It’s an odd thing to be asked, “Where are you from?” Our mind holds thousands upon millions of memories and ideas that help us determine everyday things. The average answer (at least that I can give for myself) is Traverse City Michigan. 

But it’s more than that, isn’t it?

- And yet again I find myself asking a question tied back to that one big one, the ultimate question that every single individual finds themselves asking at least once in a lifetime, if not many times. 

Who am I?

If I am not defined by the people or the events that have found a place on my timeline, then surely I must be defined by the story itself. My story. Where I come from. Where I’ve been and where I am today. But to ask where I come from is like asking every star you could ever see for its name. Name. I have lived a thousand lives over through the faces and places I’ve seen. I change. 

Everyone of us does, yet I am so afraid of once more showing the inside of my mind to others, so I have created a new one to accommodate every situation to arise. 

But if I ask what little of me is left, “Where are you from?” could it answer? And if so, would it? 

Maybe. It could be possible. But what would that look like? Sound like? 

A place. A sanctuary of chaos. A house of memories. 

I am from a place that is gray. The void of the outside peers in through the windows, stained by the countless years of holding back the dark. The lights stand witness to hundreds if not thousands of long nights spent only in the company of putrid cigarette smoke and bottled love. The walls ring out, slandering who I am with memories long put to rest. Four slates, caging me in for so long with my counterfeit comforts for friends. 

I am from the moments where you stand back, breathless, and realize how many years you have wasted. How many nights did you hit that leather punching bag, scrounging for a just a little consistency. Well you got it. Bloody knuckles, broken and bruised from hours of unfiltered rage. Sharp aches from hangovers that should have been spent with those now lost. Lost.

That’s what I am. Wandering day by day with my cardboard smile like a soul passing from one life to the next. I am from my broken sanctuary. My never-ending nightmare that even now I sit, writing in. The deafening silence in between songs, and when the music ends, the melody ceases to ring, the silence only interrupted by the passing hum of the overhead lights. Simply flip the switch. Be consumed. 

It is weakness, dread, pure primal fear, and in the aftermath, grief. The kind of grief that scars your forearms. 

The kind of grief that splays your skin from the inside out, and changes every last emotion you can grasp at. It leaves you numb and alone. It leaves dried blood under your nails. It leaves your hair smelling of smoke. Your breathe, reminiscent of Gin. It makes you think about all the times you failed everyone around and a God that made you flawed. 

So you may ask where I am from. I may just say “Traverse City Michigan.” But if you ask for the story behind the painted smile and the programmed skip in my step. Remember the nights. Remember the weakness. Remember the doubt. 

You will find my answer in your own.