So glad you gave us the platform to talk about this because this risks being a very, very long and rambly ask, which I’m sure you didn’t sign up for but sometimes things happen that you don’t expect.
It’s very, very possible that this blog is going to go on hiatus within the next couple of weeks, and it’s not because Lea Michele and her rabid stans but rather because of a personal issue but in a weird sort of way, the two are kind of correlated thanks to “If You Say So”.
In a way this blog is really interesting, you know, because on the one hand we’re so flippant about alcohol - I mean we brag about how much we love Tequila and wine and other alcoholic beverages all the time! We love a good cocktail and a decent glass of wine and probably along with gun control and Grey’s Anatomy, it’s probably our favorite topic of conversation.
I mean, really, you know. Just browse through our blog and probably at least one post out of five references alcohol in some shape or form.
So we mention it, we joke about, we have tags that say “otp: tequila x lime” or “otp: occam’s razor x tequila” so, like, we’re not “frigid” when it comes to alcohol.
But as I’m writing this, I have two voicemails sitting in my inbox (voicemail box?), both from my father.
On Friday, he sent an email to my mother claiming he had “dark, suicidal thoughts” and that he was only going to see a therapist later this week.
It was the first time in a decade that he had contact with my mother. The two voicemails he left me are the first times he has called me in over a decade; that he is suddenly struggling with his conscious is neither here nor there.
One of his voicemails claims that he is very, very sorry for not having been in contact for the past decade; I confess to having rolled my eyes and having thought “if you say so”.
Despite his threat of dark thoughts, I did not call him back.
Good, I thought, let him rot with the memories of what he has done.
And then I deleted the voicemails, wandered out in the snow, and bought a bottle of Pinot Grigio and settled down to write a paper about Socrates.
I mean, apparently when someone threatens me with life or death, my response is to throw myself into my graduate studies.
I bring this up because if someone had talked to me this weekend - or even now - and said “babe, if your father really does slit his wrists and you had never called him back, that guilt will eat at you.”
To which I will respond: oh. fuck. off.
Look, I mean, yeah, there’s a very, very simple truth in all this: either you have experienced first hand what it’s like to live with an addict, or you haven’t.
There is no halfway, and there sure as hell is no forgiveness in all this. There is no pondering about how you will ever have survived.
There is relief that you did. There is guilt, to an extent, but it’s wondering whether you should feel guilty for liking Tequila or Pinot Grigio or whatever your cocktail of choice is, it is not whether you were driving drunk or are too under the influence to be coherent.
Basically I’m bringing all this up because the more I read Michele’s interviews the more I find myself thinking “give me a fucking break" because there is no way in hell anyone who has ever experienced what it is really like to live with an addict will say half the things she did.
Her stans will scream that she is merely doing anything she can to sell her album/promote herself but, as crude as this may sound - why are we supposed to accept that decision as “good enough”?
Why are we supposed to give Michele a free pass just because she wants a number one album?
Why is exactly that - a number one album - somehow more valid than actually saying the truth for once?
Or, beyond that - why is a number one album more valid than simply not lying?
Look, I mean, financially - Michele screaming at the top of her lungs that she and Monteith were in love until his last gasping breath with a needle in his arm is going to sell a lot more albums than Michele saying “He was an addict and he got what he deserved. Fuck him.”
i know that and I accept that.
But nowhere is it written that I have to like that.
Nowhere is it written that I don’t have the right to feel insulted. Nowhere is it written that I don’t have to grit my teeth because Michele is cashing in on what I have experienced, what I have been through, what I remember - and turn it around into a sordid love affair.
Cory Monteith died because he was a heroin addict, because he relapsed, because he injected himself with heroin while having alcohol in his system.
That sucks, our condolences to all Monteith fans/stans, but for crying out loud the writing was all the wall for years before Monteith found himself alone in a hotel room in Vancouver.
It was going to happen, because addicts relapse. Anyone who has ever lived with an “reformed” addict knows that any vow of sobriety is circumstantial at best. It lasts as long as the addict thinks it will last. The moment the status quo changes, the addict will relapse, and it doesn’t matter if you were 13 or 26 (27? I have no idea how old Michele is), the end result is the same: they chose you over the drugs.
And you get over being second choice real quickly.
That really is what is so insulting about Michele’s current script. We know Monteith had been using long before April 2013, and definitely between April 2013 and July 2013.
We know that because of the autopsy report, because of his weight loss, because of infinite other factors.
We know this. And if we know this, then Michele had to know this, regardless of what actually was her relationship with Monteith at the time.
She had to know. There was absolutely no way she couldn’t have known.
And she stayed, and claimed he was heroic and a bunch of other adjectives that no one who has ever been involved with an addict would ever be caught using, and it’s just -
How could she?
How she glower about how handsome he was, how “heroic” his “rehab” stint was, while she knewwhat was going on? There was no way she couldn’t have known, I just don’t accept that.
So she knew, and she pretended she was fine, and then he died, and she kind of pretended that was tragic but also fine too because her music helped her get through it and -
Oh, just cut me a break, really.
Where is the anger? It’s been a decade since I last saw my father, my anger is still very, very present inside of me.
And it’s sure as hell not personal because let me know, I had no hesitation in telling everyone allll about those voicemails. I’m protected by our lack of identity here, too, and yet I’m telling you and whoever reads this entry all of the sordid affairs.
I was angry when I was 14, I am angry now, and where the fuck is Michele’s anger?
Where are any of the signs that she knows what it’s like for your life to be turned around by an addict, because all I see is a business-driven pop star determined to cash in on a tragedy to help her album.
Great for her but what about me?
She wants to belong to the Affected By Addicts Club? That’s fine. But it’s an exclusive club, and she doesn’t get a membership card just because the love of her life decided heroin and alcohol was a good idea.
Because here’s the secret: you never forgive the addict for what they did. And Michele’s actions right now sound a lot like forgiveness, like Monteith wasn’t to blame and…
How could she?