Disorder

(I submitted this personal essay to the New York Times' Modern Love column. Unsurprisingly, it was rejected. I didn't want to waste all my hard work, so here it is for my hoards of blog readers (sike). Enjoy.) 

It’s a rainy day in Milwaukee. A tall boy and I are in the same record store, both looking to add to our already extensive collections. We both reach for the same dusty copy of Neil Young’s “On The Beach”. Our hands touch and we lock eyes. Immediately, we know we belong together.

My true love shares my obsession with middle aged rock stars who could be our dads, like Richard Hell and Jim Carroll. He agrees with my theory Kurt Cobain was unjustly murdered. Our combined record collection is in the hundreds ...no, thousands. He squeezes my hand when our favorite bands play our favorite songs at shows. We bask in the glow of love under the blue and purple stage lights, feeling so lucky we found each other.

I've spent the first 20 years of my life completely romanticizing relationships. I've harbored many fantasies about meeting the love of my life in a record store. This idealism stems from films like "High Fidelity" and "(500) Days of Summer" - films about male protagonists exploring relationships using music as their guides. As a girl who can attribute very specific musical memories to every boy I've ever been interested in, I've always been frustrated with the lack of music-inspired love stories told by women. I longed to someday have my own romance told through songs, albums, and concerts.

My music infatuation led to my first music industry job when I was 19. After six months of scanning tickets, folding chairs, and hanging posters, I met (name withheld). Yep, his name was ****, just like many of my favorite musicians - **** Westerberg, **** McCartney, **** Collins, and **** Simon. We were only scheduled together because one of our coworkers broke her ankle and needed me to cover her shift. My obsession with fate wouldn’t have it any other way.

We learned we both work three jobs and struggle with mental illnesses. He shared with me his lifelong battle with OCD and depression, and I told him about my own depression and severe anxiety. He revealed that shortly before we met, he tried to commit suicide for the first time at age 24.

We became boyfriend and girlfriend not even three weeks later. Even though it was extremely uncomfortable, waiting until I was 20 to kiss a boy did have its perks. The first time we kissed, we were listening to Big Star. He played them because he knew they were one of my favorite bands and he wanted to impress me. I don't remember what song was playing (I was a little distracted), but it was off of No. 1 Record / Radio City. After telling my best friend Lulu, she laughed and said "Aren't you glad you waited and didn't waste your first kiss on some sweaty teen boy?"

Uh, yeah.

Between the excited jitters of my first relationship and starting a new anxiety medication, I could barely sleep the first night I stayed at his house. My choice of ambient music was The Stone Roses' self-titled first album. I woke up around 2 AM, frustrated I couldn't stay asleep. As I laid there next to him, listening to him calmly inhale and exhale, I heard "This Is The One" playing quietly beside us. Even my iPhone agreed *** and I were perfect together.

Going to concerts, seeing movies, and laughing at way too many internet memes were the activities that defined our relationship. One show we attended was Peter Hook & The Light, where Hook and his band performed Joy Division's compilation album Substance. We learned we share the same favorite Joy Division song, "Disorder". I was overjoyed to learn we had yet another trivial but substantial thing in common. My idealistic teenage dream was finally come true.

Two weeks after the Peter Hook show, **** told me he was starting to have suicidal thoughts again. They went on for about a week until he decided to go into the hospital. I left work early and took him into the emergency room on a Friday night. I listened to him explain in great detail his suicide plan, in the event he would go through with another attempt. We spent a few hours in the ER, and after some intense psychological questioning, he told the nurses he felt better. They let him go.

We went back to his house, watched the Bee Movie, and fell asleep. Everything seemed fine. His choice for ambient music was Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures. I quickly fell asleep after only the first song on the album played - "Disorder". I kissed him goodbye on Saturday morning and told him I would see him on Monday.

I texted him about ten times on Monday, and received no response. I messaged him on Facebook, thinking maybe his phone was broke. Still, no answer. I started to get nervous, but told myself I was being too paranoid. He’s probably fine.

I finally got a reply around 5 PM. His mom messaged me from his Facebook account informing me he was admitted to the hospital Sunday morning. He tried overdosing on his medication and drinking an excessive amount of alcohol - the exact suicide plan I heard him tell the nurses on Friday night.

I didn't cry. I felt like I knew it was going to happen, and I didn't want to admit it. Lulu and I went to watch the supermoon that night, and we talked about death.

I visited him in the hospital the next day. His body was covered in cuts, presumably from a glass bottle. He told me, through tears, I didn't deserve to go through this because of him. He didn't want me to see him this way. He didn't want to lose me, but we just couldn't be together anymore.

I walked out of the hospital and cried the entire car ride to a work function right down the street from his house. I wiped my tears as I walked in the restaurant and broke down in the middle of dinner. I rushed to the bathroom, unable to control myself. I ran out, drove past his house, and continued home through a blurry fog of tears.

What did I do to deserve this excruciating heartbreak? I didn’t know who to blame. I was annoyed with myself for indulging in my delusional boyfriend fantasies for so long. I was angry at him for hurting himself, and therefore hurting me. I felt betrayed by my records and the countless musicians who made them. They taught me love was exhilarating and convinced me it was worth the risk.

I didn’t believe them anymore.

Despite being broken up, I still tried to maintain as much contact with him as possible while he was in the hospital. Because he couldn't use his cell phone, this was almost exclusively through writing him letters. I wrote to him daily and dropped the letters off on the seventh floor, right outside the psychiatric ward. He also wasn't able to listen to music, so I took it upon myself to hand write him some lyrics. My song of choice was the Modern Lovers' "Hospital". Jonathan Richman's words were painfully relevant:

"So... When you get out of the hospital

Let me back into your life

I can't stand what you do

But I'm in love with your eyes

...

Last time I walked down your street

There were tears in my eyes

Well these streets, we all know

They help us cry when we're alone late at night"

A few days after he was admitted, I was spending the day with Lulu. We were antiquing and thrifting, because there is no greater form of therapy than digging through dead people's unwanted stuff. I immediately noticed a mannequin wearing a 1960s cheetah print coat - an item I have lusted after since first hearing the Arctic Monkeys' "Arabella" way back in 2013. At first glance, it looked too small. I decided to try it on anyway. It fit perfectly, as if it was made for me.

After admiring myself in the mirror for a few seconds, Jimmy Buffett's "Margaritaville" started playing loudly over the speakers. Lulu and I have been obsessed with Buffett's yacht rock masterpiece since seeing Milwaukee band Sat. Nite Duets cover it at a street festival over the summer. We looked at each other with wide eyes and dropped jaws. The universe was speaking to me, telling me everything was going to be okay. I was trying to listen.

I bought the coat, obviously.

Two days later, I picked **** up from the hospital. I took him back to his mom's house. We played with his cats and gave each other a hug goodbye. This was the last time we saw each other.

All tragic breakups need a good breakup band, and mine was ABBA. ABBA celebrated two marriages and survived two divorces during their time as one of the most famous bands in the world. Even after the divorces, the band continued to perform. They sang songs about falling in love and falling apart while sharing the stage with their former lovers. I screamed the lyrics to “Knowing Me, Knowing You” every morning on my way to work. If Agnetha and Frida could smile through their sorrow, so could I.

As I tried to heal my heart, I replayed the story of our relationship over and over in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about how "Disorder" was the last song we ever listened to together. Joy Division broke up in 1980 after frontman Ian Curtis committed suicide at age 23. The irony was almost laughable. After Curtis' death, the remaining members of the band continued making music under the name New Order.

My life is in a new order of its own. I finally realize I’ve spent far too much time longing for someone to laugh, cry, dream, and grow with. I was desperate to sing a duet, not realizing how resilient I am performing solo.

However, I’m not without a backing band. I have a significant other always by my side. When we’re together, I feel comforted and encouraged. I’m already very familiar with the most passionate relationship I will ever have in my life. I have music, and it’s my greatest love of all.