An Admissible Addiction

Just so you know, I wasn’t always so comfortable with myself. Once upon a time, I took things so personally, and cared a great deal what other people thought. As a matter of fact, things only began to change for me at the beginning of this school year. It mattered less and less what other people thought, especially people who meant absolutely nothing to me – my philosophy is that you should only accept the criticism of people whom you know truly know you. From what I witness and once experienced, I know that a complete stranger can approach somebody and call her a whore, causing the victim to dwell on that person’s bogus opinion for ages, even if it isn’t true (it usually isn’t, but people still dwell, for some reason). But even though I could care less what people think, I still want to be understood. And I’m positive that a VERY tiny population truly understands my obsession with the singer, Freddie Mercury. If you don’t belong to that very small population yet still have heard of me, you are probably rolling your eyes at this moment, thinking, “Not this now.” But why not this? The only person I only really talk to about it is my best friend. And the only reason she understands is because she feels the exact same way!

Last year, when I showed up at high school with only one person I’d known and befriended previously, I had an especially complicated time when it came to trying to make people understand. Around strangers, I’m extremely shy, so it’s not like I would explain why I felt the way I did. All I could do was listen to his music (“I think Queen songs,” he once said, “are pure escapism, like going to see a good film.”), and in my loneliness, I literally depended on this man, with whom my existence has never even paralleled. Inevitably, this obsession made me infamous; people made it out to be a bad thing.

One day, as Selena and I entered the school in our usual amorous state upon seeing his face on my locker, we were flabbergasted by what we saw as we drew nearer: on my personal property, somebody had scrawled, “TOO BAD HE’S GAY”, along with a terrible pen mustache on his face (the photograph had been taken in the 70s). I don’t know to this day who had vandalized my locker poster, much less what was going through their heads. Maybe it was a stupid joke and they didn’t expect it to upset me as much as it did, or they just hated me for some reason. Either way, I nearly burst out in tears in public (which is something I NEVER do) and tossed it out, heartbroken. I’m absolutely certain that the attack was personal and not just a mockery of Freddie; any idiot should know that to insult him is to insult me. Which is why I was so dumbfounded. What miscreant would do such a thing with such cruel intentions? Obviously, the words weren’t what offended me. If anything, they only make the violator look like an even stupider asshole than he or she probably is: OBVIOUSLY, I am more than aware that Freddie was indeed a homosexual…but why did they use that? How ridiculous! The man is DEAD, for the love of god! Don’t you think THAT is what hurts me the most? If he was alive, I wouldn’t care less if he made love with pickles! Considering that the comment was written in the present tense, they probably didn’t even know this. But I’m certain that they did, which means that their grammar is a disgrace.

The reason I was upset was because the person or people who did it intended to hit my core. They were malicious and callous and completely unaware of my humanity. They failed to realise that maybe I already had a lot on my plate, what with my feelings of isolation and the sense of my peers’ contempt for me. Besides which, they didn’t know anything about me. They didn’t know my story. They didn’t care.

And finally, I was upset because the attitude of the violator represented the attitudes of most of the people around me. I knew that people who had never even heard my voice were talking about how annoying my obsession was. I knew that a few people with whom I had discussed it were trashing me for my weird devotion to a rock star. I knew that people had grown sick of it, even though I only talked about it to people who brought him up. I never brought him up, except with Selena. People would ask questions about him to me. People would ask me why I thought he was so attractive, despite his not having biceps or emo hair or any other disgusting feature teenagers like these days. And then they would ask me why I liked his music so much, to which I would reply, “Because his voice is like an angel’s. It has an insane range that no other singer can compete with. He also didn’t stick to one genre: Queen is various and it’s hard to place them in one specific area. And to me, he pwns all the crap that people listen to today.” And they would blow my words way out of proportion by telling their friends that I insulted them and was intolerant of their musical tastes.

Give me a break. It’s not like their musical tastes are their religion.

Because the fact is, mine aren’t either. But Freddie himself, which people should know, is more than a rock star to me. He’s a savior.

And that’s why I’m writing this blog. I want these people to at least comprehend why my love for this man runs so deeply in my veins. It makes sense, and if they only knew, they wouldn’t make such a big deal of it (well, they haven’t lately since I NEVER talk about Freddie at school, and besides which, people seem to sense that I know my place, that I’m much less vulnerable and much more kick-ass than I was last year). All I want is for my story to be heard and understood. And maybe, if you’ve ever criticized me for it, you’ll repent.

***

The summer of 2005 is probably one of the most memorable times of my life. I was about to start my last year at middle school, and I felt like I was the Queen Bee (even though I was still as freaky as could be). I thought I was sizzlin’. That year, I had received my first kiss, and was in my first relationship. During that summer, I would spend time with both of my posses – the dorky one with some of my oldest friends, and the wild one which influenced me rather negatively, though I loved both.

One day right as seventh grade was ending, me and my dorky crew were in the car on the way back from Fiesta Texas to Selena’s house for a slumber party. Selena said, “Hey guys, I wanna show you this cool band.” She slipped a CD into the music player and sat back smugly. I was a girl of style, and only knew what came on the radio, so it was my first time listening to one of those most famous songs in the world: “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see…” For most of the song, we had already arrived at Selena’s house, and sat in her garage listening to it. I remember staring at a portrait of an African boy hanging on the wall as I patiently listened to the unusual song. Honestly, it was pretty amazing, even though it wasn’t top 20 (of course I didn’t realise it had been #1 for weeks in its time).

“Who was that?” I asked curiously.

“They’re called Queen,” replied Selena, and she showed me a picture of them from the CD’s booklet. “My mom says they were all gay.” (As we became more knowledgeable about them, we discovered this wasn’t true, and teased her mom endlessly.) I took the booklet and studied it. Standing behind a chair were three men: one with wild curly hair, a good-looking blonde, and a timid brunette wearing a scarf around his wrist. But the guy in the chair was the most interesting. A bunch of grapes were in his hand and he looked as if he were about to eat the lot of them. He was wearing outrageous clothing and had a teddy bear in his lap. And his long hair was gorgeous – it looked like a woman’s.

A few weeks later, I went to Mexico with my family. Before we left, I had my dad burn the Queen’s greatest hits album he had from his computer to a CD so I could listen to it while there. The entire car-ride, I replayed it over and over again. It sounded nothing like Usher or Maroon 5 or John Mayer or Mariah Carey, but it was still pretty freaking good. During that trip, I declared Queen my favorite band (though I did this every few months with other bands – before that, the Red Hot Chili Peppers had been my favorite).

When I returned from Mexico, my boyfriend dumped me. I was devastated, and even though my friend set me up with her ex (what a mistake!), I was down in the dumps and cried for the guy all the time. My friend Amy invited the dorky crew to spend the night at her house, which was a very long car ride into the hills beyond San Antonio’s city limits. Because of the break-up, a girl’s night out was just what I needed, and it was one of the happiest times of my life. The entire ride there, we listened to Queen. The songs I associate with that day most are “You’re My Best Friend” and “Bicycle Race”.

Eventually, summer had to end, and I started 8th grade. The year was hell from the start. My friend who had set me up with her ex now hated me because she realized she still wanted him, though I was already too infatuated with him to give him up. Meanwhile, I could tell that my plans to become popular were not going to happen. The entire student body seemed to dislike me, and now the girl who wanted her ex back was turning everybody against me. I became worst than a geek – I was a social climber who tried too hard, but who was hated by all no matter what. Meanwhile, I was learning all I could about Queen, listening to the greatest hits 1, 2 and 3, falling more in love with the lead singer, Freddie Mercury. I would often go to Selena’s house and we would do our research. I am ashamed to admit that I actually believed that Zoroastrianism, his religion, was a branch of Islam. I know, I know, it’s stupid. But I knew very little about world religions besides Christianity. And I was going through a phase where I HATED Christianity. It had raised me to believe that homosexuality was disgraceful, though I was bisexual and was in love with a homosexual man. I claimed that it was full of shit and everything about it SUCKED, and I was devoutly atheist. Better to dismiss it and have my Catholic family hate me, than for me to hate myself for being bisexual (which, even still, I did – I had come out to Selena and a few others, but I had yet to admit it to myself). It was no wonder, being the odd girl out, that over the winter break that year, I changed my wardrobe completely from girly and preppy to somewhat Gothic. I thought I’d try out Wicca since I thought “witchcraft” was as rebellious as you could get. I went from trying so hard to be conformed and accepted, to trying as hard as I could to stray from the mainstream (I’ll give my thoughts on “mainstream” another time).

The Goth thing did nothing for me except express to the world how miserable I was, and how much I hated everybody. This drew people even further from me, until I found myself friendless, except for Selena and very few other people. The guy who had cost me one of my closest friendships dumped me, and I would throw myself at him every day, begging him to take me back, telling him I would do anything. Because I put myself in such a position, he agreed – he had his way with me, then tossed me out and stopped associating with me completely, claiming that he couldn’t speak with me during school hours for his reputation’s sake (his exact words: “I’ll go out with you outside of school, but not during school, because face it: I’m cool and you’re a freak. Guilty by association, know what I mean?” He wasn’t even cool!). Even my dorky friends ditched me: the fact was, they were no longer dorky, and were trying so hard themselves to be at top. Basically, I was too much of a loser for anybody to want to talk to me. All I had left was a best friend, who hurt me by still talking to the girls who ditched me so violently.

Inevitably, that’s when my love for Freddie Mercury exploded into full-fledged obsession. I learned all the Queen songs because I couldn’t get enough of Freddie’s magnificent voice. Every night, after flinging myself on my bed to punch my pillow in a rage of tears, I would turn on Queen and lie on my bed with my hand over my heart, listening and every now and then saying, in my mind or out loud, “Freddie…you’re all I have to live for.” He really was pure escapism for me. I basked in the beauty of his voice. I cried because it was so beautiful and I couldn’t get enough. I would write letters to him.

March 29, 2006

Dear Freddie,

I miss you so much! Don’t get freaked out, but sometimes I feel like killing myself to see where you went. Love of my life, where are you? If only I were there to help you when you were sick.

Do you know what will happen to me when I die? Are you in Heaven? You better be. That’s what you deserve. Hopefully I’ll meet you up there. Doubt it. All I can do is hate, because you’re gone. I love you and only you.

You will visit me, right? I feel your presence. Your hand is on my shoulder, and you’re watching me write. You’re singing in my ear.

Even if you were still alive, you’d never want me. You were gay. And you had Mary and everyone. I can’t imagine how terrible they felt when they lost you.

I didn’t even know you, and I love you. How they must cry, when I do too.

I’ve gotta go. Love you.

Kaytee.

Maybe it’s crazy to say, but I really believe that if I hadn’t had Freddie, I might have ended my life. Back then I didn’t realise it, but now I understand people for whom Jesus is their savior. Freddie saved me. It possibly could have been anybody, actually. It could have been Johnny Depp or Mick Jagger. But it was Freddie, and I can’t imagine it being anybody else. The point is, I really needed somebody to talk to, and because I didn’t believe in god (actually, I think I did believe in god – I just hated him), there wasn’t anybody else. Everyone else would judge me, but Freddie couldn’t speak to me. I couldn’t hear him saying nasty things about me. I felt that he could see into my mind since he had the power to do that, being a spirit, and knew where I was coming from. Sometimes, the feelings of his presence got so strong that I would be sobbing one moment, and completely content the next. Physically, I was always alone, locking myself in my bedroom and having few people to laugh with at school, but spiritually, I had hope. He became all I could think about, and it was for my own safety. Whenever I felt like making everything stop, I would have conversations with Freddie in my head. I might have been mentally insane, but at least it was insanity that saved my life.

Me: They all suck.
Freddie: Don’t talk like that.
Me: Well they do! Men especially.
Freddie: Oh. Well. Us men can be pains. Now I know how you really feel about me.
Me: You know what I mean!
Freddie: Do I?
Me: Yes, as a matter of fact, you do. You’re my true love. My obsession.

Also, I lived by what Freddie told me in songs (“Don’t try suicide! You’re just going to hate it…” and “this could be Heaven for everyone”). I was irrational. I was out of my mind. I truly in the pits, and would believe ANYTHING to get out.

Miraculously, things started to look up. I was accepted into Comm Arts, and lived with the idea that I no longer had to associate with all these idiotic people. I could start over. The worst year of my life was over, and it was followed by a dramatic and terrible summer. Then high school started, and I was in a different world. The school was small and easy to get around, but now I had to work at being liked. Selena and I had no classes together, not even lunch, so I really had to get my ass moving. Well, as shy as I was, it didn’t work out too well, but because I had Freddie, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I made my locker a shrine to Freddie Mercury on his 60th birthday, and after that, I became known as the freshman who was obsessed with Freddie Mercury. People would always joke around with me about how unattractive he was (right…I’m pretty sure we’re seeing different people – how is there ANYTHING unattractive about that man?), but until just before the locker incident, I thought all of it was in good heart. I knew that I wasn’t very popular or well liked, but it wasn’t until I arrived at school to see my locker poster marred that I realized that it was all a humongous joke to these people. Of course I didn’t expect them to understand my spiritual connection to Freddie, but I never expected for my savior to be used against me in an act of cruel mockery.

And it was then that I promised to myself to respect other people’s beliefs. Jesus, Muhammad, Zoroaster and other prophets weren’t such foreign concepts anymore. Though my obsession isn’t quite at the religious level, I began to identify with people who declared such people their saviors. They had their reasons for “walking” with those men, just as I had my reasons for “dancing” with my man. I’m only hoping that, instead of scorning my deep respect and love for Freddie Mercury, people can understand where it came from – the worst of times, when I had fallen into a hopeless, nearly-suicidal pit.

But even though I’m out of that pit, I still hang on to Freddie for dear life. Whenever I’m feeling just slightly angry or sad, listening to his voice instantly cheers me up. I owe my life to that man. I owe him my happiness.

Today, Selena and I were somberly discussing the bizarre fact that our lives have never paralleled with Freddie’s. I suggested, “Do you think…that Freddie would have saved me if he were still alive?”

“Are you saying that everything happens for a reason?”

I sat in silence for a few seconds. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Maybe it does.”

“The thing about Freddie not being here physically is that he could really be anywhere now.”

“We can’t wonder, ‘What is he doing right now? Is he recording something new?’” she added.

“Which is really what I think what saved me. If he was alive, I would know that I don’t matter to him. He wouldn’t be able to see what I’m thinking. But he’s dead. So maybe he can see into my soul. I could write letters to him and feel like he was actually reading them and nodding along.”

That’s why I don’t think this obsession is so crazy. It’s rational and safe, but spiritual and mysterious as well. Although I can’t know for sure, I feel a presence, and I like to think that it’s his. He’s with me all the time.

I’ll never be alone again.