Why Marrying a Studio Artist is Better than a Rock Star

At the tender age of 14 I fell in love with Gerard Way. Make fun of me if you will. His sultry emotional voice, and the eccentric presence you could see vibrate through his body while he sang lyrics straight from the heart of my depressed teenage angst, got my goat. There is just something about performers. The fearless confidence of their values and ability to create music in front of millions has always impressed me. We all fantasize over the men and women of the celebrated reality that is our favorite. Rob Zombie, a man with a passion for gore and death made me feel alive in all the ways I wanted. But dating real live human flesh is so different than an imagined love.
My first “true” love was the epitome of cocky. The guy was full of himself. I swear he thought his instrument was an extension of his male genitals. My eyes roll to the back of my head so far I can see my lunch just thinking of him. My second heart swelling love? More gentle and unsure of himself to the point of default. He drew beautiful quiet sketches, lost in his world. Different for being himself not for the sake of popularity. But his self doubt reflected my inner vulnerability, in ways unknown to a girl on the brink of recovery from a hatred for men. I didn’t even try with him. I couldn’t,.He was too kind to me and too unbroken. He did help me develop and define an emotional type, if you will. But not a physical one. No matter their outward appearance I was searching for something deeper. I wanted a human with confident self doubt, like myself. The oxymoron, difficult to find. I tried branching out my territory, ex-army, divorced, low key musicians,  video game loving self haters, car steelers, sports enthusiasts. My turn over rate was astonishing; never staying with anyone, for the sake of enjoyment or commitment. I was getting over a pseudo-”badboy” fixer project, when I found him.
Quiet, calm, unsure of his interactions with the world, but unimaginably sure of his own perception. I found what I was looking for. He spoke through his craft, not his outward appearance, not through the number of awards, shows, tattoos, or friends he had. His prized possessions mere items on a shelf; model airplanes, records, board games, fantasy novels. He collected happiness, bottled it up in himself, letting  it out for glimpses at a time.  All of his emotions hidden except for when he made me laugh and taught me about one of his collections. He did not care what the world thought of him, only what he thought of himself. Never felt like every action he made right or wrong could ruin his world. The next day he would get up, go to work, dislike his necessary but loatheful job, then text me a picture of his paintings.
I knew I loved him when I saw his art. Muted worlds of color, with no need for an explanation, especially after meeting him. Inspired by internal turmoil and a need to succeed in something he deemed worthwhile. Never a doubt in his mind that he could live happily creating art, loving me, in this one bedroom apartment for the rest of his life. Did he want more? Yes, and he still does but it is a strange thing to meet someone who is content, not settling. It comforts my anxiety to constantly progress and pause and enjoy the smell of acrylic paint, the melodies of Lou Reed, and the importance of Suspiria.
The misconception that musicians are great lovers because of touch and sensuality through auditory arts is true, but only for some. The idea to define someone by the stereotype of their profession is not always accurate. But sometimes, these specific personality traits combine to make exactly that. My husband is an excellent artist. In my opinion, the only opinion that matters to me the most (he taught me that). He thinks outside logic by understanding the ins and outs of rational thought. His world without a doubt reality. So he is able to create his own, the one that bends this one. So he sees a women as a canvas instead of a human with a heart, eyes,butt, other desirable features. Sure he known those are all there, but they are all beautiful, always and should be treated as such. He enjoys how they differ and how they are the same. You see his visual perception is superior to most. Great artists are like that. So he loves me. All of me. My physical, emotional, and mental existence. He makes me feel like his muse, though I know his muse is creation itself. He knows everything about me from my curves to my annoying bad habits like throwing food everywhere when I cook. Accidentally of course. He outwardly reminds me how much he loves the dark shades of my life as much as the light.
And all I have to do is remind him that he is everything he knows he is. That he is intelligent, he is wise, he is a creator, he is a good husband, he is right to be satisfied with the joys he finds in life and that other people can see that in him too. Unfortunately, he has to teach me self love.But what better man to do so than an artist? A man that builds worlds from nothing but insulation foam, wood, good tunes, and conviction.

Marrying a studio artist is better than a rock star. He wears his mind and heart on a wall in my living room, in each piece he creates. And this man wants to share it with the world because he knows he is good at it. Not a part of him you can hear, not a face you can recognize, not as a language that can be understood. But of an image that takes you inside yourself and evokes a thought, a feeling, a memory, a sense of mindful awareness that you can reflect upon but can’t describe. It’s the same thing that happens when I catch him staring at me or when I watch him tie knots in fishing line. I imagine it’s the same as holding your child for the first time. But other times it’s the worry of uncertainty of the final piece I like the best. The anxiety and anticipation of each choice. The process. Marrying an artist allows you to enjoy the unholy suffering and awe of creation. It is frightening and beautiful. It’s like watching a person enjoy the struggles of life, with the hope of sharing it with others who feel alone. And I am that man’s wife. How incredible.

JoshuaJBarbosaArt

BRICKYARD

Clara the Cannibal: She Eats Men Like Air

At 15 years old I took part in non consensual sex. I still have trouble calling it rape. Rape is supposed to be a violent act that leaves you beaten and abused right? That is what I thought. I was young and eager for romance, like most fifteen year old girls desiring Edward Cullen, when I met someone interested in me. I was ecstatic. He was brunette, tan, rich, intelligent, and I had only known him for a very short time. I invited him to play some video games and have a snack one afternoon when we were coming home from school on the bus. We were “making out” when I noticed him lingering below my waist, a place no one had ventured to go. I was excited and scared, but before I had time to understand what was even happening he placed his hand on his uncovered penis, the first I have ever touched. I was unsure if what I was doing was right. This was uncharted territory. I knew I did not want to have sex with this boy. We had only been on a few dates. I didn’t know him that well besides our half hour conversations on our bus rides home. I moved my hand away and continued to kiss him instead. Before I knew it he pulled back my underwear and said, “Just let me touch you, it's okay I won’t hurt you.” I felt okay with that but in my mind decided that would be the limit. All of a sudden I felt him on top of me, he said “Just the tip,” as I tried to push him away. Before long he was inside me. I fought him off me as soon as I could and told him he should leave now.

I never talked to him again. My mom had asked me, “What happened to the boy who you were talking to, the one that drove the Escalade?”. I never told her what had happened. I thought this must have been how most people lost their virginity. I was sure it was nothing like the movies.. I mean I was the one who asked him over I must have sent him the ‘signal’ that I wanted to do more. I was naive. I made up an elaborate rape story to tell my friends at school. None of them believed me, because it obviously was not true, but I wanted to tell someone what had happened, and that is the only way I knew how. This is the first time I have ever told anyone in detail what has happened. I feel it is important to let others know, men and women, that it is not okay no matter how insignificant you think it is. Not long after the incident I became a ‘man eater’. I broke hearts, flirted with anyone, and denied them of sex just to prove I was in control. It was not kind, but it was the only way I knew how to handle myself. Since then I have been outward about what goes on in my life. Completely honest with my heart on my sleeve, that way if anything happens again someone may know that I need help. What I am learning now is I need to ask for help and be willing to accept it. Sometimes I feel undeserving of any help. I am not sure why. Sometimes I think it is a personal penance for any cruelty, intentional or not, that I have bestowed onto other. I was raised a Catholic, and we all know how guilt drives them to be “better” people. I will continue to work on this aspect of my life in hopes of recovering.

I wrote this short story as a way to demonize the act of rape. Read it only if you can.

The night I killed him it was raining hard as Lexi and I ran through the door of the club. We just turned twenty-one and were on the prowl for free drinks and stares. After one Grateful Dead, we were on the dance floor enjoying the pulsing lights and the intoxicating aroma of sweat and freedom. That’s when I saw him. He was tall and slender. A distinguished grin arose when he noticed my gaze. The wrinkles next to his eyes hinted at his age, but the long dark hair and depth of his glare suggested otherwise. Slowly he curved his finger summoning me. It took all my strength to deny him in that moment, knowing full well it would trigger his need. The need all men carry with them, the secret to their infatuation, their weakness. “Caught one”,I whispered to Lexi, the kind of whisper you scream when you can’t hear yourself think. “Where?”, she smiled. I pointed to the dark man in the corner, standing with his arms crossed, enamored by our conversation I’m sure. We slowly danced our way towards him, stalking my prey. I felt his eyes along my hips imagining the intensity of the moment we could share later, if he proved himself worthy of my time. Just because we enjoy the chase doesn’t mean we want to be caught. Our right to choose remains valid despite our primal desires. I lavished in the attention, not paying him any mind when Lexi declared, “Your vampire hottie is coming to visit.”

“Your pheromones drew me closer. What’s your name?”.The breath of his voice lingered by me as I answered, “Clara, and this is Lexi”. We danced to the sound of guitar riffs and rapid drums for an eternal moment. I swayed my body back and forth, decreasing the distance from my target. At the sound of a slower beat, Lexi announced her sudden need to excrete her urea and left us alone. He had asked me to  walk outside with him, to smoke a blunt and talk about life. “So what’s your story he asked?”, stroking the strap of my hunter green dress, the same color as the dumpster I was so gracefully leaning on. I began to talk of my interests in entomology, specifically predatory insects. He laughed while brushing away the sweep of hair obstructing my eyes, “I am surprised to have met an intelligent woman in this dump.” Slowly he caressed his Roman nose against my cheek and kissed me softly barely touching my lips. As he pulled away he looked directly into my eyes. I noticed the fire behind his chocolate iris, and quickly diverted my fixation to the pieces of gum stuck to the pavement. He asked me for my number. I nervously placed it in his phone as he gently stroked my leg, each time getting higher on my thigh and lingering. It was apparent that we were both well equipped to play this game. He threw down the remaining butt, as we began walking back to the club from our quiet place behind the dumpster. Unexpectedly, he hurried deeper into the dark alley opposite our initial direction. Excitedly he proclaimed, “This is the biggest roach I have ever seen! Hurry, come look!”. Naturally I darted down the alley, ecstatic he was intrigued by my interest. Crouching down next to him I scanned the edge of the brick wall for the specimen, when I felt a firm hand slowly making its way up my back. I laughed and said, “Where is the roach?”. Suddenly my chest was slammed down into the pavement. The oxygen left my lungs. Gasping for air, tears filled my eyes as I felt the sharp gravel pierce my virgin skin. I tried to thrash away crawling desperately on all fours, crying for help. Immediately he straddled me and pulled out a filthy handkerchief, covered in what I imagined to be the blood and tears of his previous victims. Mumbled by the paisley printed putrid cloth, I heard the chirps of music and laughter from the club, as the click of his belt buckle rang in my ear. I knew it was coming. This is how it was going to be. My first time alone camouflaged and beaten by the side of a dumpster. I deserved it. Enticing him with my short dress and my comfort with sexuality sent him into a craze. I wanted this; only I imagined candles, long conversations, laughter, love. I fought again as he hastily pulled down my favorite pair of black lace underwear, the ones I wore so the seam wouldn’t show underneath my dress. Without saying a word he forced his way into my body. A place I had denied to others, despite their commitment to our relationships. The pain of a thousand injections pulsed through my existence from between my legs. I became limp, as he repeatedly infected me with emotional botulism. The spines of his fingers entrapped my waist under his weight. Hours, or maybe moments passed before the vocal and physical release of his violent desire freed me from the torture. Proud and out of breath, the man arose with laughter, as I noticed a large wine bottle littering the ground beside me. Slowly my trembling fingers reached for the neck. Without hesitation I sprang to my feet, and with adrenaline as my fuel, attacked his left temple with a hollow blow. The glass shattered as he wailed in pain stumbling backward towards the dumpster. As I clutched what remained of my weapon, my knuckles white from strain, I launched toward him and began repeatedly stabbing his chest. I clasped my hand over his mouth and felt the hot air of his moans. Slowly I grabbed the very organ that destroyed me and placed it back inside its preferred home in my flesh. He watched as I rhythmically tortured his body, silent and stunned, covered in the sticky poison that kept him alive. I became still as I employed a shard of glass to widen his seductive smile. Horror replaced the flame that once consumed me as he watched me devour a piece of his raw flesh.

The feeling of power came over me as I swallowed each cheek. He became limp inside me as I watched his eyes roll to the back of his beaten skull. To insure no one would talk of the heinous act, I ripped open his jugular and met his ribbed trachea, as blood spit into an abstract collection on my face. Licking my fingers and wiping my eyes, I arose from my position. I hauled the weight of the lifeless body to the side door of the dumpster. With brute force and grunts I shoved the remaining villain into his grave of filth. I reached down beside the spot of our first kiss, extracted, and lit our butt from the ground. I took one last drag while reaching in my leather bag for hair spray to drench a flyer for the club’s ‘Drag Night’. As I lit the flyer with the remaining ganja, I felt remorse for the man and his choices that lead him to this pro curious ending. I extinguished my remorse reminding myself that all great predators distance themselves from the value of their prey.

Something Novel

In Elementary and Middle school I was the awkward girl with a pile of books and a constant need to drop them. Misshapen mountains of children’s literature, encyclopedias, R.L. Stine’s newest ‘Fear Street’ addition, and poetry by Sylvia Plath at some point were placed atop my trapper keeper, and have obstructed my view. Unlike those who took out library books and never bothered to get past the cover, I read every one. I vividly remember being incredibly disappointed by The Rainbow Fish, written and illustrated by Marcus Pfister. It had all of the elements of a great children's story, but it was in no way unique besides the holographic finned fish on the cover. My mother, always looking for a teaching opportunity, disclosed the secret that not every book should be chosen by its cover. A lesson I am thankful I learned at a young age.

Remember me?

Not long after the shiny fish incident I grabbed some computer paper from under my Aunt’s television stand, a card table, some crayons, my hole puncher, and a few strands of scrap yarn and “wrote” my first book. It was about a racoon. I think. Honestly I can’t remember anything other than the feeling of satisfaction that came with its creation. I knew then I wanted to write, no matter when or where writing was an outlet for me. From the emotional poetry that came forth after my Great Uncle’s death and the loss of a part time sister, to the stories of love and heartache that arose from my first broken heart, I knew I had something special to share.  

Unfortunately, the increase in hormones and my interest in the opposite sex, correlated with the decrease in my need to write and read. My need for a tangible reality lead me to increase my social life and decrease my alone time. Although my personal reading periods unpredictable, my scholarly reading and writing never left. In my later teenage years I was enamored by British literature (including the wonderful Shakespeare) and dystopian fiction (till this day Brave New World by Aldous Huxley remains my favorite book). My love for the arts remains to battle with my need for information and discovery through logical scientific analysis. For a time the latter won.
Once exposed to the raw understanding of the world around me via the scientific method as discovered by Francis Bacon, I was hooked. I had never experienced this sense of wonder before. Instead of having to create a reality through both fiction and nonfiction literature, I could channel my creative abilities into asking questions about the unknown, and in turn help humanity. Recently I realized this is still how I feel. The eternal research fire under my ass burns incessantly despite recent attempts to starve it of oxygen. However, if one is to be a good scientist one must learn to rationalize ideas without bias.

This stud created the scientific method
              and his last name is Bacon, he wins at life.

My theory based on my introspective observations are as follows: If you could write a piece that uses the facts you have acquired about your reality and the world around you in an extreme and creative way then you could write a decent novel. At this realization my heart takes a tachycardic turn and my mind buries the idea deep within the “you will never be able to do that” file. But in keeping true to my dialectical behavior moderation, in one instant my thoughts changed.
On Sunday at the Providence Flea Market, local author Adam Wasserman noticed my hypothesis plastered on my face as I scanned the books on display. As always, networking and talking to other people calms my anxiety and excitement by turning my thoughts away from my own emotions, and towards another. I chatted with Adam about writing and found my reflection in the shine of the soft cover of his first title,“The Grey Life”. His small words of encouragement reminded me of the let down of the holographic fish, and despite the horrific embarrassment of forgetting his novel with another vendor, I went home and sat down to write.

For the past few months I have been searching for my voice and I am finding it slowly but surely. All I can continue to do is write. I have an idea for a novel, or possibly a series of fiction based on my own augmented reality. What will about to release is my first attempt at starting something. Although I am extremely self critical, and have a long road to go before being able to sit with myself long enough to write such a  worthy piece, I tried. I am, however, intimidated by the idea of working on my own piece of literature without proper training on the process. When my overwhelming emotions get in the way of my achievements I either crumble or walk 5 ½ miles to a used book store and back. Lets just say what I want you to read is only the lacing of my sneakers on a walk towards a self fulfilling prophecy. Thanks for joining, I never liked traveling alone.

What if I told you all of the problems and solutions of life are based on one condition, acceptance? I hope most of you would not take my word for it, but unfortunately some of you will. Acceptance is what has eroded our individual personalities, as well as the society we live in. It is the magnetic force behind our moral compass, because it is what drives the perception of our experiences. A philosophy becomes powerful only when enough people accept it as such. We can find many historical examples to back my hypothesis, but I won’t bore you with stories of Jesus, Joseph Smith, or Gerald Gardner. I myself prefer to focus on the beautiful creations of Carl Sagan.My wonder for energy, “star stuff”, and an endless universe tires my thalamus, also known as the brain's information highway, where my emotions go to cause pile ups of thoughts. The black abyss that is space remains a fascinating voyage for my fellow optimistic earthlings. I admire and appreciate their resilience. Finding a way to escape the Sun’s final days is something I always hoped for humanity, but could never get past the possible life failure of never adding to the space program’s information pool. Instead I decided to become my own kind of martyr instead. My torture of choice, studying the mentally ill. The extremophiles of the human race, all locked together in the same hell, Whispering Fern Mental Hospital.

Maybe you were expecting something more from me than just one paragraph. This blog is meant to hold me accountable for sticking to my goals, but also coming to terms with the idea of opening up my work to critique, something I need and struggle with. Do me a favor and pick it apart. Love it, hate it, grammar Nazi it. I will humbly appreciate anything you have to offer.

-Sabrina

Oops I forgot!

With all of this talk of literature I wanted to invite you to join my book club called Quarter Life Chronicles.
Here is the link.

I am currently raffling off a top secret prize for answering a simple poll question! Yay for participation and reading! Go check it out!

She Found Her Voice

I am in the middle of a quarter life crisis. Yes, I just got married, no, I do not have any children to stress about, I am not paying a mortgage, and I have a job. What could I possibly have to worry about, besides myself? The answer is nothing. But when you are forced to only worry about yourself for an extended period of time, you are faced with two choices. The first is to distract yourself from the voices inside your head telling you things you never wanted to hear; the second, is to listen to their message. I call my reminder voice Hagatha. She is always pestering me, “Meal plan and exercise, you’re going to get diabetes!”, “Get your oil changed!” “Save money!”. Hagatha is my inner mom, constantly reminding me to take care of myself. She has been overpowered most of my life by Veronica, my personal bully, who is excellent at reminding me how much I suck. “You can not focus on anything long enough to succeed!”, “There is no excuse for this behavior!”.

Do not worry, I am not schizophrenic ,these two voices are just a metaphor for my conscious self, a self I am not very happy with. I have spent the beginning of my early adulthood suppressing the voices, like most of us do. I worked overtime every week, got lost in obsessing over helping other people, and depended on my husband for providing me with self love. The voices got angry and I became exhausted from fighting. I let them infest my neurons with feelings of guilt, hopelessness, false euphoria, and anger. I tried to trick them with caffeine and other neurotransmitters but they would come back as soon as all of the available molecules made a synaptic click. I wanted anything but to feel, so I decided to ask for help. It was the only way for me to get the fix I always turn to when life doesn’t make sense, information. I began attending sessions with a cognitive behavioral therapist to act as mediator between Hagatha and Veronica, in order to sort out the meaning behind their presence in my life.

Not long after I began organizing, cooking, nature walking, and losing weight. Hagatha was winning with the help of my therapist and I. Like an intimate fog stress enveloped my neatly planned and well-executed life. Unexpected and perfectly packaged like a personalized gift addressed directly to Veronica. She screamed so violently I felt it in every cell of my being. Hives emerged, mood swings became commonplace, and my eyes drooped from the weight of constant tears. I tried fighting, but I lost. My only method from myself, defense. If I could not win I would at least go down fighting. Every moment of life became a battlefield, a chance to pull the pin on my emotional grenade. All intellect hid behind memories of a life I was grieving that I had not yet lived. I settled for my mental diagnosis to define me. Sabrina Barbosa, sufferer of post traumatic stress disorder, generalized anxiety, attention deficit disorder with hyperactivity, and major depressive disorder, aka Bipolar I disorder.

My diagnosis was my golden ticket to living my life and instead I used it to define me. Blindly I followed my feelings into a grave of hopelessness six feet closer to losing my chance at life. But like a sliver of sunshine across a darkened bedroom carpet, I recognized a third voice. One I never heard before. She was kind, forgiving, rational, and intelligent. Once I heard her I became obsessed with searching for her origin, but each step closer I encountered more horrible feelings. Feelings which induced unpredictable thought paralysis, placing me in dangerous situations, even during routine activities such as driving my car. My unidentifiable voice became louder urging me to focus on saving myself. My curiosity got the best of me, I began listening for her when the other representatives took a breath. I found her to be quite the scientist. She looked at my life objectively,  for the sole purpose of benefiting me. How selfish she was, Hagatha was quick to remind me, with her motto humility portrays kindness. My desire for my information fix became toxic. It was all I could do to listen to this elusive influence. But the more she uncovered the more I felt, what an awful feeling of rebirth. I felt the pain of my pet praying mantis nymphs, as she forced me to rapidly molt into self discovery. To no longer be a slave to my emotional defense mechanisms previously referred to has Hagatha and Veronica. She taught me what it was like to feel true love, and self pride, two feelings that outweighed all of the negative. Her name is Sabrina and I am glad I finally found her.There are many fields one could possibly enter to help others. But there is only one for me, becoming a PA. Growing up in a large family plagued by mental illness was and is not an easy task. But it has allowed me to uncover the why in other’s behaviors and discover humanity in the answers. I have accepted my undeniable needs for altruism and understanding the human condition in order to live a gratifying life.

This blog is my selfish attempt at self acceptance and discovery. I may say things that you do not agree with, things that may offend your life values, things that you never thought I would say, and I already feel guilty about this (I am working on that). But suppressing my emotions until they boil over onto my life is no longer a safe option, it really never was. So here I am open as always to everything, feel free to comment, complain, consume, whatever it is you need. If you would rather do it privately send me an email: sabbarbosa91@gmail.com. My only hope for publishing my inner thoughts is to reach out to others who can relate and find company in this confusing yet beautiful life.