jueves, mayo 11, 2017

Week: Who the fuck cares at this point?

If you never stop clutching, you can never let go. If you never let go, they can never abandon you. If you never stop clutching… your fingers will atrophy on one side, while anabolizing the other, your muscles hyper-developed/withered, turning your hand, the one you so wanted to be open and loving, has twisted into some misshapen claw, rigid in its clumsiness, sharp and unwielding.

It is sunny out. That perhaps goes without saying, and not because the saying is obviated by some universal truth, but rather because we often leave out the most salient details, because as we evoke a scene from within it, the warmth on your skin, the palid blue sky, wires crossing looking out across the alley, skimming the tops of mid century ranch houses, the air chopped in rhythmic patterns by the blades of an angry helicopter… and we absorb it, without any sort of awareness. You think that might be an indifference of amniotic proportions, that is to say, we don’t mean to miss the most important details, but we are simply slipping from this womb-like trance, with black letters marching across the white screen, into a warm bath, and we never even notice our own crossing-over.

The heat that promises to unleash on this city of the sun, is held at bay, for now, its pounding fists held back by wispy arms of wind, gently tugging at its sleeves. The sun is spilling a diffuse light, just past its zenith, and the helicopter swims back through the sky. You think, “they must be doing a man-hunt.” Then you think, “the poor bastard. I bet he didn’t deserve what he’s gonna get. Poor brown or black man… poor motherfucker” and you look back over at the alley. The dog lazily scratches the sand. He is enjoying this sun. So are you. You re-read. You think, “yes, I agree how unfair the gendered the language of criminality is: he is always the perpetrator of violence, and she is always the victim. And they are always people of color... How cliché,” you think, “and yet…” There are too many sounds, chirping at varying intervals, the grind of rubber tires on freshly laid asphalt (emitting that smell of hot, wet summers back east, where trees hung pregnant with photosynthesis, and embraced your childhood wonder).

Just last week you were in another hemisphere, a country you had never been to, but whose cuisine you had long enjoyed, and whose countrymen have been your artistic family, and you wonder if perhaps you dreamed it all. If this perfect parenthesis from your life, 4 days in an ancient, sacred valley –you notice the pain of hunching over your laptop that perches on your outstretched knees and the sound of the train whistle in the distance. The helicopter circles back out of earshot, and the swoosh of tires remains—could make you see the version of the truth that you MUST accept in order to move forward in your life, would you try to hold onto that evanescing, fleeting key to your happiness? Or would you just. Let. Go?

Emails pop onto your screen and you distractedly click at them, swatting away the peskiness of words about things about which you have no desire to elaborate. You sigh, maybe metaphorically, no, no, you actually also physically sigh. And feel a creeping sadness, that is almost comforting, like an old, worn blanket that weighs your chest down as your eyes close.
But you are conditioned, aren’t you, your claw-like grip more than a habit, a gnarl-jointed, emotionally crippled deformity. So you don’t let go. Can’t let go, your rigid, painful, grasping, aching clutch cannot save you.  You think that by holding on, you are helping them stay afloat, when it is really the opposite: at best you are only joining them in a downward spiraling black hole, at worst, pulling them down faster with your excess weight.

Your daughter comes out and sees your stricken face. “What’ wrong?” she asks, “it helps to name what hurts you and let it out.” You cry. That is, you were already letting the tears roll down your unkempt face, but now you start to cry in that way in which your chest heaves just a little, like a hiccup, when it is still cute and doll-like, rather than some gape-mawed, choking nausea made sound. It could go downhill from here. You can’t say what hurts. You make a psychic squeeze inward as if there were some emotional kegels you can do to strengthen your permeable barriers, to make them only semi-permeable, to shrink the pores through which your pain leeches, even when you think it doesn’t. She leaves, like she came, a beautiful hurricane. You think about how much you love her, and how much you fuck her up every day because of your worry, and your hope, and your unrelenting pressure on yourself and thus, her. You think that you don’t deserve the unconditional love that she gives you and you think, “is this my hurt? Maybe some of it. But there is more, and it has a material shape and name.” You are tired, you must acknowledge that much. The pain in your back is a low-grade warmth, the helicopter makes another one of its kaleidoscopic rounds, and the dog has come to pant on the bench, next to you. He loves you too, you think. Stupid animal.

An airplane tears west across your sky. You have gotten nowhere with yourself. You cannot name your pain because you, too, are a withholder. Maybe he is always a withholder of love, but you… you are a withholder of truth. Which is worse. Of course, you would justify to yourself that you protect your core so much because you have empirical evidence to substantiate your claim that you will be guaranteed pain in 100% of the experiments (you glare down the flashing neon: “sample-size bias” that bleats out across the darkened screen of your psyche). But your justifications are bullshit. You know it, they know it. It doesn’t fucking matter anyway. You still can’t solve the problem of your claw-like grasp, your goddamn terror of abandonment, that you, yourself attempt to stun, detonating little bombs of aggression, hoping to blow your own fucking hand to kingdom come if it will just let you stop clinging to a sinking ship. Every.Fucking.Time.

Name your pain? Break your hand? Break the ice. Just…Let…Go.

After all, you've always been a strong swimmer.

domingo, marzo 19, 2017

Week 11/52, March 19, 2017

machete love/ amor machete

Forgive me, my love, perdóname mi amor
que no hay manera, that there’s no way
to call you back for gentleness, llamarte para pedir suavidad
cuando estás hecho de acero, when you’re made of steel
and bone, and clay, and blood, y hueso, y barro, y sangre;
I didn’t understand then, no entendí entonces
that your fingers were talons, que tus dedos eran garras
que tu lengua era rebenque, your tongue a whip
cracked in the bristling air, chasquido en el aire erizado.
How could I know that the lesson from you, cómo yo saber que la lección tuya
no sería de cómo envolverse, wouldn’t be how to wrap yourself up
in a blanket of oblivion, en una manta de olvido,
sino tu regalo es la claridad, but your present is the clarity
with which I see myself, me veo a mí misma,
a través de tus ojos que se vuelven míos, through your eyes that become mine.
Tu amor es feroz, es salvaje, your love is ferocious, it ‘s savage
baring its fangs, slashing away at excess, sacando sus colmillos, tajando al exceso
de ego, de orgullo, de ignorancia, of ego, of pride, of ignorance
your love is machete love, tu amor es amor machete,
wordless and belligerent, mudo y beligerante
ser sin ser y sincero, being without being and honest
in your dishonesty, en tu deshonestidad,
Tu amor es amor hipócrita, your love is hypocritical,
like everyone’s is, como lo es para todos
porque queremos y no queremos, because we want and don’t want,
to limit our freedom, limitar nuestra libertad.
Amor machete, amor mío, machete love, my love
there’s no way to thank you, no hay cómo agradecer,
que me hayas enseñado a no pedir, for teaching me to not ask for
no buscar, no procurar, not search for, not reach for,
mi felicidad en nadie fuera de mí, my happiness in anyone outside myself.
And tonight, luminous and damp, esta noche, luminosa y húmeda,
entendí soltar las riendas, I understood how to let go of the reins
and let the wild horses ride, y dejar galopar a los caballos salvajes
como en la isla Assateauge, as on the Assateague island
of my childhood, de mi niñez.
Tus colmillos se hunden en mi piel, your fangs sink into my flesh,
warm, soft, comforting, cálida, tierna, consoladora,
mi corazón deja de latir, my heart stops beating
for just one instant, por un sólo instante
y abraza su propia muerte, and embraces its very own death
peering into the abyss, mirando hacia el abismo,
antes de reanudar, before beginning again
its rhythmic pulse, su pulso rítmico
los tajos de un machete, the slashes of a machete
cutting through the rain forest, cortando camino por el bosque pluvial,
swish, swish, swishing, sibisibilando,
y el sudor de tu espalda, and the sweat of your back,
runs in rivulets, corre en riachuelos
al suelo fecundo, to the fecund earth.
Your bifurcated tongue, tu lengua bifurcada,
lanza hechizos serpentinos antiguos, casts ancient serpent spells,
on my soul, your sister, a mi alma, tu hermana
tu madre, tu hija, tu amante, your mother, your daughter, your lover
your everything and your nothing, tu todo y tu nada,
tu verdadera amiga, aunque asuste, your own true friend though it frightens you
will constrict herself for you, se contraerá a sí misma para ti,
aunque no se lo pidas, though you don’t ask her
though you want everything the other way, aunque quieras todo al revés.
Suéltate y vuela, me dicen los machetazos, let go and fly, the machete-slashes say
no te ates a mí ni a nadie, don’t tie yourself to me or anyone else.
Cut the strings and act on your own, rompe los hilos y actúa por ti sola,
baila si es tu gusto, dance if it is your pleasure,
sing because you must breathe, canta porque es debido respirar
Alza tus ojos al cielo, y allí brillarás, lift your eyes to the sky and there you will shine,
and I will gaze upon you, y reposaré mis ojos sobre ti
cuando ya no me veas más., when you no longer see me.

miércoles, febrero 22, 2017

Week 7/ 52 February 19, 2017

            I parked the car and stepped out into the damp, cool evening. The day had been spent in relative bliss, and I felt like dancing and singing, and being inside of myself, with no care for the world around me. This is a rare feeling. I better take advantage. And under the darkened drizzle, I walked with my light down jacket zipped up tightly. “If I close my eyes, this could be San Francisco and not Phoenix.” If I close my eyes and let the stillness hold me. The performance was transfixing, Rubén, Jorge’s friend, brought characters to life, through gestural suggestion, carefully crafted words, poetic punctuation. Light. Theater has always been a place where I felt safe, but tonight, I must admit, I was overwhelmed by the whiteness of the audience. I sat comfortably, easily enough, in my slightly inappropriate purple mini skirt and black tights, ankle boots, hair misted by the rain. But I felt somewhat oppressed by the polite tittering around me about vacations and shopping forays, where the woman who sat next to me asked me if this was, indeed, row k, and wasn’t it awfully close for row k. I replied, drily, that I wasn’t intimately familiar with what row k ought to feel like, being that I was not a frequent purchaser of orchestra seats, and therefore was totally useless as an informant for her inane validation-seeking. Of course I said none of that, just that I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. The rest I kept to myself. There was a well-intentioned young person who created a wall of speech to pre-interpret the play, Esquinita, USA, for an audience she assumed was not fully equipped to interpret black and brown characters from the ghetto, any ghetto, as the world crumbled around them. I tried to close my eyes, to ignore the yammering, to transport myself to other theaters, other times, when I used to walk to the CNA before it was the CENART and watch world-class acts, and student plays alike, for a nominal fee for students, and how I never feel lonely when I am held in suspense, in the suspension of disbelief, in the energetic field that emanates, pulsing and writhing, from the actors centers.
            I have always loved the theater (just not musical theater, sometimes). And Ruben was, simply sublime. But I am reminded too, of the magical sway that an actor can hold, how their embodied characters can touch us, and how, sometimes, we fall in love with the changing gels, illuminating nuance and power. I think about Brigadoon. I must have been in middle school, perhaps 7th grade. We went to the high school, and settled into our seats, my mother next to me, my brother, perhaps too, though memory does not cast him as anything but an amorphous possibility. I fell in love. I remember it clearly, because it is a feeling that I have spent the greater part of my adult life chasing, that warm wash of emotion, the heightened touch, the gasping breathlessness, the hope. I’ll confess, it has been a while since I’ve felt that hope, but that is neither here nor there.

            For me the space and time of a play was as close to a religious transubstantiation as I was ever going to come, and I bit that metaphorical wafer hook, line and sinker. There is a calm that comes with this vicarious living, one that I later rediscovered in film, but there is something in the physical proximity, the sweating, breathing, smoking, bleeding humanity that makes live performances magical and often morally compelling. The Greeks, I suppose, had it right, and the longing for catharsis, the purging of excess emotional baggage, the orgasmic build up of tears that pull from your chest, behind your eyes, and then spill over in deep compassion for someone else’s plight, because, of course it is never your own. I am grateful for this certainty, that by making characters speak to one another, to watch the drama unfold in front of me, I will always have a way out of my own labyrinth, out of my own, chafing, binding disappointments. They melt away in the darkened theater, and then, as in a classroom, where the rest of the room falls away, and it is only me and the person who is telling me stories, they are speaking directly to ME, and I am held captive, breathless, and free.

lunes, febrero 13, 2017

Week 6/52 February 13, 2017

Atlas shrugged, and then let go…

Sometimes we learn something about our lovers, something so deep and dark and altogether unseemly that from it we cannot come back, cannot return to the innocent unknowing, or rather to the willful ignorance. And sometimes it is the fact that they hid from us who they truly are that is the most crushing, the most love-killing.

I think that this is how we spend our lives, desperately trying to protect our core from someone else, wanting keenly to be known, to be seen, to be safe, but at the same time terrified that if we are seen, what we are, what we need, what we want, will be ridiculed. It is a paradox really, because the people that we let close to us, they are the ones we may disappoint, their opinions matter, they know where our tender underbelly may be exposed, so we don’t divulge who we are, not fully, for fear that we might recognize our own shame in their eyes, reflected back upon us, and that would simply be too much.

Yet, there is still a way we rationalize, we mollify, we protect. Them or us? What happens when that boundary isn’t clear? Do we protect, instead, respectability? That word sticks in my craw, and yet… the sense of how we measure up at a societal level plays so much into our self-esteem, or ability to continue in the world, to agree to the contract of getting up in the morning and facing our days. And for what? It is hard to say. Maybe our natures are always being tamed, always being ushered into what we think others want from us. And I fear, we will always, always fail.

To say something like “It happened more or less at the time my marriage was failing” as an opening line, is fundamentally dishonest. Not dishonest because the marriage did, indeed, fail, or because it happened to be during a crisis point in the relationship, but because how can the demise of something built on a fundamental misrepresentation of who we are be considered a failure? Isn’t it rather a failure to endure, to persist, in the face of overwhelming evidence that the person we love, have loved, did love, does not, in fact, exist? There is another problem with that opening line and that is more about its narrative function. We are regularly assaulted with stories of triumph, stories of overcoming painful, psychic destitution or physical abjection… but those stories, the ones that get published, the ones that get made into movies, they share a common characteristic. The character, our character, us… wins in the end. The stories have a postscript, at the very least, telling us that so-and-so escaped domestic violence, or trafficking, or bankruptcy, or a life of gang violence, or simply being gas-lighted by the person they thought was on their side, to finally, in the end, find true love… or parenthood, or peace or purpose.

But what if we don’t?

So, the story, my story, any story, today, cannot begin under the premise that there is a happy ending, because, in the end, I don’t believe that there is any ending but a dreadfully painful one. Death. Painful to us, sometimes, painful to those we leave behind, always, without fail. It is funny, you know, how we never give ourselves credit for all the times we didn’t lose it, didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t accidentally or purposefully violate the privacy of someone else’s psyche and trying in an act of love or terror to understand what makes them tick. So today is an unstory, monstrously repeated, as needed, to extricate one’s heart from love misplaced.

It happened, more or less, at the time my marriage was failing: (Note that there are no references, of course, to the thousands of times prior to that in which fears and feelings were squashed, rewritten and, simply bundled up and sent to the dead zone before the critical moment came.) I moved to California, we moved, and as the entirety of the country, along route 40 unfurled itself, I applied the silent treatment. There had been an accident, an emergency room visit, a series of unkind words exchanged. And yet, they were no more or less terrible than what had come before, or even than what would come after, but I didn’t know it at the time. I just sat, tight-lipped and seething and watched the landscape change, from a lush green, dripping and thick with sweat and mosquitoes through Appalachia, to the desert wasteland, scorched by the unrelenting sun, calcified bones and tumbleweeds in the petrified forest in Arizona. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t have words. The joy was gone. We hit the coast, and there was some need for words, there was some shared admiration of the majesty of the pacific ocean, the golden grass on mountain sides. There was a relenting. I thought.

We had been in our new home a week when I stumbled onto him. Sharp, angular, cut off by half, with the mountains as backdrop for his yet unknown life. I told myself it was justified, that if I was going to be constantly under attack, I could carve out a secret space for myself. I responded: “Have we met? Will we?” and that was enough. Something so simple detonated my life. I couldn’t have known that it would, of course, our carelessness abounds when we simply don’t care anymore... but nothing is clearer to me now than that decisive moment. I chose life. And life is messy and painful, and terrifying, but I chose that, and I wrote, and wrote and wrote to the one person who I dared to see me. Dangling my want and my need and my love in an ultimate act of submission, blinded and bound, but emboldened in the mutual knowing. Of course, in the end, it didn’t work. There were threats and careers held over the chopping block out of spite and vindictiveness, but in the end, it ended because that is the nature of these sorts of things. And I learned that I can be seen, and loved, and that maybe that’s not enough to “win,” but the winning is in the learning. And today, I’m reminded that the real triumph is dusting ourselves off, and trying again. Each time, with more transparency than the last. Each time with a better understanding of who we are, and why we want what we want, or at least a willingness to explore what it is that we really do want, and then ask for it without fear, not because we are guaranteeing that we will be granted this dearest of wishes, but because in the not asking and not demanding, we are guaranteeing that we won't. Because, in the end, what is “success” in a relationship? Is it bound up in reproductivity? In exhaustion of sexual appetites? In joint expenses and mutual support? In abating the loneliness that is part of the human condition? All of the things? None of the things? Perhaps somewhere in the middle, in which we can bear to look at ourselves in the mirror, and to look them in the eye. And they can look back at us, and be our mirror, and see us for who we are, frail, penetrable, and perverse. And we can laugh. Together.  Medusa laughed, and her gaze could still be deadly, Atlas shrugged, and decided to let the world fall to her feet.

martes, enero 31, 2017

Week 4/ 52 January 31, 2017

All through the day, today, I kept thinking: seventeen years ago, at this time, I was in labor. I guess that’s still true, since I delivered my baby girl after 18 hours of labor via cesarean at 4 am, and it is only 10 pm here, now, and that’s only two hours behind east coast time… so… yeah, if I can close my eyes, I can almost remember the absolute indignities of a medicalized childbirth.

Close your eyes and picture this with me:

It is mid-winter in New Hampshire and the barometric pressure is going crazy. Let’s get out of the house, how can I make this baby get out of my womb? The obvious choice was swimming at the local gym. Obvious for me, at least.  So 21 year old, baby-faced me, and my equally baby-faced husband go with my beach-ball belly and swim laps, and goof off in the water. I’m sure maybe I am making this memory happier than it actually was, but I don’t care. I could see the winter sunshine filtering in through the plate glass windows, brilliant flashes on the already set, iced-over snow, evergreen trees bending and swaying gently. The penetrating smell of chlorine, comforting as always for a pool rat like me, and the weightlessness of floating, with a person inside you, also floating, moving against the current. “Maybe now she’ll hurry up and come out.”
And the next morning, you wake at 10 am, and suddenly you think, have I really peed myself? No, it is my amniotic fluid leaking from inside of me (yes, that’s exactly what you think… not, oh, my water broke, because you are just that annoying. Always have been, always will be, undoubtedly).  And the contractions begin mildly. So you call the doctor and you walk around, and you time the contractions and you go to the office, and they send you home, but it is a 30 minute drive back to your house, so your mom and your husband and you wander around the mall, timing your contracting uterus and its maneuvers, and it simply doesn’t hurt, but the contractions start to get closer together and you don’t want to have an “accident” at the mall, and there is a forecast of snow, so you haul yourselves over to the hospital, and they begrudgingly take you in, whisk you away in a wheel chair, though you are still waiting for the pain.

That will come later. When they decide that you are not contracting hard enough, or fast enough. You are not progressing. You are speaking in English and translating everything into Spanish, and trying to manage everyone’s anxiety, and damn, if this won’t just be easy. And so, they insist, and you are too small, and young, and insignificant to push back, and thus begins the Pitocin drip… and then the nurse wanders away and forgets to check on you, and the Pitocin has suddenly taken your mild-mannered contractions and turned them into a bucking bronco that JUST. KEEPS. BUCKING. With no release, and by the time they come back to check on you, you are huddled in a weeping mass, and they quickly lower the dose when it becomes clear that you have had a 25 minute unending contraction with no respite… and you slip into the bath, because you read all the damn books about what to expect, and what to do, to you know, be a good mother from the get go… and it doesn’t fucking work because your goddamn 21 year old body won’t cooperate, it won’t, it won’t. And you’re crying, and refusing pain medications because you are stoic, and you don’t want to hurt the baby that you haven’t even met yet, and he paces anxiously, and doesn’t know how to protect you. And the idyllic cerulean floating of yesterday seems thousands of light years away, and WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE? And you settle in, for the long, medically-intervened haul, with doctors that look at you like you’re an idiot simply because you happen to look like you are 12, and because your partner and you are speaking a language that they don’t speak, and it doesn’t matter that you wrote and defended an excellent thesis just months before at a fancy private women’s college, because to them, you are just a body that needs to be dealt with, and a shameful teen-mother at that, and with a foreign baby-daddy… well, who knows. Maybe they weren’t thinking any of those things, and were simply ho-hum-drumming their way through another day at work, and for you, this is the most monumental trial (and tribulation) of your short (but not that short) life, and you don’t feel heard. And you feel small and meek and overlooked, and holy shit, you feel like a failure. ALREADY. Breathe. Yes, you remind yourself, breathe. In… Out… In… Out. The antiseptic space really doesn’t seem that bad, by now there is late afternoon sunshine, the waning day comes early at 4 pm, but this will go on for hours. Each time they tell you, nope, not dilated enough… you’re stuck at 8 cm, and you will your body to do what it is supposed to do, and then you think that you would have been one of the many dead mothers in the middle ages, or in the middle of the bush, with no access to running water and sanitary bedding, and you breathe in and out some more, and probably crack jokes, because that is your general response to pain. And it is dark, so dark, there is no sun and the snow is falling softly in the black sea of night, and it is almost midnight and they say, you know, maybe you should have a c-section, your water broke over 12 hours ago, and you refuse, you try walking, up and down the hallway with the iv drip and the metal-stand from which the bag is hanging, but no. So now it is 1 am, and you beg them for another chance, one more, let me use the birthing ball, and you labor, trying to will your body into submission following the techniques that you learned about in the class where everyone else was 15 to 20 years older than you and made you feel alienated and ashamed for your lack of your own home, and your own career, and the fact that you were living in your parents’ big, beautiful home, basking in the glory of kitties and your teenage bedroom transformed, and it is now 2 am, and they’re having none of it. So they no longer give you a choice, and you are shaking, and crying, and exhausted, and in pain (but it is a pain almost immediately forgotten), and the force you to bend forward on the edge of the bed while they jam a thick-gauge needle into your spine (and you think of all the horrible ways a spinal tap could go heinously wrong, and leave you permanently paralyzed), and there are innumerable hands holding you down, telling you to be still, to not shake as your body rends itself apart in contraction upon contraction and they are trying to force your unruly body to bend to their will, and you are so angry and weak that you feel a flood of urine, warmth wrapping itself in a shameful spill around you as they manage to wrestle you into a moment of stillness and insert the epidural. Then the rest is a blur, you don’t feel and you won’t look as they cut you open, they pull a perfect baby girl with a head of hair so thick she looks like a monchichi from your battered womb. And he cuts the cord, and is beaming. And they don’t ask, they just give you medicine to let you rest, that then makes the baby sleepy and you itchy, because they didn’t read your chart, or note your allergy to opioids. And you worry that your colostrum won’t come in, and within hours, they’re trying to force you to feed your baby formula, and you refuse. And you fight with your husband, because he says something unkind, or maybe he doesn’t but he isn’t defending you against these unrelenting police. And you don’t let them take her away, insist on her sleeping in your room with her, and she is perfect, and tiny, and yours. And eventually she gets the hang of the nursing, and the tears of rage and shame and frustration that you felt at being ignored and dismissed by the medical staff cede to simultaneous joy and terror. What if you drop this baby.  You don’t really think, because the birth is this single-minded goal, but then suddenly, you have this live thing, and you have to NOT KILL IT… For, like 18 years… and so…you will keep copious records of her feeding and her pooping, and her shots, and the teeth she loses, and you will laugh until you cry and cry until you laugh, and she will be your best friend and your harshest critic... but, tonight, on the eve of her last childish year, I baked her some brownies (that she is begging to nibble while I refuse until it is actually midnight) you remember that it was so so long ago, and not so long ago at all. And that time really does fly when you’re having fun, or struggling to keep your head above water, or slogging through graduate school, or aiming for tenure. And it is good to just take a moment to breathe.

lunes, enero 23, 2017

Week 3/52 January 23, 2017

Full confession. This is week three, and I have already slid a day behind each previous week. I don’t know if this is indicative of some horrid form of self-sabotage, or if my other worldly concerns were just too heavy to write, but I find that all through the week I am thinking of topics that I would like to explore with a thoughtfulness and attention that I have yet to give to myself or my writing, and then, when it comes time to write, I have discarded all of my previous ideas. Perhaps, then, this week will simply be a report on the status of… this woman.

Since the election, I have had somewhat of a numb feeling. Like, I know how horrible of a human the new president is, and I worry about all the things that might happen… but somehow, perhaps because of my already precarious emotional state, I just… sort of shut it off. Like the feelings of despair are simply cordoned off, and then wrapped up in bubble wrap and sent off to deep freeze.

I think that’s what I do with negative feelings in general. And maybe positive ones, too. Like any emotion that is too hard to contain, I just… set it aside and move on.

 I wouldn’t know this, of course, except sometimes my parents, and other people tell me stories about things that I did or felt and I have, literally, no memory of them. Like, not at all. Perhaps this is simply the nature of aging, but I’m convinced that it is not.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding with this? I cannot write when my heart feels like it is being ripped from my chest, and stomped on by a smiling executioner. How can I? I can’t maintain some jocund tone when I know that underneath the smiling mask, my face is crumpled in that puffy red ugly cry that comes with dry-heaving gasps. Separation anxiety is real, even when separation is the path to the best possible outcome.

Why, I wonder, is letting go, letting be, so hard? Why? Because our hearts are a veiny, thorny morass of feelings upon feelings that we’ve built and broken and rebuilt and rebroken until we don’t know whether we are living or reacting to the present situation or the past, or if we can ever disentangle ourselves from the quagmire of our previous mistakes. Or maybe just because we love. Hard. And losing it, losing hope, admitting defeat is just. Too. Defeating. Or maybe not. Maybe it is because we are afraid of actually asking for what we need and want, and deserve, because if we were to get it, really, we might lose it… and that… well, from that, we know we could not recover.

When I think of my daughter, when I hold the thought of something terrible happening to her in my mind, and I examine it, I am filled with a sense that I would simply not survive the loss of that person, to whom I am so, deeply, and tightly bound. I would shatter.  You hear stories of couples who have been together for 60 or 70 years and who die within minutes of each other. And I wonder, do I really want a love like that? Maybe not in this lifetime. I don’t want to depend on another person, I don’t want to give over my autonomy, my sense of adventure, my need to hang myself over the abyss and dangle by my toenails. I don’t want to need you. And still, I do. I can tell myself that I’m not really capable of love, because I’m not capable of trusting another human not to drop me. (I always hated those icebreaker games that were meant to build trust in which you had to blindly fall into the hands of people who you had only just met, as if the fact that forcing yourself to do something terrifying would build trust. No! It just meant they didn’t fuck up… that time… but there were no guarantees that they would be reliable for any other sort of thing.)

So, that's where we are.

I can’t let go because I can’t trust myself. I can’t listen to myself when I say: just hold yourself, you don’t need anyone else. I can’t trust myself to listen when I say: you deserve to be treated with love. You deserve to be safe. So I hold on to threads, and shreds and scraps and crumbs, because if I fill in the gaps, and I weave them together, I can trust in my own handiwork. I can build my own safety net with words, and memories, and friendships intertwined. And that is enough. It really is. It is so much more than many people have. I don’t need more than my fair share.

So, today, in the car, as a passenger, I read about a house bill that was introduced trying to undermine Roe v. Wade by establishing “life” at fertilization, and I finally lost it. I mean, I held it together in the car, so as not to be taunted or have to defend a position, but I came home and sobbed, face down in my bed, hunched over, still standing with my face in my hands. Then, I made dinner. But I can’t stop crying. At least not on the inside. 

The other night, on the inauguration day, I couldn’t participate in a protest, nor the next day, because I simply couldn’t be around people, around their anger, or their ignorance, or their fair-weather outrage, or their deeply felt fear, or their privilege, or their solidarity… it all just felt like too much. Feeling. So instead, I listened to other people’s stories, and offered them phones to call home, and water to drink on their travels, and I helped them. And for a few hours, that was enough. I was outside of myself, and the sadness was cordoned off, bubble-wrapped and floating down some subterranean river, that might resurface. But for a few hours, it was enough.