Robin Hood

The red roses stood paranormal within the gates of Grand Island. The soft flesh of the petals bloomed gracefully outside my bedroom window, a sight to behold in comparison to my Prozac morning ritual. Diagnosed as atypical and discharged from the Good Samaritan Hospital during what might have been a few weeks prior (but that was neither here nor there to my acute knowledge), I became entranced by the heartbreak hymnal of “he loves me, he loves me not.” Since returning home, I had all the time in the whole wide world, and that time was spent ruminating over munchies, stealing from my mother’s checkbook for makeovers at the salon downtown, learning to cry on my acute commands, and feeding into an exercise of mental vacillation of fascination.   

I was a truth seeker; I really wanted to know what was going on in my life. I had questions in my heart as to why the father of my child abandoned me at such a young age, questions as to why the following relationship with another man would be abusive. I never did recover completely as the rodeo queen of Good Samaritan Hospital. Mornings were now spent making peace in the mirror, trying to replace the hyped wit of mania with jagged little pills of medicine, as if being withheld on an involuntary 51/50 hold was in exchange for my brilliant mentality. My new reality consisted of the concept that the eccentric scientists who had concocted Frankenstein and all his other worldly troubles wanted my mind’s eye in a lockbox to have and to hold for all of eternity, all the while having to stick coherently to a program which supported a mental metamorphosis over the course of a week or so. Trying to confront the diagnosis of being an apparent danger to the public or of threat to self, I settled back into my extra ordinary life that I had unconvincingly contrived as being normal. I crept around my bedroom like a possessed cadaver with stark preferences to experience life with the blinds wide shut, or to just lay lifeless as a corpse on the pet-stained, cracker crumbly carpet and feel lyrics spewing from the speakers of the radio until I felt anything at all. Super Hit satya nag champa incense seeped from the valves of my dismantled heart and soul with mortified ashes of my lost self. Each freshly minted stick of beatific dust burned an equivocal attempt to mystically revive the echoes of who I was in my most recent past life. I’d watch the smoke dance between the lazy shadows of light, prying through the deader-than-dull wooden shades which couldn’t be all accounted for, letting in blinding patches of negative space through the fragmented slats, only to be engulfed into a deeper fog of depression. I was forced to evacuate my psyche completely via antidepressant remedies and heated confrontations with starchy white-coated medical professionals while shouting profanities in the nest’s hallways.

I was in the phase of recovery which familiarized my shaky out of body double with my habitat at home and becoming reacquainted with myself crossed that safety yellow cautionary tape of my comfort zone. I had so many uncertainties as life passed and time took flight throughout the days of the week, and, as my young daughter continued to grow. Fragile was I to realize that the most consistent concept in my life was the stillness of the sturdy queen-sized bed frame and mattress which would never grow legs and walk away. So, every night I trusted myself and my bed with the promise of achieving peace by sleep. And I would desperately think to myself with a long sigh, Today, I survived.

I believe beauty sleep was a total success when I awoke with the sunshine in between my sensitive eyes. I opened the shabby blinds beholding the view from my bedroom window, a single shrub of red roses in perfect bloom. I felt alive with the glory of rejuvenation. The skin of my face which had been plagued with acne since forever was as soft as the cashmere petals shaped like perfect spades and swelled blushing rouge cheeks. I felt the adrenaline rush from the Prozac kick in as I noticed the sunlight cascading like shiny lined clouds reflecting rainbows around the little garden of curiosity. The impression was triggering my emotions as if nature had projected my most intimidating thoughts as a woman into a growing bouquet of roses. 

The brilliance of the red roses evoked the Aurora within. I am some kind of magical, I am my own princess, hailing from the Seven Oaks of California’s corner pocket. By day, why! I fashion myself in this somber slumber as Princess in Waiting. Waiting and waiting patiently to walk with Prince Charming like Once Upon a Dream. And, by night, I walk the streets of Bakersfield.

The shrub of velvet red petals dazzled surrounded by morning sunlight, unrequitedly receiving my attention like a heavy current rather than swift focus. My blue eyes, once beguiled by the grips of depression, were illuminated like the rays appearing staggered between leaves and efflorescence. Drawing all attention to my awareness of a single rose, I honored the magnetic pull. Thoughts blossomed ephemerally bringing to life my wilted mind. I felt that I was like the rose, beautiful and disturbed by a victory of tiny piercing swords. The daydream reverie evolved into a call to action; before me was yet another spontaneous adventure, my blind psyche as supernatural aid—I needed to leave the homestead so I could meet my Prince Charming. 

My tasteful logic: I am getting married.

Ah. To be one with nature.

My head was in a dizzy swarm as I grabbed my mother’s bank card, but never an ounce of uncertainty could take away my plans for all I anticipated. Truth be told, I was struck by Cupid’s arrow that morning, the inciting incident leaving me excited with a sparkling epiphany. I’m unsure if I kept up with my medication regimen that morning; I had this sudden sensation that everything was happening fast and at once, and that my mental illness had improved to health.

I arrived at the second floor of Macy’s and immediately noticed a short black cocktail dress of a soft, silk-like linen (probably cotton), with white lace along the back and bust. The zipper along the spine, exquisite. Sure, the dress was indeed an impulse buy, but at that very moment I needed a gown for a very particular occasion. And, it gave me purpose. I dazzled in sophisticated grace as the frock exposed my pale arms and added length to my disciplined yogi body. I was a true dress size 4, complimenting my hourglass figure. But who wore the dress better—the four years postpartum girlish body of a lonesome 21-year-old, or the grips of deep denial? In fact, I texted my friend, Melissa, that very same question just moments before the point of sale. The conversation then panned to a theme more familiar with the likes of the cult of Black Swan which posed an important question: Hair pinned up in a ballet bun, or wild and down?

Next was shoe shopping, followed by the challenges and temptations of accessorizing. I knew the look wouldn’t be completed by my typical pair of flip flops, as this certainly was a black-tie affair. I purchased a pair of Steve Madden seafoam green high heels made of soft leather to compliment the evening wear that I would be traipsing around the farmland town in for that day. They were a pump of sorts, and quite frankly the only reason why I had purchased the shoe was in reference to a favorite song of mine, Are You In? by Incubus (because it’s so much easier when seafoam green is in fashion…those are the lyrics I sing, anyway). The dainty outfit was sensational and gave me a reason to get out from under the suppression of my mattress, even if I were getting all dressed up with nowhere in particular to go. I had every divine notion from the universe that I could manifest my fantasy into reality as if it were only a matter of time. 

I made a quick change into the black dress at home, applying only the slightest ounce of mascara to brighten my blue eyes. Then, I was on my merry way.

I made a guest starring appearance at Dagny’s Coffee downtown to scope out the crowd. I recall just standing outside, holding a Styrofoam cup of free coffee a gentleman had given to me upon reaching the shop. I loved the way the dress blew in the wind, just like all my common sense. 

We made small talk. I didn’t tell him that I was the bride to be that day. My mind was too preoccupied, living in a split multiverse of anxieties of meeting up with a potential nonexistent groom, and trying to seduce a stranger over coffee in order to make an adolescent fantasy evolve out of the thinnest of terrible air quality was not on my agenda. But I wasn’t at all interested in the fellow either. The fact that I was able to wake up and love myself caused me to believe that I had a better half walking aimlessly around in this world feeling just the same as I do—often lifeless, which had me concerned. I twitched with euphoria and excitement just considering the idea of being a wife. And I had every desire to meet that man and let him know that I care, and that I will always care. Because if we cared for one another the world would be a much less lonely planet. I’d just love to hug my arms around his world, even as he spins relentlessly out of control. Being able to care for myself meant that I became available to recognize the pulse of my womb. The most natural shape of me had become a void, unintentionally. Caressing my own stomach and skin, I finally became liberated by the hope of starting yet again, rising from the silent sorrow of a young grievance alone and under severe pressure of an unspoken loss. With dreams of a breathing creation, I understood that I am capable. That I would be accepted so wholesomely.

The day was passing at a rather swift rate. Perhaps that very same day I dined on chips and salsa at Mexicali with a thirst-quenching margarita on the rocks, but I only say so now because I know that I have dined at the Mexican restaurant wearing the same fancy attire with great anticipation of meeting a man. Who knows?  

Ah, yes, but will I get to church on time?

I arrived at the church in my white 2009 Volkswagen Passat lemon of a vehicle as NPR’s Clearly Classical filled the empty space of excitement, windows notably down for the cause of catching enough attention. It all seemed so classy! I didn’t just drive into the parking lot; I glided the vessel. Feeling that this was the moment to really present myself as wife potential, I stepped out of the car one Steve Madden seafoam pump at a time in the easiest of fashion. Beholding the view of a large crowd, I trotted down the path of the ceremonial area in even strides, balanced and composed as if there were a stack of library books atop my head as I greeted a man waiting for me at the end of the aisle among the guests in attendance. The older gentleman was nice, but not what I had in mind. Cordial and sincere, he informed me that he was happy to see me, although I had never seen his face before. I was just thrilled to be greeted as my eyes surveyed the sanctuary patio in search of my beloved. 

“Thank you for coming to the ceremony,” appreciated the gentleman. This pleased me. “We are continuing the reception at Hart Park. Please join us there”, he remarked just as the gathering was leaving the church for its celebration.

Ah yes, how wonderful. A wedding is indeed cause for a celebration.

Relieved by the company, however, I was caught off guard when informed that I arrived at a funeral, which would be continuing its celebration of life reception at the park. It just happens so this was a funeral, not my wedding.

I didn’t intend on wearing black to a funeral that day. This was supposed to be my wedding day. I wanted to be spontaneous for once in my young life and all be damned and tie the knot. I wanted so badly what I could not have after waiting what felt like years after abandonment. I was nevertheless elegant, even at my own improvised funeral wedding of typical dysfunction.

I phoned my mother. The dead groom was a conflict. Did I genuinely believe that I was the belle of the ball that morning, or did I experience frighteningly heightened optimism that my dream of running into Mr. Right would happen as I was wearing a black cocktail dress whilst picking up my toddler from preschool? We should consider both as probable cause.

“Mom, I have your card, and I bought a dress. I bought the dress because I believe I am getting married to Robin Pecknold. I can’t find him. Have you seen him?”

“Dana, where are you? No! You’re not getting married to anyone today! Where’s the car?” My mother, always leveling reality into my abstract thought process.

“I’m going to Hart Park. I can’t believe it—he might be dead! I’m leaving for the funeral right now.” I sobbed uncontrollably over the death of whom might be my love.

“Dana, he’s not dead and he has no clue who you are! Come home now or your father will meet you at the park!” My father, always there for the straight jacket capture and smuggle.

It’s one thing to wake up and have this compelling desire to elope with a soulmate that you so deeply wish you were connected to by the wit of ESP and the magic charm of potential true love, but it is a completely different situation when the man of romantic interest is a popular musician of sorts—let alone land yourself back in the mental hospital because your mother and psychiatrist are both very worried that you’ve completely lost your mind all over an imaginary groom at your make-believe wedding. Somewhere after the committal wedding I found myself using my last lifeline to phone a friend. I had so many questions as to why the groom opted not to attend our day of elopement (that’s the phrase I narrowed the bond to, in great hesitation. There were other romantic and more personal ones). 

Unable to escape from the alarming preventions of my mother, I found myself back in the booby trap of psychiatric care (more like careless). My high heels were contraband, so I waltzed around the facility in a slippery pair of fugly socks with those should-be glow in the dark grips on the bottom. I even asked the security guard if the white squishies would glow when the lights were switched off just to humor myself and my sanity. My dress really delivered justice among those in attendance at the intake unit, and the Dixie cup of hospital fountain water was a charming accessory of something blue as I fasted throughout my stay.

I was then admitted to another involuntary hold after being transferred to the actual hatch. There, I wasn’t waltzing at all, but holding myself arm-in-arm laying on the unbearable cot of rock bottom, imagining being in the arms of the figurative man of my dreams who was evolving more into a gentleman. And as I gained more of these experiences, we became much more exclusive in my headspace and shattered heart. I needed him there with me spiritually to really heal and let go of the past, the present, and help me give the people who influenced the MET team to transfer me from home (or the park) to the intake facility the taste of the finger.

The implied and assumed groom of that long morning is the forefront of the indie music group, Fleet Foxes. First, it is important to know that he was set to perform at a local tavern perhaps that very day as White Antelope. He also played in Bakersfield earlier that year. And, somewhere in between that frame of time I had a conversation with someone from Fleet Foxes via Facebook messages. Also, a friend of a friend was the show’s promoter for both sets he performed in town. Of course, I begged my friend to establish a meet and greet, and somehow…I lost myself. I lost myself so far in this delusional process that my good friend had to rescue me from the sheep herding fields outside my neighborhood at midnight as I shouted for Robin Pecknold to come save me from all of my other worldly troubles, just as the true Robin Hood would. 

But, we must address the obsession of the men who look like Jesus that I was religiously attracted to from ages 17-22. That’s a whole half of a decade of romantic longing for a suburbanite Jesus who might be looking for the Alanis Morissette of Mary Magdalenes. And on the real, my trust issues don’t just let love interests linger within the rolling hills of my heart and mind for lengthy periods of time. My adoration for the squire should be considered as ritual devotion. I began listening to the Fleet Foxes when I was 16 and pregnant. I was a dedicated fan of former presidential candidate Al Gore’s media channel, Current TV, where I would just fantasize about becoming a Vanguard journalist traveling here and there to exotic foreign countries and covering the different issues of global ethics and warfare while draped in a variety of colorful scarves from different cultures to have that credible appeal. I watched a bit on the network while minding my baby bump, when suddenly this handsome fellow who sported a total grizzly Jesus persona appeared out of nowhere with a beautiful acoustic guitar. Their music re-emerged in my headspace when the guy we’ll refer to as the father of my child had reintroduced me to the group via a Walkman and wired headphones in a very questionable motel room on the wrong side of town. Since that morning, I remember listening closely to the angelic melodies and harmonious vocals fantasizing about actually finding love far from the devices of abandonment.

Eventually, I did return home from the institution with post-traumatic stress-like symptoms. I mean, the hospital is entirely outdated and has an improper aesthetic quality to it. Just the lack of necessary updates for quality comfort alone can lead a patient into existential shock. For some time after the hospitalization, I believed Robin was dead. I went to a psychic reading and explained the situation to a Native American medicine woman who gave me rosemary bunches and advised me to write a letter to burn after returning to his grave. I went back to the church. I cried in the parking lot. And to me, that was closure.

There is more to the story. Like, somewhere in the midst of all this madness I phoned the record label just to check and see if Robin was alive. Or, ask why he was a no-show for the wedding. Ah, rejection. 

I guess I do believe in soulmates. I would love to meet that person and tell them I sincerely appreciate their entire existence. I pondered all the ways I wanted to commit an oath of endless love within the luminous hours of that morning alone. I felt my pulse. I felt a purpose. I felt a reason to stay. And I felt deeply in love with each fleeting fantasy.

Dana Eileen the Queen is a single mother and full time Literature student who conquers the world with an amusing case of bipolar disorder. Taking to pen and paper to write of her frequent episodes of psychosis, she has been published in the international anthology, "Signs of Life", detailing her make-believe marriage to John Mayer. Dana Eileen the Queen chases after yet another pursuit of holy matrimony in her essay "Robin Hood". By day she is Lana Del Rey, as witnessed in her published essay "Born to Cry", but by night she prefers her beauty sleep.