Burn Like The Wind
Yesterday, while chopping vegetables, I had a flashback to a house show I attended back in 2011. (Deciphering why this occurred whilst dismembering carrots and onions is a perverse exercise in self-examination that I thoroughly enjoy, but also one that will have to wait until another essay.) My partner, Ryan, and I went to this show for several reasons. Firstly, we needed to get out of the house and feel like we were accomplishing something other than smoking weed and broodily playing songs in our basement. Secondly, the bands playing were people we vaguely knew. Thirdly, I believe, was self-immolation.
It is obtuse to compare attending a house party full of early-twenty-somethings to the devotional practice of incinerating oneself in the name of holiness: I know this. But, isn’t it quintessential Gen-X/Y martyrdom to sit withering in a closet the entire time you’re at a party? Plus, we were in our late-twenties at the time. Relative old people.
I felt ill at ease in this house, as I did most places back then, so we pointedly sidestepped two dozen hipsters until we found the kitchen, off of which was – yes – the walk-in-pantry/storage closet where all the bands dumped their gear. If we weren’t performing at the show, then this is where I felt most comfortable: nestled under a fluorescent light on a cold, dirty carpeted floor between amps and battered guitar cases. We sat there for what I remember to be the entire show, only occasionally catching side-eye from the night’s performers when they entered the closet to retrieve their guitars. It is worth mentioning that we didn’t offer to get out of anyone’s way as they eyed their gear, instead, uttering “sorry” whilst patiently watching them calculate the only feasible means by which to grab their instruments without having to ask us to move. (We’re Canadian. Can you tell?)
When you’re in the throes of social anxiety, unremarkable interactions feel like harrowing exchanges. Even as your lips are moving, you’re not sure what is coming out of your mouth. My memory of our lengthiest interaction that night is both vivid and distorted – like a nightmare.
At some point, we stood on the front steps of the house, casually (we hoped) smoking and exchanging words with a guy named Andy. Ryan recalls saying some dumb shit to Andy that embarrasses him to this day. I have no recollection of saying anything at all. I only remember departing the situation abruptly, walking briskly to our black Honda Fit parked on the street. Inside the crypt-like chamber of the car, instead of feeling relieved, my anxiety escalated into panic. I rocked my body like an unwilling kitten, saying “help me help me help me help me help me” as many dozens of times as I deemed reasonable. Just saying it, not to anyone in particular, no God or entity, just…saying it. I rubbed the black rosary beads I’d found dangling from a fence on Queensland Beach the previous summer. Maybe I was turning religious, after all? I don’t know how long I sat there, chanting my mantra.
Eventually, Ryan joined me in the car. My behaviour wasn’t unusual to him; he knew exactly how I was feeling. At least, he thought he did. He later told me that Andy had asked him, “Is Jackie ok?”
That question hung in the air for many minutes, into hours, into weeks, months, and years.
Yes, Jackie is ok - now.
Ten years later, I am a social butterfly. Wings aflame, but still flying.