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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Kathleen Hagen

September 10, 2017

When I take inspiration from films, I usually try to reference them in my titles. In this case, my imagery draws heavily from the 1960's French film "Blood and Roses." It's a mesmerizing tale of vampires and unrequited love, and it unfolds like a painting has come to life, or rather, various paintings have been woven together to create a visual masterpiece that is equal parts horror, love story, tragedy and art.

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You can feel our heroine Carmella unraveling as the story progresses, and a doctor's commentary raises just enough questions that we can never say for sure which events are real, and which are products of Carmella's deteriorating mind and childlike imagination. Carmella's unraveling is not unlike the story of Kathleen Hagen, so it seemed like a perfect fit. Kathleen's mind was in a state of decay and illusion — a feeling that I am acutely familiar with.

I knew immediately that I wanted to build a set in a state of decay and shoot in the woods. The problem I had was representing that state of mind in the style of pin up or noir. So, while I went with typical pin up & vintage boudoir costume choices, you'll notice classic gothic and horror motifs throughout this series. (See bloodstained white nightgown.) My goal here was to really capture the feeling of loosing ones mind. I felt compelled to show this in part because I frequently see cute comics and encouraging articles about dealing with depression and anxiety and I always feel that they just scratch the surface. Things like fear of social interaction and the inability to leave bed are frequent topics, and while they are certainly nothing to belittle, the less palatable issues like paranoia, disassociation, and hallucinations tend to get pushed aside. I think people tend to associate these things with "scarier" illnesses like schizophrenia, but for someone suffering from manic or chronic depression, frequent insomnia can lead to a host of psychotic symptoms. In Kathleen's case, it led her much farther.

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That can be a sobering fact for many of us struggling with depression. We live in a society that values a strong work ethic above all else, and scoffs at the idea that someone could be struggling because they are tired. “We’re all tired,” seems to be a popular response. For us insomniacs, we may sometimes feel like we have a bit of an edge over “normal” people when it comes to this. Staying up all night — or days on end for that matter — is not uncommon for many of us. I remember tossing and turning and writhing in frustration while I was in college. Coupled with my overactive creativity and ambition, sleeping was damn near impossible. I eventually decided to put my insomnia “to good use” and stay up all night working. If my body didn’t want sleep, I guess I didn’t need It, right? This contradicted every medical opinion I’d ever heard, but I convinced myself anyway. 

I was getting more work done, and I have to be honest, while it wasn’t my best, it wasn’t terrible either. My professors were still impressed by my thoughts or words or whatever. Trouble arose when I started doing odd things. I sat under a table in class because it was “more comfortable,” I’d see shadow people on the subway and around street corners and I just knew they were coming for me. I was even going into my second closest Duane Reade and buying things in the middle of the night, having conversations with people that I couldn’t remember. (I still have no clue why I didn’t choose the closest Duane Reade.) I only discovered this when I went during the day one time and a cashier made a comment about how it was weird to see me during the day. All the things that had been showing up around my apartment suddenly made sense. There was not a creature sneaking in and replenishing shampoo and cigarettes while I was gone. This isn't a sleep-medication horror story either. I wasn’t taking anything for sleep at the time. I was just so fucking exhausted that my body and mind didn’t know what to do with themselves. 

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I’ve had bad reactions to plenty of medications too, but that’s a story for another time. Now I have to take medicine every night before bed. I don’t care about the stigma, I don’t care about new research that suggests sleep quality is not as good on medication. If you can get on without it, you absolutely should, but if you’re stuck, and the alternative is seeing shadow people on the subway ... well, I’ll take poorer sleep quality over no sleep any day.

Anyway, I believe Dr. Kathleen Hagen’s official diagnosis was manic depression, or bipolar disorder, and she was sent to a hospital instead of a prison as it was clear she’d had no idea what she was doing at the time. I’m really glad the state came through on this one, as it can too often be a shit show when crime and mental illness collide. It’s just too difficult to understand these mindsets if you haven’t experienced something similar first hand. 

What I can’t stress enough is that Bipolar disorder, Anxiety and Depression can absolutely cause audible and visual hallucinations, and can lead to intense paranoia and disassociation under the right (?) circumstances. We can’t really capture these feelings in cute cartoons or cheeky memes, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about them. I swore for the longest time that I was the only one on earth suffering from my specific form of insanity, and thought that I was basically incurable. I now realize how ridiculous that is and I want to help as many people as possible avoid that way of thinking.

We may not have our own cutesy paraphernalia to raise awareness for these “scarier” aspects of depression. The closest I’ve ever gotten is this Cerberus drawing. 

Yes, it’s a terrible beast that will destroy itself just to break you, but its your terrible three headed beast that will destroy itself just to break you! Plus, if you keep it satiated, it may let you live a little longer! (Motivational? I'm n…

Yes, it’s a terrible beast that will destroy itself just to break you, but its your terrible three headed beast that will destroy itself just to break you! Plus, if you keep it satiated, it may let you live a little longer! (Motivational? I'm not good at this.)

It’s ... not cute. But neither is depression. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with finding humor in it, as that can be a great way to cope, but I want our societal discussions on mental illness to scratch deeper. It’s extremely difficult to talk about these scarier aspects of our illness — its taken me awhile to get to this point, and it’s something I force myself to be as open as possible about. But I can do better, we can all do better.

And I don’t mean to imply that you should push yourself into doing anything that makes your depression worse, but find your limits, figure out your triggers, decide if your lifestyle needs changing — I had to move out of New York City because living there made me sicker. Think carefully about the people in your life, and if they’re harmful, distance yourself. And please, get some fucking rest. It’s so important. Take care of yourself, no matter how difficult that may be, because we often think the worst case scenario is that we’ll commit suicide. I think most of us are pretty numb to that thought, right? Once you’ve contemplated it 15-20 times or so, it sort of looses its scare factor. But suicide isn’t the only end game — Dr. Kathleen Hagen killed two people she loved, and it wasn’t because she had some extraordinary mental disorder or a violent personality. Kathleen could have been any of us. Any of us could become the next Kathleen if we neglect caring for our illness.

xo,

Miss Arsenous Apple Pie

 

 

 

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Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: 
And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate.

I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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