when at last you uncover what is true
you may discover that you always knew
This is not a memoir. Mostly because I’m not sure what’s true and what’s not true, but also because memoirs are so 2005. Nobody wants to read your life story unless you’re a celebrity, and that’s only because of the famous names you drop. Otherwise nobody cares if you had a weirdly tragic upbringing, what with Twitter and YouTube exposing everybody for everything that ever happens. Not that I had a tragic upbringing, but it was weird.
Also, I may not tell you who I am. I don’t think that’s allowed with a memoir. I work in a profession and live in a community that doesn’t want to hear mostly anything I have to say. And for the time being I choose to preserve my present circumstances. Orange is not the new black. I look fucking terrible in orange.
A few years ago I was skimming over a message board on the crushing and snorting of Wellbutrin, and not for purposes of writing a novel. I was thinking of quitting the medication, which I had started taking because I was in serious need of dopamine. Recent developments in Colorado marijuana laws had prompted me to acknowledge that I don’t need antidepressants, I just need to feel good. That might sound silly, but I think you’ll eventually see what I mean. Anyway, I enjoy getting high, so I thought I’d see about putting some of the superfluous Wellbutrin to use. I googled, and found myself reading stories posted by people who kept referring to ‘SOTM’ (someone other than me), ostensibly to avoid legal repercussions. There are so many reasons why that’s stupid. I’m pretty sure when you tell the internet that SOTM got craaazy last nite! snorted 6 mollies causing euphoric nasal bleeding and dehydration, nobody gives a fuck because SOTM is an idiot. (BTdubya, SOTM might want to check the definition of euphoric. But, if euphoric is what SOTM really meant, I will indeed start the slow clap because that’s impressive.) I stopped visiting drug message boards that day, because I struggle against a deep desire to destroy humanity a fair bit of the time, and people who are dumbasses about drugs rank right up there on my list of Misanthropy Triggers. (A list which I should actually post at some point because some of them are really weird and might amuse you.) Anyway, I bring SOTM up because I’m employing a similar technique claiming this isn’t a memoir and not admitting who I am. I’m aware it’s pointless.
I didn’t snort Wellbutrin. I’ve never decided anything was worth snorting, that I can remember. I’ve gotten chemicals in my body in almost every other way, but I hate shit going up my nose. I figured out really young how to maintain a positive pressure system at all times so water would never flood my sinuses. It took me a long while to have empathy for the bad divers who weren’t equipped with my ability to keep water out. A little kid diving with only one hand forward while pinching their nose with the other can still invoke in me a tinge of nausea. I hate shit going up my nose, but I also hate when people do something half-assed and full of fear. That was always my aversion to coke - up-the-nose, first and foremost, followed by the fear of turning into a ridiculous person.
A few fairly specific personality types (sometimes found in laid back/open minded men and sex workers) seem to do great on coke. I was always jealous of a personality that did great on coke, because I fear not being in control. Or at least, I used to, before I uncovered what I always knew. But I hate a drug-induced panic attack a little less than a sober panic attack, which yearns for a scapegoat. I’ve had maybe three really legit mental health emergency-level panic attacks in my life. I handled them, though, without the immediate help of anyone. Because that’s what I do. I live just on the very edge of crazy, but I somehow always manage to handle my own shit better than anyone else is able to. Wait, I did have help from someone during one of those crises. He is actually the reason I am Richard Ramm. Which brings me to my next point about why this isn’t a memoir. I say things and they’re wrong. Like right there, claiming full credit for surviving all three of my HOLYSHITIMAGONNADIEs and then realizing that one of those episodes was a full blown delusion and my friend aided in returning me to reality.
I have a terrible memory. So, the very word ‘memoir’ becomes instantly problematic. I don’t have a firm grasp on what occurred in reality and how that might differ slightly or in a couple of cases dramatically than what I remember. I’m not sure if everyone has the capability that I do, of living in a false reality,* but now that I’ve moved through that coping mechanism I’m beginning to suspect it’s a skill anyone can learn. Not that I’m suggesting anyone do. It’s probably useful for things such as art, but it’s a little too gut-wrenching for most people’s liking. I can handle pretty much anything, though. I really can. (Later on, I will contradict this statement when one of my selves has the emotional flu.) Down the road I might explain more about living in a fantasy world for the majority of my life, but for now suffice to say that if I had the audacity to call this a memoir, it would mean I didn’t plan on being honest.
My previously mentioned friend came up with Richard Ramm, but I’m not sure when. I mean, I remember exactly the day he shared it with me, but it was so naturally quick that it seemed he had contrived the pseudonym years earlier in a flash of inspiration and had been waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it. I know that’s melodramatic, but that's what makes certain memories so delicious - when you turn them up a little bit. So one night during a hot bubble bath I was texting him about my conceived novel, and how I needed to trick men into thinking I’m one of them in order to get them to read it. I suddenly needed a pseudonym, or all might be lost! (Again, I get weirdly emotional and dramatic sometimes. I’m a girl. That’s the last apology/warning you’re getting.)
Not actually having a completed novel at that point, I was wasting mind power worrying about men not reading my book because I was a girl. Look, now that I do have a completed novel, I can fairly say that the fear was not completely unwarranted. Men that already know me and like me are having a tough time being convinced to read my book. Not that I’m trying to convince anyone. Not even aforementioned friend, who, I must clarify right off the bat, did not agree to such a relationship. I appreciate him for letting me be vulnerable and openly honest with another human, which I didn’t know was possible when I met him. He’s taught me a lot of things, but maybe the most important thing I have learned from him is that I am capable of trust in every sense. I trust him, and I trust myself, which is monumentally transforming. Turns out, trust is the same as love, for me. Allowing myself to love him sort of sparked an epiphany…if I could feel that way about another human, maybe I could love and trust myself, too. If, from somewhere down inside me, somewhere buried, I dug up that kind of genuine joy and gratitude for him despite the fact that he is human, maybe I am worthy of love, too.
Anyway, I’m not going to go into any details about him because it’s nobody’s business. But suffice to say he is perfect, as the name Richard Ramm clearly demonstrates. Fucking brilliant. I am so grateful to the universe for him.
Okay, well I think so far everything I’ve said has been true, but I should bring up yet another reason this is not a memoir: I enjoy lying. I like to embellish the truth, but I also sometimes like to just outright lie. I’ve mostly stopped doing that, too, because it’s too much work. It was kind of fun back when I cared about what people thought about me. Now, I honestly don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me, so I don’t really lie much nowadays, unless it’s to be kind.
Yeah, I’m aware that makes me a total lame ass.
When I’m writing, I sometimes revert to telling lies, because that’s what writing is. Writing is art, and artists are either outright lying by telling stories (e.g. there’s a man that splits peas for a living by hand with a tiny razor, one by one, in a rickety wooden chair in the dark and damp basement of the split-pea soup factory in order for you to eat this dinner (NO THERE IS NOT, DAD!)), or artists are misremembering the truth (a poem I wrote as an angst-ridden teen wherein I did NOT FIND THE PEA-SPLITTING LIE AT ALL FUNNY!!!)
It’s pretty hilarious, actually. Kudos, Dad. On the right kid? That shit is pure gold. Except that had you understood me at all you would have known that a story of mental despair would majorly fuck with me. I was overly sensitive at the time that I wrote the poem, in junior high, and sensitivity decreases through childhood. So imagine how sensitive I was when my dad told me that story at the age of five. I was sickened. Literally. My stomach started to cramp up and I wanted to die. (By the way, I’m giving myself one warning: if I use the word ‘literally’ again, I give you full permission to in good conscience stop reading me. Gross.) I felt so much anguish for that poor man, slaving away at his tedious task. And all for what? To make soup I didn’t want to eat because it already appeared to be partially digested? What kind of world is this?! Do I have to stay here?!
Anyhoo. I tell lies here and there. But never to little children. I have a firm policy on that. There’s absolutely no need to lie to a kid, because they are happy to acknowledge make believe.
Everyone in my family is good at lying. Especially the ones who haven’t acknowledged it, even to themselves. I know, because I was a much better liar back when I pretended not to be one. Here’s why. Really good liars have to convince themselves that what they’re saying is true. You have to tell an excellent lie to get past the judge of yourself. Believe me. Now that I’m enlightened and what not, I’m not quite as good at lying as I used to be. I literally (kidding! Just seeing if you’re paying attention!) cannot lie to myself. That’s not to say I’m not still an excellent liar, and could easily fool most of you, if I wanted to. But I don’t really want to, anymore. I’ve lost the taste for blood. I’m probably still gonna lie to you, but since I’m not bothered by what you think about me, it’s fair to call it accidental. Anything said herein that is inaccurate is probably either a lie that I told myself long ago that I now fully believe to be true, or an embellishment to make you laugh that doesn’t detract from the truth of the story.
I think you’re probably getting the picture as to why this is not a memoir.
I am Richard Ramm. I am a writer. This is a journal of the universe.
*depersonalization disorder
