I apologize for the frivolous post, but this is something that I just can't bring my head around: Relationships. For some reason I seem to be unlucky in the field of relationships, from friends to family to lovers. A shrink once asked me what I am doing wrong; at that time, I adamantly shrugged off the possibility that I was at fault, but now, looking at all the relationships I've seen crumble, I'm not sure. Maybe I am at fault. According to my friend, relationships are based on an equation of needs: Pam has x; Sam wants x; therefore Pam and Sam form a bond. However, let's say Pam and Sam spend years together until Pam loses x. Does Sam leave? In my life, Sam always leaves.

Scenario 1: The family

My family is a tragic story that is now almost non-existent. On my father's side, a feud of sorts broke out between my aunt and uncle. This led to the choosing of sides by the other family members. We chose the fence; our silence was manipulated by my uncle and we were kicked out by my aunt because we "chose" not to support her. The real culprit: Money.

On my mother's side, my aunt kicked us out of her life because we attended her step-daughter's (who I consider to be my cousin) wedding. This led to the choosing of sides by the other family members. The real culprit: Power.

Now I consider myself to have no extended family, save for a handful of cousins on my mother's side. People that I had grown up with, helped out, and shared timeless moments with were able to toss out lifetime bonds because of things as petty as money and power. Is the world that shallow? Or is it insecurity?

And I ask myself: What did I do wrong? Maybe it was my lack of action. Maybe I should have gotten involved. Maybe I should have been less hard on them. Maybe I should have persisted to resuscitate the relationships despite the angry farewells.  Did they just not need me anymore?

Scenario 2: The man I love(d)

It's been six months since we last spoke, five months since the I-never-want-to-have-anything-to-do-with-you email, and seven hours since I last saw him. Before that, it had been three years of being tortured by the false hopes of unrequited love. My friends don't understand why I still think about him; their reasoning is that we never went out; therefore there is nothing for me to mourn over. I believed that I loved him in that unconditional, "I don't need anything from you" way. My friend believes that I was infatuated and that love only exists when it is mutual.

Nevertheless, we were good friends. We studied together (sometimes even on Sundays), we wrote a book together, we were dumb together. My point is that he was not just a random man that I was in love with, he was a part of my life and I helped him out a lot. True, he did go through cycles of being mean and then being sweet, and usually we met up because he needed me in some way, but it wasn't nothing (or so I keep telling myself).

Then he fell in love with one of those "hot chicks" who hacked into his Facebook account and spent three hours convincing me that she was him and that he was madly in love with me. I don't understand pranks; I mean, someone has fun laughing at things that are important to someone else (be it a policeman or school or me). Anyway, that was when the man I loved told me that I meant absolutely nothing to him. That hurt more than him telling me, three years ago, that he will never love me because I was ugly. I feel used. They say that time heals all wounds, but this one just gets more septic with every day that passes because every day that I see him, it just stabs deeper: "Yes, you really did mean nothing to him."

And I ask myself: What did I do wrong? Maybe I was too gullible. Maybe I was too nice. After all, the worse you treat someone, the more they like you. Maybe I should have been less upfront about how I felt. Maybe I should have spent more time at the gym. Maybe I should have treated him better. Maybe  he just did not need me anymore?

Scenario 3: The friend

I've had a multitude of friendships dissipate into thin air — people who I gave my all to under the title of "best friend." My dad always told me that there are no such things as true friends, just people who use you. He also said that all one has is their family. I never believed him. A friend, that I hardly keep in touch with due to some petty fight, told me that I was a hard person to hold down, and at the same time, she only remembered the mistakes I had made; whereas I had only remembered the good things I had done.

And then I asked myself: What did I do wrong? I don't know.

Tharuna Devchand

Every year for the past four years (this year marked the fourth and counting), Ryan and Austin Eilbeck of the DIY punk group Delay, as well as a few others, take on the task of organizing Berea Fest: a two-day event featuring more than 30 bands from around the United States who gather in the dining hall of St.Paul's to bust out everyone's favorite punk and folk tunes for an enthusiastic and appreciative crowd who've traveled far and wide to hear their favorite groups. Ryan once told me that the whole reason they started organizing shows, and later the fest, was because they were tired of being turned down by venues and wanted to create spaces where people could play for their friends and on their own terms.

It's an unusual event in the sense that the network of DIY groups around the country is closely knit although usually spread out, so organizing in one place is a rare occurrence.  

Those expecting a Bonnaroo or Pitchfork will be sorely disappointed.  Because Berea Fest isn't organized just for music, but to bring a community together — something you can feel in the groups who gather in the parking lot between sets to chat or the dedicated few who donate and cook vegan fare for weary bands who have traveled from opposite ends of the country to gather on the shores of Lake Erie.

I'm always disappointed that many tend to look at the punk scene with a mix of trepidation and romanticism- rejecting at the same time the exclusionary 'damned-be-all-attitude' of supposedly what it means to be "punk" (not entirely undeserved, and many of the self governing philosophies of the DIY punk movement do go against mainstream political and economic mind frames).

And yet looking around the tightly packed room, you start to notice something. Ghost Mice is finishing their set and, as everybody stands around, the feeling of solidarity is palpable. These aren't people who've come to see their favorite bands not to destroy equipment and not to start fights. They come not as fans, but as friends. And in the end, that's what Berea Fest is all about.

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

We’re worn down.  I’m worn down.  I dread my long weekends locked onto 3 East with A.  The staff meets weekly for debriefings and diagnose each other with compassion fatigue.  We veer between giving up on her and belief that she’s tough and will survive.  We’re horrified at our visceral responses to her – anger mainly – and surprised when our collective negative energy evaporates as she charms us with a joke or smile, some token of affection. 

She should be out having fun with friends, attending college, enjoying a loving family.  Instead she spends her time with us, binging, purging, cutting, committing desperate acts of near self-destruction, attention-grabbers.  Both victim and predator. 

In my better moments, I compare her to Tinkerbell; A. doesn’t stand a chance unless we believe in her.

She has a bad week.  She’s handcuffed and escorted by a Multnomah County sheriff’s deputy to court, where she’s civilly committed to 3 East for a period of six months.  An older man who fills the role of lover, who’s accustomed to their reciprocal use of each other, disappoints her by taking up with someone else, someone who isn’t hospitalized.  Her uncle doesn’t visit; her mother doesn’t call.  She’s been with us a month.  A commitment buys her – and us – some time.                  

One of the staff psychologists takes her for a walk on the quiet street in front of the hospital, for some fresh air and a smoke.  A. runs toward the busy intersection and darts out into traffic.  He runs after her and tackles her down; cars skid and slam on their brakes. 

That week I feel the prickly aftershocks of this incident.  The staff is vigilant but gives her space.  She’s off "constant."  I count the number of times she paces the length of the ward.  Seventeen laps equal one mile; she does twice that. 

My stomach muscles hurt, braced against threat.  The signs are there.  We take turns walking past her room.  I feel apprehension but not surprise when I hear the crash in A.’s room.    

She stands on a chair with a fragment of fluorescent light bulb that she’s broken out of its ceiling cage.  She slashes at her wrists.  Blood drips onto the floor.  I grab towels to apply pressure while two others take her down from the chair.  When we attempt to pry the glass from her hands, she puts the shards into her mouth and swallows.  A. slithers and writhes across a floor that glitters with fragments of glass.  Her mouth oozes blood; she bites at us.

"Code Green" echoes over the hospital speakers and trained staff arrives from all departments.  The emergency room nurses are there when A. loses consciousness and turns blue.  We have minor cuts and bruises and other deeper injuries that don’t show.

Closure is overrated, and in our line of work it’s elusive.  Sometimes I read about a former patient in the newspaper – usually bad news.  Or I see a photo of someone vaguely familiar poised on the Burnside Bridge.  Not knowing is my way of holding out hope.

A. is referred to the state hospital, but does not meet their criteria for admission. Her problem is behavioral; she isn’t psychotic.  She’s lucky; the state hospital is no place to get better.    

A. is discharged early at the end of May into a run of good weather.  She gets better. She gains weight; she hasn’t cut herself in a month; she discusses her behavior with seemingly mature insight.  I’m not sure her improvement has anything to do with us.  

In the next few months I hear rumors that A. is or has been in our emergency department after another suicide attempt.  I want to see her, but I don’t want her back on 3 East.  It’s another hospital’s turn.      

A year later I find a note taped to the clinical desk inviting us to A.’s memorial service.  There’s a phone number if we want additional information.  I don’t call.

Evelyn Sharenov

 According to The Jerusalem Post,

The Society for Defending Women's Rights in Saudi Arabia said the religious police arrested the two sisters, aged 19 and 21, thus putting their lives in danger.

Their brother shot them to death in front of their father when they left a women's shelter in Riyadh on July 5, according to Saudi news reports.

I have wasted lot of words on the way women are treated in Saudi Arabia. I say wasted because nothing ever changes there. It is the same, over and over again. Today there is this shameful killing, and tomorrow another woman will be held in her home and not allowed to pursue her goals, and the tale of Saudi women held hostage by the regime and culture goes on.

A ray of hope I found online: read this article and you will understand why. It is at Saudi Gazette. 

Bhumika Ghimire

Last Friday night she played the Bell House, a music venue found in the Gowanus part of Park Slope in Brooklyn. It's down a mostly deserted alley, lined with storage compartments and seemingly abandoned garage space. Seemingly a secret in itself, the place is actually a host of great local and national talent and variety. From holding beer competitions, to showcasing Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black's stand-up comedy routine, to booking indie-pop vets The Appleseed Cast and newcomers like Holly Miranda (of the Jealous Girlfriends), the Bell House usually isn't at a loss for entertaining. 

Most of the other bands that night (Animal Hands, Great Lakes, and The Brunettes) played on stage with more than one member. There's usually something about a full band that automatically creates a throbbing, dynamic appreciation for live music. Whether it's the drummer pouncing toward the back of the stage as the frontman looks on, or the bassist plucking away side by side with the lead guitarist wildly gyrating — in some respects, the more really is the better. 

Which brings me to Sharon's sparse set, where she and only she takes the stage with her lonesome guitar. Standing front and center, about a dozen spotlights shine in her direction, not only alluding to some kind of star quality, but also in a way blinding her a bit. "It's so bright up here, I can't really see or tell if there's anyone out there…are there people?" she said into the mic, half kidding, half serious. The singer-songwriter seemed shy by nature and often was very soft-spoken when talking in between her songs. Again, the smallness, or maybe meekness, showed itself. Her vulnerability was endearing, her fragility contagious.

The room itself was quiet throughout her set. We in the crowd even inched closer to the stage so that she would know we were there for her. Eyes were fixated on the way she'd lightly strum at her guitar and the way her neck would bend to the right and then to the left as she let out truly beautiful sounds, singing about love and growing to be independent. 

Michelle Geslani