You Should Know, I'm Kind of Bad Ass

I am a survivor of sexual assault. There, I said it. This may not be a surprise to some, but will most likely be a surprise to the majority of my family. I have spent most of my life with my mouth shut, accepting the role of the "over-emotional" child for reasons I won't disclose. But I had my reasons. 

Two years ago I performed in UC Berkeley's 9th annual production of the Vagina Monologues. I performed an original piece that I wrote, discussing my own experiences with sexual assault. I spent 6 months in a safe, loving and supportive community of beautiful womyn as I evolved into an entirely new human being. I learned how to love myself, be gentle with myself, forgive myself and open my heart to share my stories with others. I began to remember the girl I used to be. And I loved that girl.

I am a rather private person. I deal with my pain alone, I don't ask for help and I don't know how to accept it when it's offered. This is why most people in my life don't know what I've survived, how monumental it is that I'm not only still breathing but I'm damn near thriving. And I am thriving because of my participation in the Vagina Monologues. I told my story to 2,400 people, I let every single one of them into my secret pain and I allowed 35 inspiring womyn to help me learn to love every part of who I am. And I am not afraid to acknowledge that it took some serious brass balls to do what I did.

But I am not perfect. I still struggle. Losing my beloved brother a year ago shattered me. It has been a slow recovery, but I believe I am a better person today than I was a year ago. And I was a better person one year ago than I was a year before that. Every year for the last 3 years I have worked hard to change myself into the person I want to be, which is essentially a happy, loving person who refuses to let their past define who they are. 

July 4th 2008 was the beginning of the major turning point in my life. I was hospitalized on a 5150 order for a 3-day observation. For those unaware of the term, 5150 is the code police and hospitals use for a person they deem "a danger to themselves or others." A 5150 hold can be released at any point during the 3 day observation period, but when your hospital stay begins on Friday July 4th, expect that you will be in the hospital for the entire 3 days while the doctor with the power to release you is too busy nursing a hangover to bother "observing" you. A 5150 code is typically used for acute episodes where the person may be in danger but the danger is short-lived. If the doctor determines you are still at risk at the end of 3 days, your 5150 hold expires and you are placed under a 5250 hold. This is an indefinite hold which can only be released by your attending physician/psychiatrist. 

Point of Information: In the state of California, if you are held under a 5150 code you are barred from purchasing a gun for 5 years. If you are ever held under a 5250 order, you may never purchase a gun or have one in your possession. I am barred from purchasing a gun until July of 2013.

My 3 day stay at Alta Bates Herrick campus was intense and utterly awful. I spent 1 day in the "drug addicts and suicide attempts" ward where I had a psychotic and catatonic roommate. I wasn't even sure that I was a suicide attempt, yet I was surrounded by long-term 5250 residents who were actively suicidal. During "art therapy," I was placed next to a man with a jagged neck wound from trying to slit his own throat. At the time, I was a recently relapsed cutter and the nurses knew I was at risk of being triggered. I ran out of the room crying and called my dad, begging him to get me released. I was 26 years old and completely helpless.

However, I have amazing parents and was lucky to get assigned a caring nurse. My dad explained his and my fear that I would be worse after this hospital stay than going into it, and that the best way for me to get the help I needed was in a less triggering environment. On day 2 I was moved to the eating disorder ward. At least in there I didn't have to hide food in my room since there was food everywhere (in the suicide ward I was too terrified to eat with my fellow patients so I snuck food into my room and ate under my covers). However, I have also been plagued with eating disorders throughout my life, and though this ward was preferable to the suicide ward, some of the patterns I observed patients displaying were worked into my own habits after my release. I wish I could say the 100 pounds I've lost over the last few years was due to exercise and a healthy diet, but anorexia and bulimia take the credit for that. Though not eating half my weight in Cheez-Its and pepsi every week helped me from gaining the weight back once I stopped throwing up daily.

At the end of my 3 day hold I finally met with my doctor. They're supposed to meet with you every day because the maximum hold time is 3 days but the minimum is 1 visit with a doctor who clears you for release. But again, holiday weekend so I got screwed and was forced to stay the full 3 days. I was determined to no longer be a suicide risk and was cleared for release.

The three days I meant in a psych ward were traumatic and terrifying, but in a way I'm grateful for the experience because it helped me reach a life-altering conclusion: I don't want to die, I just want to be someone else, anyone else really. I don't want my past anymore. I can't keep dragging it behind me. But I can't change who I've been, I only have control over who I choose to be in this moment. And that realization saved me.

Approximately 9 months after my hospitalization, I made the single best decision of my life: I moved into the Berkeley Student Coops. Before living in the coops, I lived by myself in Oakland and spent most of my time completely isolated from people. I had very few friends and, thanks to years of self-isolation and mental health struggles, I had no idea how to change the life I hated so much. So I decided to confront my biggest fear, other people, and moved into a forced-socialization environment. Thanks to the coops, I have met some incredible people, I have built a support system of close friends and awesome acquaintances who accept me, love me, and challenge me. I'm happier today than I've ever been, and it's 9am the morning I go home to honor my brother Bryan's life with my incredibly complicated but loving family. 

But the thing is, if we as a society actually acknowledged that every single day children are brutally abused and sexually assaulted, maybe one less child will have to grow up to be me. I know the kind of person I was well on my way to becoming, and I am damn proud of myself for turning my perspective around and finding the courage to make hard but healthy choices for myself. But let's be honest, I'm a resilliant and strong person and not everyone shares those traits. Some people never recover from childhood sexual assault. And the thing is, if we stopped being so god damned secretive about it, if we stopped allowing our shame and fear and failures to silence our voices, if we taught our children that predators come in different shapes and sizes, some familiar and some strangers, but that no matter what the scenario it is never never fucking never that child's fault, then maybe one less child will have to suffer as much pain as I have.

I just wish that one single adult in my childhood who noticed I was fucked up, be it a relative or a teacher or a neighbor, had sat me down and asked if I was okay. Because I wasn't. I haven't been okay since I was 9.

Don't get me wrong though, knowing your own strength is a powerful thing.

Michelle

- Can you stay strong? Can you go on? Kristy are you doing okay?

A Lifelong Wait for a Hospital Stay

Change. Heartbreak. Love. Family. Loss. Change.

It has been a year of change. A year ago today I was blissfully unaware of how drastically my life was going to fall down around me, tragedy raining from the sky and my helpless hands hugging my head desperately to shield me from the chaos.

I have cried more in this past year than I have cried over the course of my entire life. I have broken down, I have fallen to my knees and wrapped my arms around my body while it shook with pain and betrayal. Yet I have also walked down the streets of Berkeley, singing softly to myself while admiring the sun shining through the trees. I have laughed and I have loved and I have never felt more alive and awake and aware and alone.

It's been a rough year.

The week my brother spent in the hospital before he passed away is a period in my life I rarely speak of. It simply hurts too much. But I need to. I can't keep living my life in fear of letting people in, of exposure, of vulnerability. 

In some ways it was the best week of my life. I stayed at my sisters house in Sacramento and spent every single day in the waiting room of ICU with my family. I spent a week holding Bryan's hand and talking to him and reading to him from his favorite book (and mine too), Lamb by Christopher Moore. My family made each other laugh with stories of Bryan, held each other while we cried with pain, and made heart-breaking decisions as a family. My wonderful housemates from Hip House called me to check in and offer their support, and gave me love and comfort during and after this experience. Although I was dying inside, I spent that week feeling loved and supported.

On February 21st 2011 my brother was found unconscious on the floor of his bedroom. His heart had stopped. CPR was performed and the paramedics were able to get him on life support. He stayed on life support for a week before the doctors determined that Bryan was brain dead. His body was being kept alive by machines but my brother was gone. 

I have difficulty accepting this. It's no secret that Bryan and I were very close. We had a close connection, a bond that we couldn't really explain but was always there as background noise. And my week spent in the hospital with B proved to me that our connection couldn't be broken, it was still lingering.

On the first day that Bryan was hospitalized, I was in Berkeley trying to figure out how I was going to get home to Sac. I called my parents for an update and my parents happened to be in Bryan's room when I called. My dad set his ringtone for me as the song "Michelle" by The Beatles, and when they started singing my name Bryan's blood pressure spiked. It may have just been the noise, but I like to think he knew it was me.

During the week that Bryan was on life support, the doctors tried to determine the extent of his brain damage and assess any possibility of recovery. Unfortunately, B's body was wracked with seizures that entire week, which made it difficult for the doctors to run their tests and significantly affected his body's ability to heal itself. However, there were a few powerful moments in which Bryan responded to him. And those moments made it impossible for me to agree with the decision to turn off B's life support. I was the sole 'no' vote in my family for two reasons.

The first and most important is that Bryan and I had made a promise to each other, that we would never give up on the other person or allow the other to give up on themselves. I feel as though in some ways I am guilty of breaking that promise, but I refused to so blatantly do so by allowing him to die. Besides, it still felt like Bryan was there somewhere, trapped inside his body but begging me not to let him go. And I feel this because even though he didn't respond to the doctor's tests most of the week, he did respond for me. I was in his room alone, reading to him from Lamb. I wanted so badly for Bryan to laugh with me, to be able to hear his favorite words spoken in his sister's voice and to know that I once again swooped in with laughter in his moment of need. But B couldn't respond. And I knew it was my fault. I leant him the money he used to go out on his final night, the money used to pay for that which killed him. I left him in Sacramento when I moved to Berkeley and I allowed him to distance himself from me, to push me away and close himself off. And rather than march my ass over to Sacramento and force him to face me, I chose the easy way out and responded in kind. And I apologized over and over for letting him down, for letting him give up on himself.

I started to break down. As my body shook tears fell onto his standard issue hospital blanket, Bryan's blood pressure and heart rate started to spike. I knew that was bad, because his body can't heal under those conditions and he needed to stay calm. I immediately started lightly rubbing his arm, I forced myself to calm down and talk to him peacefully. I told him it was ok, that I knew above all else he loved me and he knew I loved him. That I was sad because I hated seeing him like this, I was scared that I was going to lose his love in my life, that I needed him to stay here with me. I told him all these things and I begged him to calm down and let his body heal. And he did calm down. I continued to read to him and hope that somewhere inside he heard and was laughing.

Later that day his doctor came in to test his body's response to stimuli. I asked if I could stay in the room with him and they let me, so I held Bryan's hand and ran my fingers through his hair and whispered encouragement. For the first time all week, B responded to the stimulus tests. His eyes fluttered when they brushed his eye lashes, his toes curls when they tickled his feet. Test after test and Bryan responded. But in the end, it wasn't enough. I completely understand my family's decision to turn off life support, and I supported them even as I disagreed with them. And thankfully, my family understood and was still capable of making the right decision, when I couldn't. I know that I didn't give up on Bryan, I just wish he knew that.

I don't know what I believe, which I suppose means I don't believe in anything. But I like to thank Bryan is finally at peace, and maybe watching over his little sister like he did when he was alive.

- Michelle

And though you're dead and gone, believe me, your memory will carry on. We'll carry on.

The sharp knife of a short life

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a, bed of roses

Sink me in the river, at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother

She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh well

Life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no

Ain't even grey, but she buries her baby

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Sink me in the river at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

And I'll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom

I'm as green as the ring on my little cold finger,

I've never known the lovin' of a man

But it sure felt nice when he was holdin' my hand,

There's a boy here in town, says he'll love me forever,

Who would have thought forever could be severed by

The sharp knife of a short life, well,

I've had just enough time

So put on your best boys and I'll wear my pearls

What I never did is done

A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar

They're worth so much more after I'm a goner

And maybe then you'll hear the words I been singin'

Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'

If I die young, bury me in satin

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Sink me in the river at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

The ballad of a dove

Go with peace and love

Gather up your tears, keep 'em in your pocket

Save 'em for a time when you're really gonna need 'em, oh

The sharp knife of a short life, well

I've had just enough time

So put on your best boys and I'll wear my pearls

Michelle

You can't leave me if I'm already gone

I do not believe love exists. Sure, it exists for other people, but I don't for a second believe that it exists for me. I have far too many years of experience proving to me that I am in fact unlovable. Not once has someone who swore their romantic allegiance to my heart felt something that they didn't eventually take back. Love fades, it changes, it diminishes, eventually it disappears and the only logical course of action is to make the assumption that love does not truly exist.

I believe in familial love, in the love of kinship, in the love of friendship. I know there are people who have love for me, but it's a safe love, a love that doesn't come attached to expectations and demands on propriety of character. It's a love born of circumstance, of convenience, of a longing for companionship that at times seems encoded into our DNA. I am grateful for this love, because it is the only love that has comforted me during the last 12 months of my hellish life.

But honestly? The only thing that's kept me going this long is hope. Hope that I'm wrong. Hope that my life will someday be bearable. Hope that I will overcome my demons. Hope that the universe will finally acknowledge how shitty the cards I've been dealt are and cut me some fucking slack.

I just don't think I have it anymore.

My hope died when Bryan died.

Michelle
- For some reason I can't explain, I know Saint Peter won't call my name

on destruction of the self

anxiety and depression go on a date to see an encore of flashbacks courtesy of their good friend post-traumatic stress disorder. but anorexia nervosa gets jealous and wants to crash their date so she brings her wingman obsessive compulsive disorder. and caught in the middle of this violent clash of worries, aching memories, self-loathing, obsessive habits and starvation is a little girl who just wants one ounce of control. over something. over anything.


I am that girl.

- Michelle

When Darkness Turns To Light

It seems I have reached yet another first in endless experiences left in my life which I am incapable of sharing with my brother Bryan. Life without B has been a series of moments in which I desperately needed my brother, moments that have been both heart-wrenching and beautiful, wondrous and painful. And tonight I am sick of experiencing these "first" moments.

In April of this year, less than 2 months after Bryan passed away, I saw Rise Against play at the Civic Center Auditorium. I was joined by one of my best friends and his wife, and (albeit reluctantly) my partner at the time. I was supposed to go to that concert with my brother Bryan. A week before he was hospitalized, I sent him a link about the concert and offered to buy his ticket as an early birthday present if he'd go with me. Bryan was super stoked about the show and was planning on spending the night at my coop and hanging out with me. I am infuriated and heart broken that I was robbed of a weekend with my brother. We had finally had another chance after a painful estrangement. I just wanted Bryan back in my life and god damn it I fucking had him.

But that was not the first time that had happened, no the first in this story is what happened at the show. Every other time I have seen Rise Against play live, I have been with Bryan. Even the time we were fighting over something stupid, we found each other at the show and listened to the encore together. We listened to every single fucking encore together, and Rise Against always played 2 of our favorite songs, 'Everchanging' and 'Black Masks and Gasoline.' We held our fists in the air and lost our hearts in the swell of passion from the crowd. This was our band and these were our songs.

But in April of this year, I debated with myself on whether or not to stay for the encore, knowing it would be my first without B and conflicted on the right choice. Do I hold dearest my last memories with B and protect them by leaving, or do I celebrate those precious memories by being there in that moment for B when he couldn't be? It's asinine the internal debates I've gotten into with myself, a twisted psychological warfare between numerous thoughts claiming to know what decision would do right by my love of Bryan. I made the decision to stay for the encore, and I'm glad that I did.

That night was the first time out of many, many shows I've seen when Rise Against did not play either 'Everchanging' or 'Black Masks and Gasoline.' I was fucking floored. My favorite band, whose love I shared with Bryan for 10 yes 10 years, had unknowingly honored my memories of those songs with B and given me yet another reason to love them. I cried that night because I could not share that experience with Bryan, either in person or by talking to him about the show. I couldn't call him and tell him excitedly that the first time I saw them with B they didn't play our songs, almost as a silent protest to our inability to share that moment together.

God I've digressed as badly as Bryan could. He'd be proud. Anyway, the point was that tonight I experienced another "first" since Bryan died that I cannot tell him about. I recently discovered All American Rejects and I've become a bit obsessed. I love this band and I wish that I could call Bryan tonight and get his opinion on them, because for the life of me I cannot remember what it was but if you knew Bryan than you know he had an opinion about them. I like to think that if I like them this much then Bryan definitely liked them. But I'm not sure. And I cry tonight because I wish I'd paid attention to them years ago so I could have already listened to him rant or rave about them. Listen to him tease me if he disliked their music, saying he taught me better than that. Or smiling at me proudly as he played their CD in his truck and we flew down the 80 singing and laughing. Another memory I was robbed of.

But for some reason it felt really good to talk about the Rise Against show. It seems I had a lot to say about it as it turned out to be the focus of this entry. But because the entry was supposed to be about All American Rejects, and because I fucking love them and you, this song's for you B. I miss you terribly.

- Michelle
All these thoughts locked inside, Now your the first to know

Do you have The Facebooks?

I wrote this on the "About Me" section of my brother's facebook page when I decided to open it up to friends and family. I'm not going to name the page here since Bryan didn't want his ex finding it and neither do I (not that I'd add her anyway), but if we're friends on facebook and you want to add my brother, it's easy: his profile is listed as my brother. Anyway, I'm posting this here because I like the insight it gives into both my brother Bryan and the relationship we had, and this allows my words to be accessible to those who don't know my brother.




I once tried to convince my brother to use facebook, because I missed talking with him as much as we did on Myspace, and I missed reading his blog so easily and readily. I had closed my Myspace profile and refused to get another, but Bryan refused to actively participate in setting up a Facebook profile and the only way he would have one is if I set it up for him. Bryan had his principles, but he'd relinquish under the onslaught of a nagging sister willing to do the work for him.

So I set this profile up for B a year before he passed away. However, he couldn't figure out how to make it work, and he wouldn't let me add friends for him (to encourage him to use it) because he didn't want his ex-girlfriend finding it and having access to his life. In true Bryan fashion he said screw this and refused to use his facebook. And since I was his only FB friend, no one ever knew he had it.

However, because I created it, and he couldn't figure out the magic that happens when you actually read a FB email address change verification email and follow the instructions, I still have access to it.

My brother passed away on February 27th, 2011. I kept the knowledge of his FB profile to myself because I didn't want to hurt or shake anyone by seeing his chosen internet identity. But if you're reading this, you know of his passing and you're likely searching for a place to leave him messages of love and rememberence. Our mom suggested it would be kind to invite his loved ones to do just that.

I know Bryan would love it if you did. Bryan was a wonderful storyteller, he could make me laugh so hard I couldn't catch a breath to make any noise, and the next instant bring me to a humbled moment of tearful reflection. I loved my brother very much, as did so many people, and he loved us with a vibrant intensity I have yet to find in another. And I hope this page can reflect that love.

-Michelle Maeller
08/26/2011