myself. I question everything; everything becomes a theory. Why did I allow myself to become so attached? Why am I the only one crying? Are all women this emotional? How long will it take until I am better? Until I no longer this pain in my heart? Where do I begin? Will I ever give my heart away again? I think not. Loneliness drives a person to irrationality. Focus on other things. Focus on me. Focus on my own identity. Not the prescribed associations or assigned characteristics, but the unrestricted, individual, me. Not the student, or the mother or the citizen. Just me.
 
The words on the bathroom mirror begin to change. 

________________

I look in the mirror
I see me
A girl who likes calligraphy

 And heart shaped rocks

And mismatched socks

And old, folded letters
In a memory box
_________________________________________________________________________________

The characters in this Blog Post have been Constructed for your enjoyment.