Thanks for the Venom
Never have I ever: spoken about this. A long-form mixtape-memoir journey involving death, self-discovery, and my true favorite band: My Chemical Romance.
The G Note.
I know you immediately heard “Welcome to the Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance.
Many memes showcase the reactions of reformed emo kids as their office-hanging selves lose their fucking minds when it’s played in any capacity. It immediately teleports them back to a time of adolescent aggression that replaces their monotonous lives into a moment of expression. To get out the pent up anger they can’t scream out because their wall neighbor wouldn’t appreciate it. To feel a deep surge of energy to thrash themselves around like they were in the wildest mosh pit ever. To release repressed sadness.
That one song is an aphrodisiac.
Welcome to the Black Parade
The rest of the songs created by the band behind the unofficial national anthem of the emos are a medicine cabinet of antidote. It’s been in constant usage for 11 years.
My Chemical Romance is one of my favorite bands. Yeah, I know it’s very “unoriginal” however, their lyrical content, motifs, and theatrics have been a saving grace.
What I’m saying is, I always told people when asked the dreaded question: “what’s your favorite band?” that is was Fall Out Boy or the Jonas Brothers. Both in which, I’m a huge fan-girl for (I said what I said). So, when James Cassar wrote a very thoughtful, heartful newsletter about “Infinity on High”, and I was linked to another excellent perspective piece by John Balzy and Lindsy Carrasquillo discussing the impact of this album, of Fall Out Boy as a whole; their lives, professional paths and the political activism embedded within each carefully crafted, often misheard verse, I was compelled to do the same. Perhaps not about Infinity but “Folie a Deux.”
Sitting in my comfy baby-blue office chair I got off of Bookoo with some seltzer water, I attempted to write it out. Establishing the opening scene, some personal backings to the significance of the album, and so on.
Internally though, it didn’t feel freeing. It felt like I was conforming to a trend for the sake of Fall Out Boy being a popular discussion of that day. As I pushed myself to write further about them, the story began to evolve into one which I’ve never divulged to anybody. These words finally wrapped around my fingers to click the correct keys to correlate emotional wreckage to the personal being.
Wow, big generic mystery, right? And why should *I* care about YOUR secretive story?
Simply: you don’t. But you’re reading this newsletter for some God-forsaken reason, so you might as well continue to kill some time during the mind-numbing COVID Quarantine.
Back to the “favorite band” question.
One of my friends at work, a true ride-or-die-type dude, even if we can’t discuss a certain band without having a mildly heated argument in front of our other friends about them, went on my professional website. On my bio, I said my favorite concert was the Fall Out Boy Wintour, Chicago show.
“I think you should change that,” my friend said to me.
“Why?”
“Well, I thought My Chemical Romance was your favorite band after everything.”
Suddenly I was thrown into a large identity crisis about my responses for the last decade, and why I never threw them into my answers.
Last December I made a trip that was almost like my "coming of age" moment for myself. The entire rising action portion felt like a montage while the climax, falling action, the subsequent conclusion placed me in an LA flick about some young chick trying to “find herself,” or some type of similar plot.
I can’t lie; I fucking love those types of films. Anyway:
The rationale I used was it being a 25th birthday present for myself since being a December baby means you usually get skipped over in celebrations because Christmas is speed skiing right behind you. The Halloween announcement made me revert to my high school self with equitable anticipation similarly shivering through my body as to when Fall Out Boy announced their come back on Q101 after I had slipped on black ice and smacked my head on it while getting in my grandpa’s car to head to another day of high school.
That announcement was The Return.
Backdrop for My Chemical Romance at their LA show at The Shrine Expo Hall, Dec. 20, 2019. Photo: Lizzie Baumgartner.
Fake Your Death
I’d like to stop here for one second to say: this is the beginning of that deep, dark, mysterious story I’ve been longing to tell you. There are heavy discussions and detail about death, dying, depression, and other mental illnesses. If you feel uncomfortable, skip to the end. Or click out, take care of yourself.
And we begin.
My Chemical Romance is a band that many young individuals listened to. When you're an out of place misfit, dealing with new social situations, feeling misguided and wandering, or encounter any type of terrible event, there was a song by them to help you cope.
Like many of those kids, "Helena" was the first song I listened to.
The popular song wasn’t found through the association of a Fall Out Boy or Evanescence tune, but it came from this search of Google:
"Songs about people dying."
It was one of the first that popped up. I watched that YouTube video on repeat all day and night. Further research mentioned how this song was written by frontman Gerard Way about his grandmother’s death. I felt bonded, accepted, understood.
Because that was was the day I was told my great grandmother had died.
The Kids From Yesterday
Death is comforting. There's simple solace that rests upon it. To be settled down, muted, dimmed, done. It’s one of the few constants, a guarantee, really, in everyone’s lives.
We don't like it. The aching of never conversing with that person, the inability to touch them, run alongside doing various adventures, whatever it is, it's concluded. A brief moment of uncertainty creeps in until you become entangled with a waltz from Father Death. When he'll stop, nobody knows.
Inbetween staying at my great grandparents, being at home with my parents and maternal grandparents, and various aunties, I went to pre-school, as any little kid would. Throughout my time at the at-home institution, lead by Mrs. Summers, I painted dinosaurs, learned how to read my favorite Barbie books, grew a harsh aversion to apples and peanut butter, and connect with other children.
One of those children was Karen.
Whenever I think back to her, I only recall her dressed in all white with a long dark wig she wore once. Her skin was nearly translucent yet she glimmers a pure aura in my mind. You see, leukemia is a bitch. It took her out of school for the short time I knew her. My last interaction with her was during some holiday party. She looked sick, withered. In other words: abnormal for a child. She had to sit and rest through most of the party, she couldn't get up and run around with myself and the other kids.
I simply was happy to see her.
After a while, I’m unsure of the time length, my mom told me Karen had "gone to Heaven." We were invited to her funeral at a large, beautifully adorned church near where we attended school. I don’t remember if I cried or not, I do remember signing the guest book with my name in my newly learned cursive, though. The enormous church was filled. My mom took me, and we didn't go to the burial because I had swimming lessons still to attend at the local college.
I slipped into the pool, late. I apologized to my swimming buddies, "my friend died and I was at the church, but she's in Heaven now. I'm sorry I’m late."
Their reactions, from what I remember, was full of confusion. These were other six-year-olds after all. During the "playtime" at the end of the lesson, I held my nose and dunked myself deep into the 14-feet-deep pool. Without goggles, I forced my tiny eyes wide open.
There was no noise. Pure silence and deep turquoise-chlorine blue enveloped me like a weighted blanket. I thought of Karen; was this what she was now experiencing? No more pain, wigs, missing school; simply weightless existence with unlimited space to roam.
I felt at peace.
Cemetery Drive
What's the proper way to handle grief?
Adult Swim's "5 Stages of Grief" clip was used as the primary explanation during my sophomore health class.
Denial is the first step. Where you don’t want to accept the reality of the situation. Anger is next. What else are you going to do? You probably aren’t able to reverse death. He’s leading you in this dance. Which leads to bargaining for relief that won’t manifest. Hop onto the depression train from there to begin the ride into the town of acceptance.
Excuse me, but what time does the train come into the station? So far, it’s been 11 years for me.
There's no real time frame. Without proper care, guidance through the treacherous trails of death mourning other than Father Death himself, inevitably you'll stumble into the brush. Or encounter a dangerous substance or person. Maybe you simply sit and refuse to arise to keep trekking on a seemingly eternal pathway. Your feet bleed from never resting; wearing the soles down to the rubber nubs in a silly attempt to speed up the processing time. The clerk glazing through your emotional timeshare though, tells you to go back and do it again, you missed something.
Vampire Money
Most beloved Pitchfork ran a review piece about Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge a couple of weeks before their return show in LA.
A rare, glowing 8.2 rating. This wasn’t a traditional interview that it touted on Twitter, it was a “deep-dive” looking at the history behind MCR.
“Today, My Chemical Romance are ubiquitous—a meme, a cult, an aesthetic. Though the term “emo” has long stuck to the band, their mix of vaudevillian pomp and four-on-the-floor punk progressions was more indicative of a new direction for the sub-genre.” -Arielle Gordon, Pitchfork
In high school, when I was still on-and-off my ex I dragged along for seven years, I found an interview from MTV Backstage in 2004 with the frontman, Gerard Way. Way, when asked to described the genre of his music said it was “violent-pop.”
Both sound about right. The early 2000s brought dramatic performances with guyliner required.
The Ghost of You
Next to slip away was my Grandma Joan, or Grandma Puke as we lovingly called her. She gained the nickname after she threw up in a Steak n’ Shake. Which is why I always refer to the run-down restaurant chain as such. It’s a term on endearment, I swear.
Grandma Puke had breast cancer and complications from her decades worth of cigarette smoking. She was my dad’s mother, and they were incredibly close. Her death rattled him greatly-he’s never fully coped with it. It’s been 17 years; I was eight years old. Upset, nervous, and ultimately unsure how to process the death; I don’t believe I ever figured out how to fully do so. I got my first job ever at Caribou Coffee thanks to my story I told about how Grandma Puke would take me to the no-longer-in-Illinois coffeeshop where we hung out eating chocolate coins.
Later that year my Uncle Dom passed away from complications with his heart. Another uncle died a few months after, but I didn’t know him as well. A few years ago, one of my brothers’ best friends completed suicide. Our family was close to him, and once again, similar emotions were summoned. (Please know if you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, are depressed, anxious, etc. please explore these resources and/or call 1-800-273-8255)
No one truly guided me towards emotional rationing; sure, people die, but why am I seeing it so much? Where are the adults to explain to me about death? How am I supposed to “build a wall” against my grief to move on in life? I did that last part pretty well on an unconscious level, which good for baby Lizzard figuring out a coping mechanism she understood the best, but here we are, together in this long-form memoir newsletter, debunking the problems incurred from this mindset.
But you know who’s always been there in these death walks? Yeah, Father Death himself. There’s probably some psychology breakdown to why my alignment with death and feel secured by it is as such, but I’m not a therapist and most of my friends don’t have a Masters in it to try to diagnose the full problem I have. Don’t worry; the therapist I have now is trying to do that, which is why I’ve finally gathered enough courage to weave this story.
“The hardest part of this is leaving you.”
Quite obviously, the build-up is to my great grandparents, in the terms of influential deaths I’ve strolled with. I mentioned at the top of this long as shit newsletter that many family members lived or took care of me as a kid. Collectivism is great, to be honest; traits, characteristics that would go unknown, or not nurtured can be glorified early on due to many personalities being in such close range. When I was born, my dad had an accident that left him in a walker for most of my early Lizzard-person life. My mom worked, so did my grandparents, whom we lived with. So, who else to take care of this big-headed lizard baby? My great grandparents.
Photo of my great grandparents, Charlie and Manuela Ramirez, holding big-headed baby Lizzard. 1994/1995.
Cool, that’s sorted out.
They lived on the south side of the city in the Garfield Ridge neighborhood. Every Sunday we went to breakfast at a small, square brick building right over the train tracks on Archer Ave. I was a picky eater as a child. One of those mac n’ cheese, chicken tenders, and pop ONLY diets. Breakfast didn’t bode well with me but there was an alternative: cottage fries with ketchup and chocolate milk. My great-grandma, Manuela, got eggs, fried or basted, I’m not too sure which, with bacon and hashbrowns. Extra mixed jelly packets on the side that subsequently found a way into her purse, and a bottle of Cholula.
Next stop was the flea market at the VFW hall right across the way. We’d make a stop at the corner store pharmacy and pick up essentials and baseball bats with gumball balls candy for the short drive home. My great-grandpa, Charles, was quiet but taught me how to play the only card game I know how to play: war. He was a World War II Navy veteran, but he never talked about his experiences. During the winter, I always remember him wearing a rolled-up black beanie. The exact one the DIY fuckbois wear nowadays.
At 13, this picture-perfect life crashed.
Great Grandpa died. He had pancreatic cancer. I wasn’t allowed to go to their home to see him because I was deemed “too young” by my auntie, who was a hospice care director. That’s a word I truly detest. It’s a faux comfort mechanism that mandates death is arising. There’s an end in sight, like it or not. Hospice is Father Death manifested into service of gross care. Whenever I hear that word now, I shutter and become upset.
He was cremated. His beige recliner was still in his room, which was only a step away from my bedroom in their house. I swore on multiple nights I heard it rocking back and forth. Perhaps though, it was my imagination in an attempt to fill my sadness.
“But does anyone notice, there’s a corpse in this bed?”
It takes nine months for a baby to develop during pregnancy. Unless you’re the Twilight vampire baby. Nine months was the length of time my great-grandma lived after great-grandpa passed away. A one-two-hit to the fucking face. By this time, I was 14 years old. Even though I went to school out in the western suburbs, every weekend I went back to the south side to their home. The one weekend I didn’t, I went to a sleepover. The next day, my parents told me Great Grandma was on hospice. This time, I fought to see her.
My mom brought me. The entire memory re-runs like a lucid, acid dream in an indie horror flick.
The bright white kitchen had vignette effects; the main focal point was oversaturated with fluorescent yellow and the rest, washed out. No colors in the traditionally bronze fruit wallpaper, or the bright yellow plastic strainer. The narrow, one-person hallway to her room was darkened similarly to how an abandoned hospital has shadowy corners which means something ominous is lurking behind. Her room had the windows open and it was nearing sunset. Tubes linked to her nose and mouth were blurred out by the golden glow emitting from her old touch-lamp. She had her pink fleece blanket pulled up. She seemed upset that I was there.
“Who let the baby in her room?!” I heard one of my auntie’s yell. I’m baby, literally, in this situation.
I laid down next to her in her tiny twin bed and fell asleep while holding her hand. Just as she had slept next to me, or at the end of my bed most nights for the last 14 years, to make sure I was alright.
She passed the next day.
“Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead … I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone,”
The first time I cried, I mean full on balled my eyes out, at a show, was at the Fall Out Boy Wintour show. They played “Chicago Is So Two Years Ago”, my favorite song by them, for the first time in years. My best friend recorded me scream-ugly-crying the entire time. Since then, I discovered myself allowing more tears to fly down during certain songs like “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie or “Car Radio” by Twenty-One Pilots (so sorry to Brian and Naquesha for dealing with me during these mini cry sessions).
Is that healing? I’m not sure, but it’s not the norm for me. The level of drowning oneself in puddles of tears occurred a few more times; tagged with drunkenness for some, although, in LA for My Chemical Romances’ show, I didn’t experience tears so much until the end.
Truly, I thought I would start crying when they dropped the curtain and kicked off “I’m Not Okay” or went into “Vampires Will Never Hurt You (I Promise).” Yet, it wasn’t until they pulled out “Famous Last Words” when all the repressed fear, anger, anxiety, hatred, tumbled out. It was that awful dry-heaving, Kim Kardashian level ugly crying in the middle of literally thousands of fucking people only six feet or so from the stage. Attempting to scream-cry was nearly impossible; not to be melodramatic yet again, I have to admit: I almost fell to my knees. Which, would have been stupid dangerous, because I was so deeply overwhelmed; baptized in the emo cathedral in the name of the patron saint of switchblade fights walking arm-to-arm with the Lady of Sorrows with the message embossed across the altar: “keep running.”
“Oh my god, I found you! Oh my god, you’re crying!” my friend who came with me to this mecca-esqe trip said as she emerged from the pit. My cheeks felt blood-red-hot; none of my more recent friends have seen me in such a vulnerable state, especially in public; she hugged me though and we went on with the rest of the show.
I felt cleansed, baptized by a purifying strobe light that zapped through me to fill in the broken bits with radiating energy.
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Congrats! You kept reading. Let’s wrap this up, killjoys.
So Long and Goodnight
Father Death is an expected companion for all. Like it or not, he treks in quietly, wipes his shoes at the door to peacefully carry the soul out. To where? Who knows really. Supernatural existence could be the answer, or nothingness, God or the Devil himself; it’s all radio static. Searching for resolutions, alleviation from nauseating flashbacks, or simple solace to slither through life is all I ever sought. Concluding that Father Death and I are forever entangled in retroactive matrimony: for better or worse, till my death do us mold together, carries a sick melancholy-comforting revelation.
In a 2005 Kerrang! interview with Way, he discusses self-hate which accompanied him often and how “Helena” allowed him to work away towards personal affection:
“I have had a lot of self-hate,” he says. “The most recent example was the song ‘Helena’. It’s a really angry open letter to myself. It’s about why I wasn’t around for this woman who was so special to me, why I wasn’t there for the last year of her life. Self-hate is always a big part of the lyrics. I’ve felt like that all my life. I don’t know why but I’ve always hated myself. Hopefully that self-hate is growing into something else now, hopefully it’s grown into caring about myself and wanting to stay alive.” -Kerrang! Magazine, author unknown
Perhaps there is no true way to convey how terrible it was-still, is to cope with losing my great grandparents. An easy explanation is: having both of your parents/guardians die. Rounding back to my “collectivism is great” comment; it is although, the negative attributes lie within the dug-out tomb, an urn filled with ash; the immense heartache that can never be fully re-stitched, restored to its original edition. Pros and cons to everything, surprisingly.
Photo of Charlie and Manuela Ramirez showing off their hard styles. 1970s/80s?
Those of us in high school who proclaimed “music saved my life” may cringe at that; along with the fake tattoos we drew on ourselves grouped with the shirts with similar sayings, you aren’t wrong. In many avenues, My Chemical Romance for myself, at least, provided mutual feelings about losing loved ones, being an outcast, or simply finding your true self. As much as I love Fall Out Boy, I have to credit My Chemical Romance with reigniting a faulting flame of purpose to explore the universe, its crevices of mysterium, wonderment, the remedy to cure this hurt and wholly accept myself; ultimately, saving my life.
“We’ll love again, and laugh again, we’ll cry again and we’ll dance again, but it’s better off this way,”
You can cry along to all the songs, in order, mentioned in this piece on this handy-dandy playlist: