Memphis is when my heart breaks. Memphis is a perfect storm of fear and hurt, bad judgments and misunderstandings. Everything in Memphis is heightened because I’m alone and I think I’m brave which looks like a constant battle between what would be comfortable (staying home and never having any adventures) and what could be considered reckless (something I no longer have faith I can discern one way or the other). In Memphis, I become untethered.
Travelling alone is a funny thing. It gives off this impression that you’re fearless, but the truth is you’re terrified and just doing it anyway (which is what having courage is, I have been informed by my therapist). I regularly forget this fact on solo trips. I gaslight myself into thinking I have to enjoy every moment because I was the one who chose to take this trip and so if I’m not having fun, it’s somehow my fault for choosing to go. I still haven’t figured out exactly why I’m like this—why I put so much pressure on myself to have a good time. It’s probably a mix of perfectionism, people pleasing, and the (erroneous belief) that I’m in control of a lot more than I am. Finally, it might have to do with heightened awareness of sadness. Having spent so much of my life suffocated by depression, I have both a heightened awareness and distrust of sadness. I’m always on guard watching out for a depressive episode, always looking for a silver lining or an emotional safety rope to keep myself tethered to happiness. So, when things go awry, they can never just be “awry,” I’ve got to make sure it doesn’t escalate to something more intense, prolonged, all-consuming—a depressive episode.
I haven’t had a depressive episode since February. The summer after grad school, I went off my anti-depressants (looking back now that seems insane but at the time, I was doing great, and it seemed like all my big stressors were gone). That’s yet another stupid thing about depression (and probably mental illness in general)—you spend your life oscillating back and forth between the belief that it’s situational and the belief that it’s genetic. So, when the stress of grad school was over, it seemed totally logically to go off my meds. And for a while, it was. That’s the way it is though. Depression lurks in corners not spotlights.
The older I get, the more it seems that my depression starts situationally (even it continues long after that thing matters to me). Something in my life going terribly wrong can start a depressive episode. Actually, that’s not numerically accurate. Usually, one bad thing doesn’t faze me. One frustration or one disappointment is nothing. I’m surprisingly a pretty positive—make the best of things—kind of person. It’s when the bad things pile up, one upon the another, that the depression sneaks in. I’m guessing. I always say I’m guessing because it’s not exactly feasible to conduct an experiment with my own mental health. Was it the third shitty thing that pushed me over the edge or was it just bad timing? Does a third bad thing simply happen the same day an episode takes hold and because of the episode, the third bad thing feels heavier when I might have otherwise glided past it? I might never know.
A perfect example of this is two years ago (back around the time of Oleg and Hakeem and somewhere in the middle of the three Andys). A depressive episode begins on Valentine’s Day (coincidentally or for all the obvious reasons, I’m not entirely sure). I was house-sitting and waiting to hear back from a publisher about my first book.
When the rejection from Oleg appeared as a lack of interest in removing obstacles, the hurt was manageable. I could still feel the joy of our time together. When the rejection from Andy #2 (the Juan that I wanted) gave me a laugh if not orgasmic satisfaction, I was jilted but not broken. I checked my phone for messages from Hakeem and saw nothing. Perhaps, he is waiting for the pressure of Valentine’s Day to pass, I think. But, when the twenty-one-year-old who has been texting me for four months, and has semi-flaked twice, texts to say that he’s working late and can’t make it tonight, the wires holding me together snap and I blow away like a loosed parade balloon—ready to destroy everything. I start to google the height of bridges, the speed of trains; I am suddenly a mathematician doing calculations far exceeding my abilities. In the car with the music too loud, I scream and hope to rupture my vocal cords (maybe if I never had to speak again things would be better). What was calm and stable only minutes ago has become a deluge of rage and sadness; the bank of sanity breaks free. I am back to being a horrible person. I won’t see it till I’m on the other side, but this is depression. This is an episode.
I’m not depressed when I arrive in Memphis. In fact, I’m not even sad. I had two fun though admittedly bizarre and orgasm free encounters in Nashville, and though Trump had won the election, I was still optimistic about my trip. Arriving in Memphis, I was ready to take advantage of all the work I’d put in on Tinder getting ready for this. I had been swiping my ass off in order to line up some connections. I had planned to stay four nights in Memphis which, not to be greedy, meant the possibility of four dates. Before I’d even left for the trip, I’d lined up two dates—Stephen for Friday (my second night) and Phil for Saturday (my third). That left the night of my arrival and the night before my departure open for possibilities.
Pulling into the hotel thruway on Thursday night, I was full of optimism and potential. As soon as I entered my hotel room, I got to work swiping on Tinder and giving out my snapchat to anyone who seemed promising. Within an hour I had a date and began the process of getting ready. I can’t even stress how many hours of my life have been spent (wasted) getting ready (and how much I want them all back). All the hours spent doing my hair and makeup, bent over with a hot hair dryer scrunching and bunching my curly hair while trying not to sweat faster than the hairdryer could dry, wearing uncomfortable bras and suffering through jewelry I was allergic to (read: basically, anything within my budget). All for what? To look only slightly better for some mediocre man with an even more mediocre dick? God, I was an idiot (but we all have our own journey to take, and I was still pretty early on mine).
The worst part about all the effort it takes to get ready is that I was doing it for a man I’d only just matched with and who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was about to absolutely blow it (while simultaneously destroying what remained of my faith in humanity). When I was ready, I messaged and asked where he wanted to meet. Instead of the expected answer, he wanted to know if we’d be fucking later that evening should he deign to waste a couple hours taking me out for a drink.
You’re probably thinking, well that’s not how he put it though, right?
And you’re right in that he didn’t exactly say that, but it was different by a margin of almost nothing. Obviously, I wasn’t about to give a man I’d never met, in a city I’d never been to before, a fucking guarantee, literally. Frustrated and fuming, I told him that we should just call it off and was met with fat bitch this and dumb slut that before I was able to block him. I took off my makeup and jewelry, crawled into bed, and cried myself to sleep still hopeful that tomorrow would be better.
Because I was on vacation, in a city of men I had assumed would love me (or at least be interested enough to want to spend an hour or two together before fucking), my expectations (and the pressure I felt to meet them) were like a foot on the back of my neck. I wouldn’t claim that I’ve ever dealt with disappointment with an oh well, no biggieattitude, but there was something about being alone on this trip that made this one man who saw me as nothing more than a warm body to masturbate truly devastating.
The craziest part of the whole scenario is that I probably would’ve fucked. If we had gone out for a drink, and he had just been a normal human person who was capable of functioning in a social situation, I probably would’ve fucked him. I was ready to fuck someone. I was on vacation, and I just wanted to have fun and get fucked and that’s how easy it is. It is so easy, my gawd. And yet man after man talks himself out of getting laid because he’s too stupid and, ya know, a misogynist. It is unbelievably easy to get laid as a man, and frankly, men who aren’t getting laid should really look at themselves more honestly. The silver lining of the whole dehumanizing situation was that I was in a hotel, which meant that there were several (honestly too fucking many) pillows on the bed, so when I had dampened one to an uncomfortable degree with all my tears, I simply switched it out for another to fall asleep on. Am I not the luckiest girl in the world, or what?
The thing about the problems happening in Memphis was that they were mostly philosophical. When my iPhone malfunctioned prior to my trip, I wasn’t that bothered. I went to the Apple store, got the issue fixed and carried on. When the engine light came on in the rental car, I didn’t freak out. I googled the symbol only to realize it was just the tire pressure light, promptly filled up those rubber babies and kept driving. Not a tear was shed. Not a meltdown was had. But dealing with misogynistic men who only viewed me as free pussy when I had expected to be having so much fun on so many different dates? There wasn’t an easy fix for that except to maybe stop having expectations—to which I would say, I dare you to try! Or, to stop dating men entirely—to which I would say, I’m honestly considering it.
The next morning, I woke up to a text from Stephen. Stephen was memorable from the moment we matched. I don’t usually put that much weight on a person’s appearance (because being attractive has zero correlation to whether or not I’ll get to orgasm), but Stephen was off-the-charts hot. Stephen was model hot, like famous person without being famous hot. His profile said he was 6’4 (as confirmed by his university basketball stats after a quick google). Stephen was jacked, and his face was gorgeous (not to mention his hair was lined up perfectly in every single photo). Swiping through his Tinder profile, it was nothing but stylish business suits (obviously tailored to highlight his muscles), golfing pics with his dad (aww), and the occasional gym flex. It was also clear that he was a professional with money (which made sense later when I found out he was in the banking industry). There wasn’t a fish in sight except for the feeling I had that he had (had to!) to be a catfish. But like I said, I had already googled him and so I knew the man was real. Still though, still, I couldn’t help but wonder if the man in the pictures while admittedly real and living in Memphis, could be someone other than the person I was texting. I waited for the other shoe to drop.
Stephen texted Friday morning to cancel our date that because he was coming down with a cold. Stephen could’ve said he was cancelling because he was having emergency foot amputation surgery, and I would’ve found it more believable. You have to remember that we were living in a pre-pandemic world, and I couldn’t understand why someone would bail on a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet me. He told me that he was going to go for a steam later and if he felt better, he’d let me know. It felt like a brush off. It felt personal. It felt like bullshit. I couldn’t deny that him cancelling was both incredibly disappointing because I’d given him the coveted (or not, as evidenced by him cancelling) position of the Friday night date. Did he think there would be another chance to meet? I was disappointed and livid. Memphis was really starting to suck.
I’m not poor, in the sense that my family is middle class and we’re rich adjacent (hence all the holidays and vacations, like this one, that I’ve gotten to go on because of some gift or sharing of a family member. I myself am broke. I have little to nothing. I have degrees and a lot of student debt. I have no financial assets. My bank account is rarely anything but empty and when it’s not, it’s usually because someone has gifted me something. I have a MacBook because my relatives bought it as a graduation gift after earning my masters. I’ve never gone hungry, and I’ve never not had a roof over my head, but financial stability is not in my past, present or likely future. All of this is to say that I have a complicated relationship with vacations given that I can’t really afford them and yet somehow seem to be on a lot of them. More important to my point is the pressure I put on myself to have fun on them. I say myself because it doesn’t seem that anyone else has ever put pressure to have fun upon me, so my only explanation is that it’s self-imposed. I think I blame myself for being an overly educated artist who lives beyond her means, so I feel the need to justify every expenditure. If I’m not having fun on a vacation than I’m an idiot who made the wrong choice. I must’ve made a bad decision either in where I’ve chosen to go or what I’ve chosen to do.
On Friday, after finding out Stephen has the sniffles, I buy a ticket for Graceland and try to enjoy it, but I’m almost in tears when I realize I’ve spent $75 USD to see a “mansion” that’s not much bigger than my aunt’s house. When I eat the BBQ that is not particularly great, I lament how foolish I am to have taken a thin friend’s advice on food. When my date cancels, I can’t remember why I even wanted to come to Memphis. Everything is clouded by pressure and the emotions that fall from crumbling under it.
Still scarred from the misogyny of my first night in Memphis, I didn’t bother swiping for a backup. I still had a date booked for the next night and given my emotional state, I figured self-care was more in order than male validation and thus, I went for BBQ. If I wasn’t going to be getting any dick, the least I could do was stuff myself some satisfying meat. Unfortunately, I went to a place my small, thin friend had suggested (clearly an error in judgement I should’ve known better than to trust). Eating the meal back in my hotel room, I was less than thrilled. The meat was drier than my pussy, which was starting to feel like a theme for Memphis. I tried not to cry about how poorly things seemed to be going. I knew I was being a huge baby, but the sadness was visceral. With my mouth stuff with brisket, I text Stephen on to see how he’s feeling. He confirms that he’s sick, and I no longer care. I’m not sure if I replied or not, but if I did, I’m sure it was a passive aggressive: ok. I assume he was a catfish. He couldn’t bring himself to meet because he wasn’t real. I watch law and order in my hotel room and go to sleep, after swapping wet for dry pillows. I woke up Saturday morning unsurprisingly in a funk. I could’ve probably dealt with one thing but shitty men, flakey men, AND shitty BBQ in what was seemingly the BBQ capital of the world was a bridge too far for me. I had to do something to turn my trip around (not to mention get me in a better mood for my date with Phil that night). Phil and I had been messaging long enough and with enough frequency that we’d already added each other to facebook. He was a tall, bald, age-appropriate black man and, at least before arriving in Memphis, I couldn’t have been more excited to meet. Both Phil and Stephen had me incredibly excited for my time in Memphis and even though both night one and two had gone to the shitter, I was hopeful for night three. Things with Phil were bound to work out because we had plans. WE HAD PLANS!
Determined to improve my mood and take in some of the sights of Memphis, I buy a ticket to the National Civil Rights Museum and spend two hours walking through history. Every website and good book had suggested the museum, so I figured it was a safe bet.
The museum, like the history of civil rights in America, is devastating. I hold my tears until I’m back at my car (it feels like my white woman tears should not have space in this museum—if anywhere). After the museum, my mood slithers like ooze down a drain. The idea of ever having fun again seems impossible. I know this all seems so dramatic and disproportionate to what is actually happening on my trip but there’s something about being alone in a place you’ve never been before that heightens every emotion (particularly the negative ones). Not to mention that virtually every interaction on Tinder is with a man who doesn’t view women as human. Disappointments have piled upon disappointments have sunk into my bones.
Before my trip, and with a misguided impulse, I messaged a friend of mine on facebook to ask for recommendations for food and fun in Memphis since her boyfriend was from there, and they had visited often. She gave a couple suggestions for BBQ (which we’ve quickly seen were terrible) and then ended the message by saying that I shouldn’t go downtown in Memphis on a Saturday night unless I wanted to get stabbed. If I had any sense, I would’ve seen through the BBQ fiasco to know that her judgement couldn’t be trusted and not heeded her warning. Instead, I let it derail me.
Should I have listened to my small, petite friend and her small boyfriend as a woman of girth who can handle herself in pretty much any situation? No, probably not. People are mostly babies and not qualified to give advice. Allow me to explain: Vancouver’s downtown eastside is world renown for drugs and homelessness, but as a local I know that it’s perfectly fine place to be (at least in terms of safety). I might’ve been able to think all this through clearly had I been in the right state of mind, but that wasn’t the emotional state I was in at the time—that’s hindsight for you.
Back at my hotel after the museum and riddled with anxiety, I text Phil. I hesitantly ask about our date tonight. He suggests we shoot pool (which is something I love to do) at a place downtown. The same downtown that I was expressly told by my friend and her boyfriend not to go to on a Saturday night, and this was, in fact, Saturday night. Except it wasn’t just my friend who’d freaked me out. The night before, while swiping for matches on Tinder (and literally swiping right on everyone to increase my chances), I’d matched with a cop. I was intrigued because he was a Black police officer (God, I was naïve back then). We briefly chatted on the app, but he was working so there was no chance of meeting. I told him I was going to be going to downtown on Saturday night and he told me to be careful. I had never been such a baby before but here I was now afraid to go out to meet Phil at a place downtown.
I explained this to Phil. I told him about my friend and the cop and how I was just feeling really anxious, and could we meet somewhere else? Instead of suggesting another place, he doubled down, saying that it would be fine, and I should just go, and then switched gears and suggested we go out the next night instead. I couldn’t understand why that bar was so special to him that we couldn’t just meet somewhere else. In fact, on the heels of all the other things I was worried about, Phil now being weird instead of just comforting me really rubbed me the wrong way. I cancelled completely and that was that. Another night in Memphis, another batch of tear-stained pillows.
Were men really the problem with my time in Memphis? Obviously yes. If accuracy is something you pride yourself on though, I should probably add that it was more of a perfect storm of several shitty things coming together (men included, men are always terrible enough to be included) that resulted in my mostly shitty time in Memphis.
It’s never the first blow that knocks you to the ground. One disappointment is manageable. Two is a by-product of living a human life. By the time the fifth disappointment clobbers you, your eyes are blurry with tears, and you never saw it coming. That’s what Memphis feels like. When Sunday arrives, I’ve all but given up.
With no dates in hand and nothing to do but enjoy the city and relax, I took myself first to a coffee shop where I tried to write but instead found myself having to choke back tears before eventually leaving (for fear of sobbing in public). The only thing left that I could think of to potentially save my mood was to go for a walk along the river. When they say that exercise releases endorphins, they’re not exaggerating because after no less than ten minutes of fresh air and exercise, my mood was turning around. After thirty minutes, I was a new woman. What the fuck was I doing letting all these men and anxieties get the better of me?! I was in Memphis for the first (and potentially only) time in my life—I owed it to myself to try and enjoy it. After my revitalizing walk, I drove over to another café and then walked around the neighborhood just people watching, window shopping, and generally (finally!) enjoying myself. And then Stephen texted.
Stephen asked what I was up to, and I told him. He asked where I was, and I told him. I walked for a few more minutes and then heard someone calling my name. I turned around and there, leaning against his car, was Stephen. Stephen—looking exactly like his pictures, Stephen. Stephen—not a catfish, Stephen. Stephen—didn’t think he was real, Stephen! I could hardly believe my eyes and was also confused. I had assumed the whole “being sick thing” was a bullshit excuse to get out of meeting up because he was a catfish. But here he was, dressed like an ex-NFL player stretching his golf clothes to the limit of their tailored fit. Had he really cancelled just because he felt like he was coming down with a cold? Was this herculean looking man really that big of a fucking baby?!
Stephen showed up leaning against his BMW looking like a goddamn golf model with no real good explanation for anything. He stuck to his claim that he was sick. I motioned at his outfit and the fact that he’d just been playing golf. “For work,” he said, something about clients or whatever. I couldn’t hear; my ears were filled with rage like cotton. Everything he said sound muffled. He noticed I was pouting and asked for a hug. “I have to go to this banquet thing tonight,” he said apologetically, “otherwise we could hang out.”
“If you weren’t sick,” I interjected.
“If I wasn’t sick,” he smiled.
“Maybe we could meet up after the banquet?” he asked, or I asked I’m not really sure anymore. But we didn’t meet up. He was sick, he wasn’t feeling well, he couldn’t make it. He said words but none of them made sense. He hugged me again before leaving. I couldn’t understand the point of any of this. He said I was beautiful, my body banging. He said how glad he was that we had at least gotten to meet, if only for a moment.
“Yeah,” I rolled my eyes, “only for a moment.” I turned to walk away after saying goodbye.
“Keep in touch?” he said, and I nodded and waved.
Back at the hotel I realized what had happened. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to look for it before, but I did a fresh sync of my contacts and found him on Instagram. Instagram is where all, or at least a few, answers can always be found
On his Instagram, I saw his girlfriend (who btw became his fiancée and I’m fairly certain by the press of this book, his wife). I’ll never understand why he wanted to meet me at all—it was like cheating but without any of the good parts. Why not just ghost me if he hadn’t wanted to actually meet, to fuck? Why the rouse about being sick? Why the rouse about anything? Just unmatch after the first hit of validation (which is the only thing I can figure you’d be on Tinder for if you didn’t actually intend to cheat). Unless he’d wanted to cheat but hadn’t found me hot enough to bother (except he’d gone out of his way to meet me, eventually). It just didn’t make sense. Plus, I know he found me attractive because he continued to text for years after that chaste first meeting. He wanted me, that much I knew. I just couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t just had me. Maybe the fantasy was all he could handle. But even then, why bother to meet on a Sunday, fully clothed, in broad daylight, on a street in Memphis? It was a bit like going to a chocolate shop just to look at the bars. Then again, I doubt people go home and jack off to chocolate bars. I guess for some men, the fantasy is enough (and a woman’s time worth nothing to them).
Memphis doesn’t end with Stephen. We’d barely parted ways and I was getting ping after ping from Tinder matches. The difference was that now I struggled to give a good first impression. I was so raw from everything that I didn’t know how to say the usual small talk, so when a match asked me how things were going, I told him the truth. I said that I wasn’t having such a great time in Memphis and even went on to brazenly state that I found the men to be particularly flakey and misogynistic. He said it made him sad that I’d have this negative image of Memphis.
Come for a drink with me? he messaged. Let me show you a good time.