I'm Still Here

“You can’t make up something you don’t feel.” - Janis Joplin

To entertain my loneliness in the ninth grade I often went to the library during lunch. I would read Stephen King’s Carrie, J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower, as well as a half-assed attempt at Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. That one didn’t quite make the finish line.

During these challenging times, I find myself reflecting on loneliness. Remember when we could go to bars and sit cramped on extended picnic tables filtering in and out of other people’s conversations? The smell of menthol cigarettes and cheap whiskey spilled on the pavement? It was lonely there too, but sometimes it felt good to be around other people.

I recently read Janis by Holly George-Warren, a Janis Joplin biography. I’ve always felt a connection with Janis, constantly fighting to be true to herself, the ache of feeling too much, the loneliness. 

When applying to grad school in the fall of 2015, I struggled trying to decide if I should focus on fiction or non-fiction creative writing. I considered most of the writing I had previously done to be auto-fiction, fiction which is based on real life events. This actually happened, I kept repeating to myself. Aren’t these non-fiction stories?

I struggle with writing fiction because it’s basically lying, right? I will dress up some details here and there, use a pseudonym like the name ADAM, but basically when I write about past experiences it’s hard to make shit up because I feel like I’m supposed to get every detail right. Which brings us to the Janis Joplin quote at the top of the page. 

I can’t write what I can’t feel, and my mind has a difficult time understanding how other artists can create something emotional without the experience. Does this make sense? I’m probably high. What else is there do during quarantine? This is the first thing I’ve written since leaving my job three weeks ago so please bear with me. 

What does this have to do with loneliness? Reading and writing are both solitary acts that I seemed to find a home in in the ninth grade. Remember LiveJournal? Me too. My user name was Cynicalflower. Because my name is Lilly. Get it? There was another one of those online diary sites I used, the name escapes me. My senior year of high school one of my friends had been reading my un-memorable online journal, maybe it was LJ what the fuck I am RAMBLING. 

OK SO. My graduating class had 30 fucking people in it. That’s it. My friend who was a year below me had left my website on the screen in the computer room and the “popular” kids (LOL if you know where I went to high school) found it. I later learned from a girl I played basketball with (don’t ask me about my brief career as student athlete ok? Unless I can tell you I was MVP in basketball and tennis my senior year. I am not joking. I told you it was a small fucking school.), that these Dickbats would hang out after school and read my journal to make fun of me. Listen, while y’all were doing this I lost my virginity ok? So fuck you. I’m really on a role. It feels good to talk about these things. My parents had to be called and we had a meeting with the Principal about this online harassment. I AM AN O.G. OF BEING THE VICITIM OF CYBER BULLYING!!

OK SO. Last day of high school there is a party and my no longer straightedge ass decides to go. I drink cheap shitty beer and smoke pot for the first time. I DID NOT FEEL GREAT! I drunk dialed my best friend, then my ex-boyfriend. Sure, let’s pretend it was in that order. At some point while the room is spinning, one of the Dickbats confesses to me that he was the one who posted all the comments on my blog. Cool story bro. 

I’m sharing this story because guess what Dickbats? I’M STILL HERE. Talking about my feelings on the Internet has been some kind of grace. I don’t know what to call it. I’m going to quote Pretty in Pink now. “I just want them to know they didn’t break me.”