I stopped writing this newsletter because everytime I shared something about my feelings my mom calls to ask if I’m going to kill myself, which doesn’t inspire a willingness to continue to share to BeReal with y’all.
I think she does this because no one in my family ever talks about their feelings. We talk about everything else, and by that I mean mostly politics and current events and whatever else we can weaponize against each other to seem the smartest. I shouldn’t be saying such terrible things about them on the internet. I love my parents. I just don’t love that they treat emotional candor with hostility.
When I was in first grade, I had a white desk with a hutch on top. I don’t remember anything about the desk where I put my lime green pencil case, other than on the side of the hutch that faced my wall, I kept a sticky note journal of all my angry thoughts: I HATE MY MOM, MIRANDA IS MEAN, AHHHHHHHH, etc.; I needed somewhere to blow off steam. Is this weird? I’m typing this and I’m so self conscious my five year old self may have been a monster. Anyways. My parents found the wall, my mom sobbing as if she had just discovered she was raising Ted Bundy. How could I say these terrible things about my family? Well, I had no idea that someone else would see them, because I put them in a private place to deal with my feelings! I didn’t see the problem with expressing frustrations about or with someone within my own head, or within my writing in my own room. I still don’t quite frankly, but I alternate between that and my adopted habit of policing my thoughts to a truly pathological degree. One thing about me! (lol) I guess it was stupid to think I had privacy at the time but the violation of it still haunts me.
I lied an apology and I never wrote down my feelings again, except I did and it went poorly again and again and again. My senior year of high school I made the decision to journal and my mom read it while changing my sheets one day. Have you ever had your mother confront you about getting your nipples pierced? You don’t want to! During the pandemic, I finally found out my FND, and I had the option to participate in a clinical trial. I filled out the form, detailing my traumas in ticked little boxes. I put it aside, consumed myself with shame after failing to return it, and cast it aside from my list of to dos about three months later. My mom found it on my birthday and called in tears about the boxes I ticked. There’s nothing like ringing in 24 with a reminder of every bad thing that’s ever happened to you!
A few years ago a therapist told me kids are supposed to have three adults in their life: someone to serve as a father, someone to serve as a mother, and a third trusted adult who is invested in their wellbeing but not simply going to sell them out to their parents; an aunt, a teacher, a therapist, whatever works for you. When she said it out loud, I felt an immediate pain I had never before. What would that have been like? Sure, I talked to my parents, but we never really communicated anything within them. When a kind teacher, friend’s mother, or anyone else made an attempt, I put up walls. If I shared my feelings, even in writing, my mom would somehow find them. I was rarely punished, because you have to be parented to be punished, but I still suffered for it.
It's very difficult to continue to write when at such pivotal moments in my life, I was shamed for expressing the deepest parts of me, both good or bad. I wish I had something profound to say about continuing to grow, but mostly I’m just so sad for the little girl that kept getting pushed down with no one to offer her a hand up.
Growth should bring about a confidence in your ability to find true happiness, to become stronger, wiser, both more disciplined and gentler with yourself, but I’m often paralyzed by the devastation of moving further and further away from a simpler relationships, lower maintenance, a memory of a childhood I invented for myself that allowed me to move forward and continue to plead ignorance.
That’s not to say I don’t also enjoy it. I’m sitting here, drinking throat coat after a weekend spent amongst friends new and old, eating good food, filled with silly and serious conversations about life that renew my faith in its very existence. The weather is beautiful, if not an ominous reminder of warmer years to come. Later I’ll go home to the little apartment I love in a city I love even more. I have everything I desperately wanted growing up. It doesn’t matter if I sent an embarrassing text last night, or needed to leave the party for 45 minutes to get tacos because I forgot to eat all day. I’ll get it right eventually. I always do. You just keep moving forward, making better choices, and that’s it! That’s all you can do. Take stock of how you’ll do better next time, remember you are human, and have faith in yourself to show up at your best when you need them the most.
Don’t forget! You promised yourself!
Housekeeping notes: we’re going to do this every week? Maybe every two weeks? I’m reading Bird by Bird, watching Miracle Workers, and obsessed with drinking tea. Please share your recs with me!!!
This week’s passage is Jenny Slate’s Treat essay from Little Weirds, where the name of this newsletter comes from. I thought it would be fitting to share this week. Happy March!