You account for where you’ve been the past thirteen months, longer than you ever published anything. First, my cousin, Dallas, died unexpectedly. Then I moved to New York, and had a job I hated, and then I left that job and I didn’t get one I really wanted and then I started babysitting and writing my novel, which is started out as a romance novel and is now super fucking depressing. This feels like it’s working sometimes when I write lots of words but some weeks I don’t! Which is Bad, so I need something to incentivize me to keep writing, so that’s why I’m coming back to you.
I guess that’s it! I did it.
I feel like there have to be more ways?
Do you ever have a dream that fucks you up so much you could measure a period of your life in it? The night after my dog died, I had a vivid dream. My family was at the beach, enjoying a beautiful day with blue skies and bluer water. Suddenly, the waves begin to get higher and higher. There’s one final large wave. The beach is decimated. People are frantically trying to reach the surface, to hold on to children and loved ones. There are screams of terror, cries, and desperation. My mother is gone and I cannot find her.
At that moment, I know she’s dead. I don’t know how I make it home. Suddenly I am transported to my childhood home, and I’ve been crying for a long time. My face is puffy and raw, my cheeks sore from scrunching my face in agony. My dad is downstairs, playing on his iPad. I ask if my mother is dead. He points to their bedroom, where she is sound asleep. No one bothered to tell me.
So I’ve just been sitting with that!
That’s not true. I unpacked it in therapy, which I’ve been in weekly since last spring and now it’s like the veil has been lifted from my eyes, except my left eye still feels fuzzy and I’ve really been meaning to get it checked out. There’s so much maintenance in adulthood, and also my body seems to love to fall apart once every two years, or maybe it’s constantly falling apart and I only bother to pay attention once every two years. That’s on me guys! But yes, now I deal with my feelings and I try, which is both hardest and most beautiful action in the world. I cry and I scream and I get stronger everyday! Goddamnit.
I went to the Met, almost a year after my last visit, and realized I took the same picture in front of the same mirror, in a different black sweater, pant, and mask combo, but nonetheless basically the same person.
My bloodwork came back abnormal so I made Eliana’s dad look at it to make sure I didn’t have cancer and it reminded me of the idea of being useful, which is so appealing when I feel utterly useless. Is it enough to charm while you’re here? Am I even doing that? How do you become an asset to society without learning to code? I say this but ironically nannying is very satisfying work. It feels like the first time in my life I’m doing something honest, something tangible. Isn’t that fucked up? Taking care of children is more rewarding than campaigns. Seventeen year old me is rolling over in her fucking grave.
Is this enough ways? Are you sufficiently satisfied? Do you want me to tell you what to buy? I can still do it but I never buy anything anymore. That’s such a fucking lie. I love consumption, it’s my most embarrassing love language. I hope we’re all buying less and mostly things we love and it’s okay to buy things on Amazon sometimes but you at least still have to feel shame about it and also order your toilet paper from Target.com. Tampons are fair game.
I suppose there was no message in that. You return by trying to be kinder, both to other people and to yourself. You fail at both miserably sometimes, but you keep trying at both, and that’s really all that matters in this world. You’re never going to be perfect, but you’re always going to have opportunities to be better. That’s the thing about life. It’s never over, until it is! So you have to keep trudging along, enjoying the burn in your thighs as you get stronger, the laughs and confessions you share with the ones next to you, and the privilege to even be out in the sun, trekking forward towards tomorrow.
Was this whole thing just a take on Diane’s Vietnam trip listicle? Fuck.
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