Name:--- Helen Allen Poe
Age:-- 26
Gender:-- F
Ethnicity/Nationality:-- White American Trash
Physical Description:--Helen stands a little taller than most girls, and a little taller again thanks to an enduring passion for high boots with fat heels. She has a tomboyish face that comes alive with expression when she's actually in the mood to express anything, mostly looking dejected, weary and thoughtful. She wears black, too much and too often, but what else was she going to do? Genetics gave her dark brown eyes, a visible vitamin D deficiency, clinical depression and a short, dark mess of jet black hair she can't seem to do anything with. "Doomed to Goth," as she once put it.
Psychological Profile:-- Helen is ruled by melancholia. Her constellation is Libra. Her card is the nine of swords.
She is an unmedicated, introverted depressive, prone to overthinking and underacting, socially avoidant and unaware of the extent to which she is deeply loved by those who get to know her. She is an artist, with considerable skill as a painter in charcoal, oil and watercolor, and this has provided some outlet for her moods over the years, fueled by a strong, intuitive imagination which provides a wealth of effective subject matter. However, she routinely undervalues her work, frequently unable to self-promote or bring herself to charge fair money for it, if any. Paradoxically, she also refuses to work commercially, claiming that it cheapens the medium. More than one stormy argument has resulted between her and her long-suffering boyfriend on the subject.
Her bad star comes around again and again like a season of its own, the girl sinking into the depths for months at a time before breaching the surface, treading water just long enough to feel the sun on her face before sliding slowly back down into the old, familiar darkness. The cycle, however, is getting tighter, and Poe has slowly grown ever more avoidant and reclusive, her social circle now contracted to almost nothing but an increasingly distant partner and an internet chatroom of what amounts to imaginary friends. Troubled, erratic sleep plagued with greasy recurring nightmares is not helping, and the final nail is being driven slowly into her self-made coffin.
History:--Helen was born in Ellicott City, Maryland to the kind of parents who think giving a girl with the surname 'Poe' the middle name 'Allen' is cute (An ironic joke -- unwittingly, Helen's father and thus Helen herself are both of that same bloodline.) She finished school and completed college in Baltimore, studying art but chafing under the overbearing nature of her teachers. Continued practicing on her own, producing work half out of love, half out of artistic compulsion. Her work is displayed in a few local galleries throughout her life, but nothing ever came of it, and after awhile she stopped expecting it to.
History of clinical depression culminates in a suicide attempt at her unremarkable office workplace. Found by co-worker in bathroom stall and rushed to hospital. Slowly recovered under careful, disapproving observation. Lost that job. Stigma prevents her getting another for some time.
Moved to Seattle with friends, where she fared faintly better for awhile before disengaging. Moved back to Baltimore for the sake of her partner. Intended to re-enroll at MICA, but backed out due to lack of motivation, self-confidence and social support.
Then nothing happened.
And continued to not happen.
Helen now has a part-time job as a waitress in a sushi-bar-cum-hipster-cafe (which she's about to lose,) a four year relationship (about to end) and a middling basement apartment (which she'll shortly be unable to afford) in the worst fringe of the nicest part of Mt Vernon, right on the border between the fashionable gay clubs and the long, grey waste of the city's crack deserts. Her inspiration has dried up, her social life atrophied, and she now lives day to day in a state of bleak inertia and apathy. Yet, after this months-long depressive episode, Helen is slowly beginning to emerge, prodding at the idea of painting again and coming back into the daylight after her long, lonely drifting in the dark.
Her sense of timing remains nothing short of abominable.
