November, November, This Is Why I Hate November

You know that feeling you get when you’re amped as fuck to go out and destroy something beautiful? Like you just have this twinge that tells you tonight is the night to feat on life? At first, you might not even realize that;s what you’re experiencing. Like a vampire looking for the next neck to suck. You just get this tickle. This idea. It starts small like a cool 808 drum sound in a song and you fixate on that one noise in the song, until suddenly three hours have passed and it’s 3pm and that disco double clap is now an idea. An idea that talks to the other offices in your head - only instead of traffic and sewage and public planning, it’s mania, and lust, and consumption. Which is kind of the same thing if you think about it. Anyway...3pm hits and you start planting ideas outside of your own head. Because your offices are super efficient. Once they get going with something, it’s set in motion before you even have the energy to get out of bed. It’s almost like an echo. It starts someplace real small, and you kind of forget about it. You can sense it’s still there, like a bruise that you got one drunken night and forgot the actions which caused it. And you think it’s gone away for another day, until next thing you know it’s 8pm, and you look F    U     C    K     I     N    G      GGGGGGGGREAT.

And everything just hits. And that echo comes back. Only this time, its not an echo, faint and unsure. It’s that really cool noise you heard in the song from earlier. And it’s all you can hear. I’m sure it’s different for everyone, but for me, it’s like 80’s-movie-mall-madness-glamor-shots perfection. And you’ve gotten yourself this far and it feels too damn good to question the why’s or the how’s or the what’s. And the worst part is that E V O R E E W H O N E is having fun. Like your friends are smiling, grinning ear to ear, talking to hotties and grabbing the world by it’s fucking balls, and that makes you happy. Because all you’ve ever wanted, is just to see the people you love happy and having fun. Life sucks so bad sometimes, and if you can help make it better for people, you sure as shit will. 

But you’re still only half awake. Like Talking Heads….”well, how did I get here?”. It’s like the suggestions and situations and conversations were pre-planned on a pre-recorded tape that the offices upstairs were crafting while you were in a daze after fixating on that noise. Sometimes you wish you wouldn’t fixate. Because you know it’s almost like a time clock that tells the offices upstairs “Hey dipshit, it’s time to get to work”. But the fixation feels so good. It’s like warm sand against your skin, finding yourself smiling because it just feels too good not to. It’s hard to turn away. You can’t look away from the two drunk guys, talk-spitting in salmon colored shorts and loafers, who probably have been talking at some poor girl all night, thinking they’re actually conversating at her, when really it’s just staring at the dot that doesn’t exist between her forehead because God forbid you stare at her tits and just ramble off “accomplishments” you made throughout your very easy Old Greenwich County upbringing, as if she gives a shit what you, and Randy, and Smitty did at some party six years ago, posing for Facebook pictures with cheap cigars in your mouth. You can’t look away, like the pretty girl in the subway who may actually look toward you, and you connect, like that may actually happen. You love playing with fire, because maybe she does see you, and instead thinks you’re some creep for staring too long. Sometimes, it’s just this urge to stare at the sun. The longer you stare, the less you can remember why you’re not supposed to. 

While this is all going on and you’re having a grand ole time, the bad shit starts to happen. And you don’t really ever know why because everything was fucking A+-stars-N-stripes-bomb-pops all night. It’s almost like when the tide comes in and suddenly the beach is gone and you don’t really understand where the time went or how you got there. But the bad always comes. And it’s always your fault. It’s always your fault BAD. And that’s why you always get that twinge in your neck when you hear the cool noise to not fixate, because just like our boy Icarus “YOU SHOULD NEVER FLY TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN”. That’s right. 

So as you get older and learn what this special ability is. That would be your “special attack” in Streets of Rage lingo. And sometimes that’s OK to enjoy and invite to the party. And sometimes it’s not. A lot of the time it’s caused you, and everyone around you, a lot of headaches and embarrassment, as awesome as it can be. So you learn to sit this one out. You learn yourself, and how to adapt to society. Because you’ve come to learn that everybody loves you until that tide comes in, and then everyone leaves you out to sea, to drown in the enticements you’ve created. And how badly you wish how they would see how fucked that is. Like just once, you wish someone would see how fucking shitty that is, and just say “Hey man, the tides rolling in, let’s go home”. And thankfully, eventually, you meet people who do. Who get it. And it gets better. 

Well, this is kind of like that. Only there’s a lot more depth and despair to it. And it’s not fully based around my crazy. It’s deeper and darker then that. And that’s what scares me. 

You see, this time of year, is a lot like those moments of consumed mania. That’s why I wanted to drag you into it with me. To show you how it feels. The reason why this time of year, when October shows its first tinges of cold, brooding despair, that in turn carries onto and into November, the reason it’s so scary to me, why I dread it, even more so as I’ve gotten older and wise enough to understand it, is because it feels like those manic bits all the time. But not the fun bits. The part where we don’t remember how we got here, from point A to point B. Remember, we talked about that earlier? It’s the inverse of the mania. The dissociative existing. 

This time of year, I’m barely alive, caught in a trance, where words and actions just happen and I can’t figure out why or even remember who I am. Not that I don’t know I’m Kerry. But there’s this fog. Like I’m caught elsewhere and here at the same time. For some reason, this time of year, I’m in a constant dream-state, only the dreams are real memories that I’m sucked into. Unpleasant memories that my mind is somehow able to transport me into so vividly it’s like they’re happening right now, while I’m existing and carrying on.

They say that sleep is the cousin of death, and I suppose that’s true. But in that same way, grief is like a person you know you shouldn’t date, but do so anyway. Grief is like that tingle we talked about earlier, that causes all the fun, but brings us down that dark road after. I mention grief because, well, why would a 5 year old know the heavy weight of grief? And that’s the thing, I don’t think most young kids really comprehend grief. They might know “Oh Nana died, she’s in heaven”, but don’t feel the dark depths of grief like adults do. So I don’t think this has ever been grief. Maybe it evolved over time, a cumulation of what this is, bridled with my own insecurities, painful memories of loss, and levels of sadness that such a gifted depressed person of my stature can reach. 

When I started working on my tattoo sleeve (shout out to Alicia Thomas at Boston Tattoo Company), I wanted it to incorporate my fears, my worries, the things that ate at me, whether they were silly or not, so I could own them. You can bet your ass I’m not one of those people who thinks that getting covered in spiders or worse -THE PEDES, say it quiet or they’ll hear you - is going to help me get over my fear, you are sorely mistaken. But this is something that helps me. The very first piece on my sleeve we’ve been working on is a “character” - I say “character” because she’s a little beyond falling in love with an actress playing a role on TV and becoming your favorite -  I’ve called The Lady of Death. You might remember from previous episodes of my rambling life. Now, when I met Alicia, I explained the premise of my sleeve, and as we became friendly via our client-artist relationship, I explained who The Lady of Death was. 

When my Dad passed away when I was 15, I had this dream exactly one week after he passed and it was the scariest dream I’ve ever had. And to be fair, I only remember dreaming in nightmares as a child (maybe that’s part of it). This dream was so scary that when I woke up, I lay frozen in my bed, for what felt like two hours but was probably closer to an hour and a half. I couldn’t move; I was so scared. Not sleep paralysis either. Like I was fully awake and wanted to roll over and break through my bedroom window like this is a Stallone action-thriller, two stories up and onto the lawn at the side of the house. I was that uncomfortable and scared. 

The thing with dreams is that explaining them to a friend the next day at work or a roommate when you wake up, you always laugh about it, because it’s silly to hear out loud, something so “OK” caused you so much emotional grief. It never really feels the same explaining it. The details don’t hit your friend or coworker the right way, or in the same way you’re recalling. So your coworker will go “What? Your cousin’s ex-girlfriend who lives in Texas except you were at Disney World?”. And you’ll stop yourself, because you still feel those emotions so deeply from that dream you’re holding onto like the fleeting smell of a high school crush on a sweatshirt. You’ll stop yourself because it sounds silly when you have, you just HAVE TO, say “well yeah, but it was different in the dream!”, almost half-smiling, laughing because it’s silly to say outloud but laughing because you know how weird or painful or strange it felt at that moment in the dream. And you kind of just smile throughout the day, reflecting on it, and it kind of carries with you. Like potpourri in your Grandmother’s bathroom that loses its potency as it dries out. Or your Stepdad asking you to retell the bad dreams you’ve had, so they come out, and become not-so-scary.  But that smell lingers here and there, until it fades, until the next time that weird dream conundrum happens. It’s funny because when it happens again, you almost remember all the dreams like it that you’ve forgotten. 

I mention this, because me explaining it doesn’t do the dream justice. But I’ll damn sure try my best for you readers at home. So the dream opens up at my Dad’s cape house in Falmouth. I spent my VERY early childhood summers there. Because he sold it, or lost it, or something before I was 4 or so. My Dad was an amazing person in a lot of ways but unfortunately, when I recall memories, it’s not as easy as saying “oh we lived here and did this for this period of time”. Things would just change inexplicably without much warning and that would be the end of Act 2. I think it’s important to point out when I detail the stories of my life because if it’s confusing for you, you can imagine how confusing it is to be an adult realizing that not everyone grew up the way I did or recalls memories like this LOL. So, I don’t have many older memories at this place, but I do have a good chunk of vivid memories here, even being so young. The mind is funny like that sometimes. I know my Dad loved the Cape house and we spent a great deal of time there, especially because my Mom and my older siblings (from my Dad’s marriage to their mom), we’re relatively close in age and got along and had a lot of fun. There were a lot of happy memories at this Cape house. I think for my older siblings too, who had their own tumultuous relationship with my Dad growing up. Things felt right at that time, I think for all of us. I’m told I’m a lot like my Dad, so if he’s anything like me, when the symbiosis of our multiple worlds and relationships get along just right, nothing feels better. I think we both share this wonderful gift of connecting people who would kick ass together.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t have weird and sad memories from this time - still vivid of course - but the fact that this dream took place at this house, which I hadn’t been to in at least ten years, and had such happy times in, struck me. Keep in mind, it’s been exactly one week, to the day, of the day I had to sit at Mass General as they took my Dad off life support, and I just had to sit around and wait for him to die. Because that’s a really great place to be at 15, after moving an hour and a half away from where you grew up with no one to really talk to. 

But the dream opens up, and it’s dark. Not like I don’t know where I am. I know I’m at the Cape house. I’m standing in the foyer by the front door. But I can’t really see much. The best description I can provide you, is like in “Insidious” or “Stranger Things”, where it’s hazy, almost a dense fog, that embellishes the room like a fountain pen dipped in water. You just touched it to the water, but the ink grows so greatly that before you know it, the water is actually a dark cloud, with depth and shadow. Because if you remember, somehow, when we dream, we always seem to be in on the joke. Which is what makes it so shitty and lame when you’re trying to tell Jake at the water cooler over a Redbull to cover up Sunday Night Football’s “White Claw Breath”, this FUCKIN’ WEIRD DREAM you had. 

I know I’m in that Cape house I haven’t seen in years. Or maybe even thought about. But I know the layout like I was just there. You were standing with the front door at your back, as most beach houses tend to have an open layout, with easy access to the kitchen for beach snacks and window to the back deck where your brother or dad is cracking a beer or turning on the grill, or the living room to catch the Sox (at that time) probably lose to the Yankees (but you’d still watch the whole 9 innings anyway). And you could see the doorframes just barely. Like instead of deep, dark purple black, as you assumed what were the rooms were painted in, the door frames were more brownish red, like the woodpannling that often accompanies these Cape houses. And it was so hazy, like you’re an astronaut in this decade’s sci-fi thriller, PHURMPH, PHURMPH, trying to breath patiently through the ash. Because maybe that’s what this is? Maybe it’s not even haze at all, but ash. It’s not pleasant whatever it is. And it’s not the Cape house you remember. It is, but it’s not the one in real life, in the daytime. And there’s this light in the living room. Kind of like a hazy orb. As if someone has a lamp over the couch, which is angled slightly at you. The back of the couch isn’t to you, it’s actually angled 45 degrees toward you, so you’re inline with the back. And it’s drawing you in. You can’t see much else, so you go. Like if this was a video game, you’d know this is the place to go, because everything else is so dark and hazy and seems unimportant. And there’s someone sitting on the couch. You have a brief, fleeting thought that maybe it’s your mom or one of your older sisters, but it’s not. You know, you just fucking know. It looks to be a young girl, maybe seven or eight, with what you’re thinking is long brown hair and bangs like yours, maybe it’s meant to be familiar and look like a reflection of yourself. But much like you know it’s not your mom or one of your older sisters, you start to see the hair for what it really is, not what it’s meant to be. It’s dark, that greenish-black color you’d get stuck with in the cheap marker pack you’d get as kids. Much like that twinge of mania, or the person you’re not supposed to date, you know already it conned you into moving towards it, under the guise of familiarity. You know. But you’re already here. And finally, you reach the back of the couch, so the girl is with her head down as if she’s reading a book, but again at a 45 degree angle, so the left side of her head and face is becoming visible, as the wet, greenish-black hair sticks in place and your skin starts to crawl. And she doesn’t look up or turn like you would expect a child when you call them for dinner after a sunkissed day at the beach. No, because she’s not a child at all. Or even a “she” for that matter. You see, this has been a booby trap. A bear trap with big teeth under some brush in the forest. And much like the clamping and paralyzing agony that shoots up your spine, if you were to get caught in a bear trap, because unlucky for you, it didn’t hit an artery so you’re not just gonna bleed out and get on with it, no you’re gonna feel every twinge reach up your tailbone and hit that North Pole spot in your brain that every time you get that twinge you’re like “Shit man, is this it?” 

And right at that moment where you’re caught, paralyzed between actually reaching the floating destination, physically in the dream, and the realization that this was a booby trap, “she” engulfs you. Like while she’s slowly turning her head to you, so you can see who it really is, in this fucking uncomfortable dream, you’re sucked into it. And you realize it’s not a little girl, that you now know as a projection of yourself, a booby trap, it’s not even a little girl with wet, green-black hair. It’s a old woman. And much like the evil witch in Snow White that used to give you the worst nightmares, that your Stepdad would have you tell him about when you woke up crying so they would be less scary, and you’d laugh and be able to fall back asleep, her hands were withered and veiny, long, almost like claws...because when you really start putting 2+2 together, you begin to realize that maybe she has followed you your whole life, often appearing in many different forms. 

And when I say “engulf”, I really mean it. Because as all of these things are coming to fruition - the paralyzing fear of reaching the figure, the booby trap, the ‘you’ projection turning into the green-black-haired-girl then into old woman, all those emotions are just peaking in your body. Because you feel emotions so deeply. And then, another twist, because this has been the most boring-ly described dream to a co-worker or roommate, which you had neither of at 15, just a dream about your Cape house, and a creepy girl woke you up, you realize that it’s not an old woman at all. It’s not a person or a projection. 

It’s an entity. And it consumed you. 

The way that the Pogs slammers, you know the really heavy Pogs used to break the game, when Pogs were in, those circular cardboard collectable things we were obsessed with, the way that the slammers, mine was metallic gold, and had a hologram skull with 8-ball eyes, and the more you shifted it, the more it changed, the way that you’re not sure what you’re gonna get, but you fall into that hologram, that’s what this was like. It looked at me and immediately came for me. And I felt all of it. 

And that horror was so traumatizing - I can imagine it was like in Indiana Jones, where the ark is opened, or the crystal skull gifts you the knowledge (I loved the new one, sue me), and the person, finally getting this ultimate power, is engorged by this unearthly sensation. Because I felt a whole lot of darkness when The Lady of Death came for me. We don’t have the words in English to describe how I felt. I’m sure in Japanese, or Russian, or Italian, where languages are built to paint pictures with depth I could surmise the words, but alas, I’m plagued with the American bubble of “SPEAK ENGRISH” and so foreign languages are difficult. But it was a darkness and despair that atheists and people who don’t believe in ghosts and people who JUST LOVE their Toyota Yaris hybrids pretend don’t exist in the world. It dragged my already emotionally over-the-top palette to depths our scientists struggle to classify because our body’s can’t take the pressure down there. It happened so fast, but I felt eons of darkness. And I instantly woke up. To be honest, as if I’ve ever been anything else in GRB world, the first time I saw “Paranormal Activity” in the movie theater a couple years later in the movie theater with my boyfriend, the ending in that movie, when the demon or poltergeist comes at the screen, that’s what it felt like. I sobbed in that movie theater, and I would’ve sobbed if I had been able to move after waking up from that dream in my bedroom. I was frozen. I couldn’t even move a finger. And I know what sleep paralysis is. I developed it years later and know all about it. This was not sleep paralysis. I was awake from that dream. And paralyzed with fear like I’ve never felt in my life. Probably because we don’t have those kinds of fears and darkness depths in the daytime reality. The place The Lady of Death took me to was beyond any color or shade or feeling I had experienced or even knew words for. Maybe it wasn’t a feeling at all. Maybe I was still elsewhere, slowly coming back to the surface. And as the darkness and despair drips off me, cascading back to wherever it came from, I slowly start to feel my bed, and my sheets, and the tips of my fingers. I’m breathing so hard I’m surprised my heart doesn’t pump right through my chest and through my bed, through the floor to my bedroom, down to my living room. I can feel my mouth mouthing words or even just sounds, just something to alert my parents sleeping in the bedroom down the hall that I need help, petrified like the young girl I once was waking my Stepdad up to tell him about the bad dream I had with the witch from Snow White so we could laugh and fall asleep. But the thought of even moving my finger tips might alert The Lady of Death and she’ll come back for me. Does she feel my eyeballs moving? Does she know I’m alive? Should I move yet. And finally after an hour and a half of this, I’m able to shoot up out of bed, and I storm into my parents room, and I beg them, sobbing, to let me sleep in their bed. Because she’s still there lingering in that room. Grief after death always lingers. But like we talked about before, I don’t think this was really grief at all. A week after death, you don’t really feel grief yet. It hasn’t sunk in yet. And she’s visited me maybe two or three more times when I was really low and sad and she could get to me. She could tap into my own sadness and drag me back down to her depths. 

For the longest time, I thought that night was the first time we met. And maybe it was, face to face anyway. Or whatever it is an entity shows you, because the face part is only a projection. But since I’ve been putting together my thoughts for this post, I realized that I’ve met her in passing at many other times in my life. And those times weren’t brought by grief at all. She didn’t have a face, or was a her at all, but the emotions and the darkness were there. 

You see, I was left to my own devices quite a bit as a child. I was quiet and enjoyed playing by myself and being left alone so long as there were interesting toys to play with - early-era game consoles like Sega Genesis’ or Super Nintendos especially or maybe “Unsolved Mysteries” reruns to watch on TV. I liked my own world and not having other kids or adults around to annoy me and let me have my fun. And I could get lost for hours and not make a peep. So for that reason, I was an easy kid, and adults had no problem watching me. But there were some times, too many times, now that I’m reflecting on it, where I wouldn’t like being alone so much. Out of the blue, I’d be having a great time, able to interpret “Altered Beast” or “Sonic & Tails” the way I wanted, without my cousin or pseudo-stepbrother at the time hogging the controller as all boys do, or maybe setting up my toys in their own little world, organized, everything in its place without another kid in the mix who didn’t understand the order of it all, stupidly trying to fumble around in my world - I HATED THAT SHIT - because I didn’t have time to teach them my world because then I couldn’t get lost in it anymore, and it was slow and irritating to try and get someone to understand the point of it, and why it was fun for you. Because their version of fun was boring and stupid. It wasn’t “babyish”, a phrase that maybe got thrown around a lot on the playground at that time. It was just irritating and STUPID. But there were times where suddenly it wasn’t fun to be alone. And you’d feel VERY alone. And you knew there had to be an adult around, because you were too young to be home by yourself, until you got older and were allowed to stay home by yourself and you KNEW there was no one home. And you’d feel that haziness again creep over the rooms. And it was like you were almost in a dream-state again. Like the fever dreams you had that time you had a 104 fever and almost had to go to the hospital. But you’re awake, and you were just having such a great time. And you slowly put down the Sega controller, or stuffed animal you’re playing with, afraid to breath, eyes scanning every dark corner of the half-finished basement you’re in, ready to bolt for the stairs. And finally you get up the courage and do it! And you leap trying to hit that second from the floor stair, skipping the first one altogether, hoping you don’t miss it and come down hard on your shin on that first stair, and you scramble up the stairs and open the basement door to the kitchen, hoping there’s an adult around. And everything is grey. It’s like that in-between time of day where it’s been cloudy, you’ve been watching TV and the lights feel too uncomfortable but when you actually test it and turn them on, you realize how dark the house really is. You know there HAS to be an adult around because you wouldn't have been left alone. And you look through the living room, and family room, and dining room, calling for the adult that’s supposed to be there, or as you get older and you know there are no adults around, you look to the street and hope a car passes, or a neighbor is bringing out the trash or taking the dog out for a walk, but there’s nothing. And then you start to panic, so you run outside, because the weight of the emotions in the house are too much. It’s not a place you want to be. But you realize it’s later in the afternoon. Like 3:47pm, and it’s drizzling outside and you don’t want to be out there either. And you’re still scanning, looking around for a sign of life on this planet. Until a neighbor asks why you’re outside in the rain with just a t-shirt, almost like it’s silly for you to have even left the “safety” of your home. And you can’t explain what you’re feeling because, much like reiterating a dream to your roommate the next day, it sounds silly. And adults always have a way of twisting and manipulating words and situations you’ve found. So you play cute and smile and pretend to kick around some dirt or splash in a puddle before going back inside. And oddly enough, even though it’s still that weird later-in-the-grey-afternoon-day, you feel a lively presence. Not like before when it felt like you were walking through the house in another realm, void of the warm touch of people or reality. The adult that you had been calling to, who you were shocked to realize wasn’t there, your Dad’s girlfriend, she had been there the whole time. She was upstairs getting work done and was now in the upstairs bathroom freshening up, blow-drying her hair. And you look a little disheveled and you try to find the words to ask why she didn’t answer when you called. And she says she didn’t hear you. And at the time, you think someone’s playing a funny joke on you. Trying to trick you, you know. But as you get older, you realize that she would’ve heard you, you shouted a few times, LOUD. And as you glance up the stairs at her in the bathroom, you see one of the adjacent bedrooms and can see the colors on the wall, “Star Wars” or “Doom” posters your pseudo-stepbrother (because your dad and his girlfriend we’re married, but you were technically step-siblings). And you realize that when you first lept out of the basement and were wandering throughout the house, before you bolted out the front door, and the neighbor told you to put on a jacket “BEFOYAHCATCHACOLD”, that none of the color or elements to the rooms has been there. It was much like that time you’d come to experience years later, when you Dad passed away and you had that dream about The Lady of Death. 

These types of memories plague me most as we set into “the November Drearies”. And that’s how I realized The Lady of Death has followed me my whole life. She’s always lurched in whenever convenient, and sucks me down to that realm, where our very basic, worldly emotions and colors can’t interpret. I don’t know why she follows me, or what she wants. I feel like my Dad somehow protected me from fully seeing her up until he died, and that’s why I had that dream a week after his death. But this time of year, I’m usually in a dream-like state, teetering between reality, my dreams, my memories, and something else. Whatever that might be. I don’t know what she wants from me, but she loves letting me know she’s there.

And so you see, that’s why Novemberish is a funny time for me. Because for some reason, I get caught in these trances, in these in-between places. And I get surges of painful or unpleasant memories, so vidly at times it shakes me awake and I sob, or I can’t sit still. Because even if I don’t see her, for some reason, this time of year, she has the ability to bring me down to those depths for extended periods of time and remind me of things my subconscious has tucked away, never to be opened (as the offices upstairs had hoped, you know before things were done on the computer database, but still kept for legal purposes). And I know it’s just to show me that she’s there, waiting. 

*3/10 people want to know what’s funny about that particular night, well what’s funny is that my Mom, who at the time, still read the Metrowest Daily News from back home, to still be in touch with our life before the Cape, she saw in the police reports section, that there was a fire alarm call, to my Dad’s old address in Framingham at right around the same time I had woken them up to ask if I could sleep in their bed.