In Memory of Spencer

I don't write about my personal life, often. Mostly because I don't have much of one. My dogs make up a good 90% of my day to day living, the rest is comprised of a combination of my general insanity, my family (and by extension my friends) and my work. I took myself out of the dating pool a few years ago and rarely look back. But with recent news about the (very likely drug related) death of Cory Monteith, it brought up some old wounds that I feel should be talked about.

On this blog in particular I come across as this care free guy, who laughs a lot and just charges ahead into life with out a single regret. And for the most part that's accurate. And while I like my life and don't feel like anything about it should be changed, there are more depths to me. There are pieces of my history that are not full of laughter.

When I first read about Cory Monteith's death, my first thought was “poor Lea Michelle.” And I had that thought because I knew in that moment exactly how she felt. Exactly. I don't talk about Spencer, I rarely mention his name any more and the few people who know the full story are always quick to keep other people from prying too hard. That's because there is a hole in my soul, left by the loss of someone I loved, who loved me, but was taken by drugs.

Spencer and I met in college. He was a Freshmen as I was a Junior. We met because I was sitting in my dorm room one night watching TV with Pepper crashing on my bed (we lived on the same floor.) I had my door open, as was the custom of that particular dorm, and I happened to notice a very tall, very slender man with a six inch mohawk and a Matrix style coat stride pass. I cocked my head to the side and rushed out of my seat.

I bounded into the hallway, and shouted at the departing figure. “Hey! I think we should know one another.”

He was walking with another punk-looking fellow who was several inches shorter, and heavier built then he was. But the mohawked man turned and looked back at me. It was the first time I ever saw Spencer's smile.

He came back down the hall to me holding out his hand. We shook.

“I'm Spencer.” He said.

“Dean.” I replied.

We must have looked strange standing there as we were. He was 6'4” built skinny with long limbs and equally long fingers. His grip was firm though, and his smile genuine and caused wrinkles to form in the corner of saphire blue eyes. His hair was an ash blonde that was threatening to get darker at the base. I was short (very short) and built with broad shoulders and a sturdy frame thanks to an abudance of Irish blood. I had dyed my red hair black. While he was pale enough to ensure he spent most of time indoors, I had a deep tan from a summer spent trying to get myself killed in the mountains and on the back of a horse.

“So you think we should get to know eachother?” He asked, raising a brow as he looked down at me.

“Yeah.” I replied. “It's the Mohawk. I like it.”

He grinned at me. And it was the start of a friendship that would come to define us both, but especially me, in ways that years later I still can not acurately describe.

I have memories of Spencer that are filled with so much laughter that it hurts my sides just to remember them. I have memories of Spencer filled with so much passion that it overwhelms me. And memories that are so full of pain it ruins me to still have them. He is, to this day, one of the few people in the world who have ever made me question my own intelligence, he was that smart. We were friends, we were sometimes lovers, we were two people who shared something that made sure no matter what else was going on in our lives, we at least knew we belonged to one another.

Our relationship waxed and waned, but neither of us seemed to mind that we would come together and temporarily drift apart. We had no verbal agreement to one another beyond the understanding that if I needed him, he'd be there, and vice versa. Most of our mutual friends believed that one day we would eventually get married, settle down, live a strange life of artists and geniuses. But all their bets and knowing looks when we sat together on the couch watching the same movies and tv shows over and over again would never come to see validation.

In late September of 2009 I made a phone call that would change everything. I called Spencer to confirm a date we had set up for the following evening and to clarify if he or I was going to drive. But the person who answered his cell wasn't Spencer. Instead it was his father, Dennis, a man I had only met briefly but had listened to long hours of rants from Spencer about his behavior. But it wasn't the arrogant drunk on the phone with me, he sounded tired and resigned. And as I listened to him explain what had happened I stopped moving.

I had been out running errands with my mum, helping her pick up a couch she had just bought, with my truck. And I stood in the middle of the store with a look on my face that made even the salesman take notice. I had tears in my eyes as Dennis explained that two days ago Spencer had been admitted to the ICU at St. Al's.

Spencer had been at a party with some of his friends, the friends he never let me meet, that he kept me away from. He had taken something and had lost conciousness. No one was certain how long he had been out, no one had noticed that he had stopped breathing. When someone did notice they had paniced and called Dennis first, instead of 911. When they paramedics did arrive, his heart wasn't beating. They managed to get it restarted, but it stopped twice more on the ride to the hospital. They had him stabilized but he was comatose.

I could barely get out a sound to acknowledge I had heard him. I hung up with Dennis after getting the information for his hospital room and turned to look at my mother. I don't cry often, I never have been that kind of guy, even as a little, little kid. I just wasn't prone to outward displays of vulnerability. But I had tears coming down my face when I looked my mother in the eye and said. “It's Spencer...”

He was in a coma for 10 days, during which he coded twice more. His body survived, but the man I had known and loved did not. What is left of Spencer now is a shell, medicated and brain damaged to the point he can't even hold a conversation. I remember coming to see him after he had woken up, his frame thrashing as full body muscle spasms racked him. I remember wanting to see him and know there was hope, to feel like his parents (who insisted he keep being revived) had no done the unthinkable to him and robbed him of who he was.

I walked into his hospital room and couldn't move when I saw him. He trashed around, his body contorting as it fought withdrawls and painful spasms. And when I came closer and I looked at him the man who looked back at me wasn't my friend. It wasn't the man who had dyed his hair pink because I told him it would be unexpected. It wasn't the man who had let a young kid poke his mohawk and warned him never to put his fingers in light sockets because that was the result. It wasn't the man who had quoted Firefly word-for-word while we watched it for the 100^th time. It wasn't the man who had looked me in the eye and told me he didn't deserve me, that he loved me and had from the moment we had met.

The man who stared back at me was a shell, was angry and hurt, and confused. And he looked at his mother with a look in his eyes that said only betrayal. And when I said his name he looked at me , he looked me right in the eye and I knew. He was slipping, whatever of him was still in there would eventually be destroyed by pain, that his parents had done the worst to him and robbed him of his mind while keeping his life. The nurse who was in charge of his primary care saw it, she noticed the way he looked at me and pulled me aside before I left. She questioned me about what might have happened, and I told her I didn't know.

He had been trying to get clean. He had been working at getting off drugs, quitting drinking and smoking. He had a thousand vices (most of which were the reason we never settle down, he refused to let me hitch my wagon to his sinking ship, as he put it.) But he had recently been trying to fight back against them, and had credited a desire to finally do right by me with his reasoning. But addiction is a tricky disease, and his parents had certainly set a wonderful example (his father a raging alcoholic, his mother spent most of his childhood checked out on valium and pain medication.)

“Do you think this could have been intentional?” The nursed asked me.

I must have looked at her harshly because she flinched a little when I stated: “No.”

She took a breath and asked again. “Are you sure? Because according to his records he has attempted it before...”

I knew about the previous attempts, during his turbulant teen years. I knew about his cutting. I knew about the cocaine. The downers. The uppers. The Alcohol. The cigerattes. We had no secrets, only promises.

“He wouldn't. He made a promise.” I told her.

“I know it can be hard, but ...” She tried.

“No. You don't understand. He promised me. He swore to me he wouldn't, that he wouldn't do that to me. He promised that if he felt like that he would call. He swore it. He never broke a promise to me, ever. He wouldn't have started with this one. He had problems, but he never broke a promise.”

The eventual ruling was officially listed as an accidental overdose. And I stood at his bed side through physical therapy, speech therapy, and every other kind of therapy you can imagine. All the while feeling like a traitor because I knew what he would have wanted. I knew that this was not how he would have wanted to live. When he was released he attempted to kill himself several times before they drugged him to the point he wouldn't. And I watched as he left me forever. I watched as he was numbed from the inside out and all that remains is a shell walking around, mumbling... and one who could look at me and show me nothing.

When you lose someone like that, it creates a hole inside of you. Spencer's body might still be alive, but the man I knew has been dead for several years now. And there is no one to blame, but him. I have a hole where my soul mate was ripped away from me. Because he made a choice, and it killed him. There is no peace with it, like can come after losing a loved one to a prolonged illness or old age. There is no drunk driver to be mad at. There is no higher power to blame for making a body that was faulty and riddled with a time bombing lying in wait. There is no one to direct your grief and anger at the loss of this person at, except the person themselves.

You go through the motions of moving on, you put camoflage over the hole and you find a way to live again. But there is always a hole there, inside of you there is always a piece missing. Any one you love after will be competing with a ghost, and you can't help it, no matter how hard you try. Their memory is alive inside of you, always. And you love them more then you did before because all you have is what you remember, and you remember all those good things like they are gilded and carved of precious stone. And most of the time you're okay, you're alive and well and you laugh and you have friends and you even find other people you could love. But then something happens and reveals the hole through the camoflage, and you remember how it used to feel to be whole. And you feel that hole there inside of you and you long to feel more complete.

So when I read about Cory Monteith passing, my first thought was about poor Lea Michelle, because I knew what road lay ahead of her. Because I know what she is feeling. I know the hole that was just made inside of her, will haunt her forever. And I know that any time she reads about someone else dying under similar circumstances she will be reminded of that hole. No matter how many years go by, it will always be there, an empty space inside that leaves an indescribable aching.

I don't know if I can do my memories of Spencer justice. I don't know that my memories of him aren't clouded and tainted by the rose color of missing someone. I don't know if I'll ever be able to explain what we shared to any one who didn't witness it. I know that someday I will have to try, maybe tell the story as if it were happening to someone else. And maybe this entry is the start of that.

Some Days Are Good Days

DOMA was struck down today. It was ruled unconstitutional. When I called my mother to give her the news, she started to cry. My mother who has stood witness to the women’s liberation movement of the 70’s, who marched in Alabama. Who headed committees in high school to ban segregation. She cried because she got to bare witness to the Supreme Court “No, you can’t treat her gay son like that."

Last night I watched as Senator Wendy Davis and all those supporting her fought to protect their people from some objective form of morality. I watched live streaming through my computer as an entire court room audience made certain the world heard their voices. 

And today, today it feels good to be apart of a democracy. It feels like we’ve just taken a collective step forward. For women. For the LGBTQ Community. For everyone. And yes there are still battles to be fought, the war is far from over. But we won these battles. And we still have a lot to fix (the voting rights act SNAFU for one); but today, today I am celebrating the wins. Not because the loses are any less important, but because the victories, however small, are proof we can eventually win. And that is worth celebrating, that is worth remembering.

Pine Nuts

Well, this is the point at which I guess I tell you a bit about myself. I suppose I should have maybe done this as my first post, but I am non-traditional if anything.

So as most of you know my name is Dean Ocean, a lot of people (especially online) call me Pine. There is a long drawn out story involving Chris Pine and the fact I look almost nothing like him as to why this is. I am a writer. But I also train dogs until this writing career thing I have takes off and can fill in all the gaps in my income.

I grew up in Northern Idaho on a family own and run horse farm. Even though I was raised here in the States in the quintessential farm boy style, I was actually raised by Brits. As a result I have a very British sensibility about life and everything else. I was a rodeo stud, and played baseball up until High School. I was actually raised to be a horse trainer, and worked doing such through college.

In college I initially studied Criminal Justice with the intent of going on to grad school and becoming a Criminologist and working for the FBI. In short, I wanted to be Fox Mulder. But as time went on it became increasingly obvious I wasn't enough of a people person to tolerate being a cop. I did however have a talent for writing. I once wrote a 9 page (was assigned to be 10 pages minimum) term paper in the span of 4 hours and received a 97% on it (I wasn't docked for the short pages, but rather a few grammatical mistakes in terms of commas and such.) Growing up I had always been the kid with the imagination overload. My action figures rode horses and went on epic adventures crossing genres (Star Wars figures often played with Star Trek and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.) It didn't really surprise any one when I announced I was switching majors and going to become a writer.

My father staunchly disapproved. He didn't think being an artist was a suitable way to make a living. He was a failed actor and felt the same fate would befall me, I assured him I was far too good a writer to fail. Little did I know my Peter Pan Complex would get in my way quite often.

I ended up studying creative writing, and just to make sure I was extra unemployable in the real world I emphasized Screenwriting.

I alternate between down right arrogance and crippling insecurity. I am an introvert who masquerades as an extrovert just to make sure no one has a clue what I'm really thinking. I say what I mean, and I tend to mean what I say. I'm not a funny man, but I often do absurd things.

I have five dogs. They are the single most driving force in my life, both as motivation and aggravation. There are two cats, one of which only has one eye. The other of whom is increasingly strange. I also have a betta fish named Alan Tudyk and two frogs named Elwood and Whitehead. Oh the dogs are Nutsy, Bodie, Sissy, Sully and Banshee. They range in ages from 15years to 1 year old and vary in sizes from 47 to 85 pounds. The cats are Hawkeye and Cpt. Jack Harkness, the weird one insists on a title.

I currently don't have any horses to my name, but frequently ride other people's here and there. My favorite hobbies currently include long distance biking, hiking, camping and swimming in natural ponds, lakes and rivers. I am also a fan of anything that could potentially get me killed, which explains my recent undertaking of the sport bouldering (I'm not very good at it, this leads Pepper to a very understandable concern for my well being.)

The most important humans in my life are my mum, who lives close and is a constant support. And my roommate Pepper. Along with my closest group of friends who alternate between finding my charming and exasperating when I turn into a hermit and refuse to be social in favor of spending my nights in front of my computer writing. I took a vow of celibacy three years ago a heart break left me soulless and heartless. I occasionally take a dance into the world of dating, but usually quickly back out of it again. I enjoy being on my own, with only my dogs to answer to (and Cpt. Jack Harkness when he decides he's starving.) I spend as much outside as I do in front of my computer, and not enough time sleeping.

And that is basically me, Dean “Pine” Ocean in a nutshell. I'm nothing fancy, but I am sometimes amusing with alternating rounds of delusional genius and paralyzing insecurity. Questions? Comments? Concerns? 

I am also freakishly obsessed with the Zombie Apocalypse. This is a self defense mechanism as the only thing more scary than zombies, is spiders. And no one, as of yet, has invented a suitable way to deal with  a spider apocalypse. And with that thought I will not sleep, ever again. 

On Piercings and Cellmates

Have I ever told you guys about the time I got my nose pierced?

Well seeing as I've only written two blog posts for far, that's a no. So for this entry I will tell you the story of how it was I came to have a nose ring.

The first thing one needs to know about me is that when I get an idea in my head, the easiest solution is to let me run with it. Usually if the idea is impractical, or improbable I will reach a certain point where I come to this realization myself and abandon the quest. Or I will simply run myself head long into trouble. Such was the case with deciding I wanted to get my nose pierced.

During High School and my early years of college I went through a psuedo-goth phase. Now-a-days they call this "emo", but back then it was simply called 'goth'. I was a lightweight goth, mostly just all black and I died my hair. Actually dying my hair wasn't even part of this dark and depressing motif I was cultivating, dying my hair has been standard practice for me since I was in Junior High and I realized that having red hair interfered with my ability to look like a bad ass.

I was almost 20 years old when the idea struck me I wanted to pierce my nose. I already had multiple piercings in my ears. And wanted something on my face. I didn't like the look of the labret and I wasn't keen on letting any one with sharp implements muck around near my eyes, so an eye brow piercing was out. But my nose seemed nice and expendable.

I had just spent the previous summer living in the Central American Jungles of Belize. I was feeling pretty much untouchable. So I declared with great conviction I was going to get my nose pierced. And like a smart guy, I decided this was probably a job for a professional (unlike the first time I pierced my ears...)

I was joined by long time friend Sara. Sara's mother and my mother are best friends, as a result the two of us were practically raised like siblings. She remains to this day a good friend, and since she already had her nose pierced, I figured she knew more about it then I did. We went across town to the tattoo shop that had done my tattoo the previous fall just before school had started. But as it turned out they had no openings for getting a nose piercing that day. This should have been a sign.

What I did not realize about getting my nose pierced was that it wasn't like having someone at a jewelry stop punch a gun into your ears. Instead there was a whole complicated process involving sharp needles, large tubes of metal and disinfectants. I should have realized when the tattoo shop didn't have time, that I was in for more then I was bargaining for.

But they did have openings at the shop they also owned downtown. It was a smaller shop, and manned by some one, but owned by the same people. I felt this was good enough a recommendation from my tattoo artist and off we went. The first thing about this shop that was different, was that it was considerably smaller. About half the size of my light breezy, open tattoo parlor off Broadway, this shop was cramped and the walls papered with drawings, pictures and posters. While my tattoo parlor looked clean and sterile, this one was dark, hazy and like something about of a movie in which the tattoo shop owner has information regarding a particular drug shipment but won't hand it out till the main character's buddy gets a humiliating tattoo on his bicep with a word misspelled.

I was not swayed.

At this point I was so hell bent to see this through, I doubt a hurricane could have moved me from my path.

I filled out the paperwork, which was more extensive then you would think (another sign I probably should have reconsidered). I got into the chair and then I met Mike.

Now with a name like Mike, it seems harmless enough. I knew a few Mikes, they were nice enough guys. I had thought the scrawny stringy haired man behind the counter would do the actual piercing. I was wrong. This guy was not Mike. Mike was not actually a man, in fact. Mike was a giant disguised as a man. Hagrid's long lost tattooed head to toe bald cousin. And yes, his head was tattooed.

I leaned back in the chair, which looked surprisingly like a dentists chair (another sign I should have just walked away, all dentists are sadists.) But I was going to do it. I was determined. I had my quest. I would not rest till my nose was full of metal. Of course my resolve and bravery faltered when I got a look at the thing that would be used to pierce my nose.

Now, when I say I'm afraid of needles, that's an understatement. The actual words I should use are "I turn into a batshit crazy man who will stab you with a plastic fork if you come near me with a needle." I have a genuine needle phobia. Not the sort of "oh needles bother me, but I can tough it." This is the sort of phobia that when I was four I dislocated a nurse's knee cap while she tried to give me my school vaccination. When I was a teenager I once ripped out an IV while in the hospital and tried to run away (only to be tackled by a large male nurse.) When I was sixteen I took a round house swing at a nurse who tried to draw my blood for a very necessary blood test. That is the level of awe inspiring terror I feel about needles. And since I have no natural flight response to speak of, my first instinct is to fight. And I punch hard. I'm not a very big guy, but it usually takes two or three people to draw my blood.

What they use to pierce your nose is nothing short of a medieval torture device. In fact I am pretty damn sure it was developed by the Nazis. It's a needle, but unlike most needles that are short, contained and encased in plastic; this one was about six inches long and curved. On top of that it was big enough I could actually see the opening at the end of it. And they expected me to let Behemoth Mike put that in my face? Oh hell no.

I start to feel the panic rising. My pulse begins to race, and my body feels like a live wire about to twitch it's self into oblivion. I want to get up and bolt. I want to grab the nearest weapon and defend myself from Behemoth Mike and his giant needle of doom. And I would have, except Mike began to talk to me about how important it was to hold still. He explained in rather graphic detail that if I flinch while he's working, I could lose my brain. Actually it wasn't that extreme, but at the time he made it sound like any little twitch and I'd be lobotimized.

In retrospect I think this was a scare tactic he used to drive home the point. The truth was he didn't really need to use it. Because Mike was a giant. And his arms were approximately the size of my skull in width. And as he loomed over me in that dentist chair I surrendered to the instinct in the back of ones head that says some people should just not be messed with. Mike was the kind of guy that looked like he used his prison cell mate as a shovel.

I held so still I am pretty sure I stopped my own heart. And there was pain. I had forgotten that little part of my adventure - that your nose is sensitive and it will hurt when you pierce it with a giant metal tube. But I am proud to say I survived, I did not punch Mike (which is a good thing because I'm pretty sure he would have used me as a shovel to bury my own body when he was finished with me if I had.) I got my nose piercing. And then I went and got a giant ice cream cone and held it against my face; because it frakking hurt.