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It was a particular form of hell, to feel everything in my life so intensely through the void of this person I would never know. Two Fiona Apple posters were pinned to the walls: one of Fiona Apple in her underwear from the “Criminal” video and the other a giant poster of Fiona Apple gripping a microphone. Throughout this time of obsession, I would casually mention Fiona Apple many times throughout the day as if I knew her, as if we were best friends. Every time I pack up my things, I consider throwing it away. I had brought a plastic bag of weed with me, mostly shake.

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It didn’t seem right that a voice that deep and rich could come out of such a small body. My brothers were from different biological families and the three of us looked nothing alike. The world appears brighter and sharper when you’re in the midst of an obsession. I screamed at her and told her not to touch my things. In his other hand is an expensive-looking camera, probably my father’s. * My brother lied about many things, but his story about me was true.

Obsession can feel powerful, overwhelming, and really fucking sad. Whenever I went into my room and noticed the towels had been taken down and folded neatly into small piles on the bed, I was reminded of how a spider works so diligently to spin its web, and then a human being comes along and tears it all away. I believed my depression stemmed from my earliest abandonment: being taken to an orphanage the day I was born. “I’ll buy it myself.” I never thought to ask why he wanted to read that book again. As the years went on, his stories became more and more outlandish. When he was little he liked to dress up as a detective. Some years after my obsession with Fiona Apple, I went to Thanksgiving in Wisconsin coming off of drugs. I spent a couple days at their home locked in the bathroom, vomiting water. “I am not a lesbian,” I said to anyone who would listen.

I was in Brooklyn, walking with my partner at the time down 7th Ave in Park Slope at night. I re-read his email on my phone at least three times; I could tell something was wrong. “This email from my brother is really weird,” I said. I was too busy to write back to him, I decided, he would understand.

But what kind of monstrous human being doesn’t respond to an email like that? I’ll do it soon.” In the end, it didn’t matter, and a few days after he sent his email, there was no longer a person to write back to.

When I read mean message board comments about her physical appearance, it felt like an attack on my very own self, and I would go into the bathroom and force myself to puke. He left the windows of his office open in the winter. When I looked at photos of Fiona Apple, especially high, an ecstatic feeling of recognition and kinship came over me. Maybe I was a parasite because I used this feeling of kinship to keep myself alive and I did nothing for anyone else. You can be obsessed with flowers, cars, shoes, your dentist, gambling, the , whatever. Obsession is the yearning and attachment and dread and joy and the abyss.

I never thought I had an eating disorder because I was skinny. The almost-refrigerated air kept his lunch bag cool on the windowsill. ” My father said nothing could shock him because he and my mother were medical people. Obsession will always be an attractive fresh hell for a person like me, a person with a longing for attachment, a product of abandonment the day I was born into this grievous world.

Some days I didn’t want to be alive, but my delusions and curiosity kept me around. She kept asking me if I wanted to talk to a counselor. She always utilized the word counselor, as if the counselor were a trusted family friend. I would imagine myself starring in a movie with Fiona Apple. We would fall in love and devour each other; we would live in Los Angeles and do drugs all day.

I thought that if I loved someone beautiful, I would become beautiful, too. When I was seventeen years old, I was obsessed with Fiona Apple. I had back acne, which was so irritated and painful I had to sleep on my stomach. The fact that she thought I needed to talk to a counselor because I was depressed and crazy made me even more depressed and crazy. “What I need is privacy.” * “How can I ask anyone to love me/When all I do is beg to be left alone” –Fiona Apple My teenage bedroom had a lock on the door and this was very important to me. Other hours were spent mindlessly bouncing a ball against the walls. I held the smoke in my mouth, then blew it out the window. Instead of curtains or blinds, I attached thick beach towels to the window fixtures to blot out the light. Sometimes he looked like he had gained fifty pounds over the span of a few months, as if he were rapidly acquiring a layer of fat to protect himself from the horrors of the world.

I first heard Fiona Apple in a dressing room at the GAP.

Cutting through the blur of fuzzy ‘90s alt-rock that populated the then-cool chain’s playlists and stopping me mid-pull of some flat-front khakis, the bass drum in “Sleep to Dream” sounded a warning, alerting something deep and primal in my belly.

When you’re obsessed with someone or something, you are almost impossible to locate, you are sucked down into the abyss. I would come across Fiona Apple’s photo in a magazine at a store and start squealing. According to my orphan file, the first six months of my life I was a mild, nap-loving, bottle-sucking baby. One day, I finally agreed to see a therapist and a psychiatrist. I don’t remember much about How to Stop Time and I never asked him why he was so interested in reading it again. I never asked him anything because questions made him uncomfortable. He was attending the University of Chicago Law School without a college degree thanks to Attorney General Eric Holder’s letter of recommendation. A woman I was dating gave me a pill, which I thought was a painkiller, and it turned out to be methadone. Thanksgiving Day I fell asleep on the couch in front of a movie or a football game. I believe I said three words to my relatives and my family: “I’m doing fine.” At that point in my life, I did not identify as a lesbian even though I dated women. Many of the women I dated were ostensibly straight. My obsession had been transferred onto a woman in a seven-year relationship. But I couldn’t stop myself from calling them in a state of despair to tell them I was about to do something I knew I shouldn’t do. I vacillated between two extremes: a monastic code of living to fucking anyone who wanted to fuck me.

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