Tag: mental health

Posted in Memoir and Memory

Sixteen/Seventeen

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

Content warning: This post is about my personal experience and history with non-suicidal self-harm. It’s not the first time I’ve mentioned this, but I believe it’s the first time I’ve got into this level of detail. If that’s not comfortable for you, for any reason, you don’t need to read on. It’s okay to skip this one.

Today is kind of a big deal, coming at the end of a year that was crowded with all sorts of joys and challenges. Today – a good friend’s birthday, fifteen years since my would-be wife kissed me – marks seventeen years since I self-harmed. 

Humblebrag? Nah, straight-up bragging. I’m proud as hell of myself. 

This is also the first year I remember self-harm (cutting, in my case) was acknowledged as an addiction. Prior to reading Bruce Perry and Oprah’s book, What Happened to You?, the only people who had ever called out the behavior as an addiction were two of my therapists. Every one of them was a fresh bandage on old wounds that I still feel; each one, a layer of validation I didn’t know I needed to hear. 

When I call cutting an addiction, I’m not comparing it to other addictions. I’m using the term as good ol’ Merriam-Webster defines it: a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms (such as anxiety, irritability, tremors, or nausea) upon withdrawal or abstinence. 

And yes, of course I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of the DSM-V and ICD-10/11 and found that self-injurious behaviors that are not precipitated by the use of a substance (one of the eleven listed, including caffeine, which seems awfully rude to me) are actually in a section called “Conditions for Further Study” of the DSM-V. They’re referred to as non-suicidal self-injury, or NSSI. And in my experience is a perfect fit. I didn’t cut because I was trying to die; I cut because it was the best way I knew to immediately feel like I didn’t want to die. 

Seventeen years ago, I would have hit every point in the criterion – I engaged in it more than 5 days a year, I expected it would provide relief and create a positive emotional state, I had negative thoughts prior to cutting and I thought about it often, it was definitely not socially sanctioned, it was something I did to manage things across settings (ie, work, school, relationships), and it didn’t occur in the contest of psychosis or substance use. 

I was not doing it for attention, as the therapists and psychiatrists in my teens told me and my parents. They had no idea of the extent. They only found out when I had a period of anxiety and happened to have a safety pin on me, and was absently scratching at my arm – not enough to do anything but turn the skin white. But a friend saw it and was concerned, and that’s how I ended up sitting in the psych hospital ER with my mom that afternoon. But it was something I had been doing – and hiding – since I was a child. 

I remember being around six or seven, playing in the woods behind my house. If there were brambles, I’d run through them. I would try to throw stones and branches up and get an arm or leg under them before they came down. I loved the bruises and cuts and scrapes; loved how it would sting when I got in the bath, or ache when I pressed on the bruises. I did this. I felt this. It’s just for me. Everything about it was for me – my choice when and where and how. I think it was my first cognizant experience of autonomy; well, that will be fun to unpack with my therapist in 2026. 

In order to keep it for myself, I knew I had to hide it – that, or explain it. I’m a terrible liar, so often, part of the build-up to cutting as I got older was, how can I believably explain this away if someone were to see it? Luckily, in a way, I figured out that I didn’t need to see the blood to feel the relief, to get that rush of endorphins that let my shoulders relax and my vision clear. I just needed to feel the pain from something sharp, and if there was something to keep the feeling going, all the better. I used a push-pin a lot – poking into the skin far enough for the sting and especially where I knew I’d get sweat in it later. No one was looking where I was using it – my scalp, behind my ears, the thin skin between my fingers and toes. When that wasn’t enough, I made sure to have a damn good explanation. Sometimes I’d blame it on sports – a branch I hadn’t dodged while running, someone hadn’t clipped their toenails in sparring. I blamed the cat once or twice, after she bit me and actually sent me to the ER with cellulitis in my hand – she’d scratch, too, and was an easy scapegoat. Shaving my legs was a good one, too. One of the last times I cut, shortly before I stopped, I said I’d slipped stepping out of the back of the ambulance, and managed to get a cut from the corrugated metal step. 

My palms are damp, and my shoulders are tight as I write this. Why this is what I need to write right now, at the end of December when there are so many things I could share, I don’t know. But I need to, I suppose. 

Seventeen years. There are some hard truths in those years – times when I came close, times when I thought I’d break the streak because of everything going on. Because, as readers of this blog know, in the past seventeen years, I’ve been through some shit. I’ve lost a parent, a child, a father-in-law, a damn good dog, and my wife. I’ve divorced, married, and been widowed. I’ve lost lovers and chosen family that I never thought I would. I’ve been officially diagnosed with ADHD, PTSD, anxiety, and many flavors of depression. I’ve had arteries in my neck dissect and put me at significant risk. I’ve left jobs and started new ones; I’ve given birth twice, and have the most amazing muppet of a six-year-old. I’ve written books and been rejected by agents. I’ve fought the IRS and gone to graduate school. I’ve lost my brakes while driving, and climbed (small) mountains. I’ve been living this one wild and precious life – not always to the fullest, but I’ve been doing it, and I’m going to keep doing it. 

Do I miss cutting? Yeah, I do. Do I think about it often? Yeah, almost daily. In the words of the Goo Goo Dolls, scars are souvenirs I’ll never lose; the past is never far. I don’t have many – I was careful; I never needed stitches, and I rarely cut in dangerous areas or deeply. On this aging body there are four – three thick white lines, and one set of three small thin ones. I can remember each one in vivid detail. The little set I blamed on the cat; and one of the big ones was the time I “slipped” out of the ambulance I was working in. The other two I wasn’t living in a situation where I was making excuses anymore, and had no one to hide them from. 

One of those scared me – I had cut way too deep. I felt, for the first time, that I wasn’t in control of the cutting. I know I had other marks on me then, too, but it was that one 2” gash that had me frightened enough that I ended up in ER. I didn’t need stitches, but spent five days in the locked psychiatric unit. I was discharged on a fistful of meds for depression that my ex encouraged me to stop taking because they weren’t helping, which lead to my first experience with venlafaxine withdrawal, landing me back in a different ER and needing sedation. My memory of that time is poor; and not especially traumatic, seeing as I remember little more than flashes. Enough that when I deliberately tapered off venlafaxine after spending six years taking it, my body remembered, and the taper had to be slowed and extended in order for my system to acclimate. PSA – If you ever want to stop taking venlafaxine, please do so with caution and medical provider support. 

But that experience didn’t make me stop. I continued for another 21 months. Why? I mean, to my thinking at the time, why not? I had found the boundary and knew exactly how far I could go. I had no reason to stop. Even when my [then] husband begged me or ordered me not to, I just went back to hiding it, easy-peasy. 

The final time came on December 28, 2008. We had just finished a call; I don’t remember the patient or the reason we were there, but there’s a clear moment I do remember. I was standing in the stall of a bathroom in the women’s locker room at Sisters of Charity Hospital in Buffalo New York, my boots on, the legs of my pants and long-johns shoved up to above my calf. Chest heaving, I looked at the Swiss army knife in my hand, the blood seeping from the fresh cut. I was in a bathroom stall, for fucks sake, in the middle of the goddamn night, cutting with an old knife that wasn’t likely super clean. I remember thinking, I don’t want gangrene. This would be a stupid way to lose my leg. And then, I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t know exactly what I did then; I’m sure I cleaned up and got back to work like nothing had happened, like every time before. Talked shit with my partner, got coffee from a 24-hour Tim Horton’s, and took another call. 

After that, the first few months were touch and go. I got so close – got to the point of pressing the blade to my skin, but never moved it. I tried other ways to trick my brain, recommendations from reddit and from therapists. I used a red marker where I wanted to cut; I snapped a rubber band against my wrist; I used the back of the knife to lightly indent where I wanted to cut. They all felt silly to me. At the time, having a knife in my pocket at all times was important, so I didn’t feel like that was a solution either. 

Eventually, it got easier. I indulged in the fantasy a lot – like, a LOT. Any time I wanted to cut, I let myself walk through it in my mind. And yeah, sometimes, I still do. There have been plenty of times where the only reason I don’t is I know that I would never hit this long of a streak again if I go back to it. 

The desire is still there, the urge always simmering. It is a craving, sometimes far stronger than others, but never gone. I don’t use the rubber band or the red marker anymore, and if I’m not at work, still often carry a pocketknife. I’m still active; I probably could avoid thorns a little more, but hey, hiking in New England carries its own risks. Plus, I’d rather stand in the midst of them so I could lift the kiddo over them. 

I’m able to identify and name the times when I’m feeling self-destructive, and I’ve gotten good at reaching out to people who can hear me say that and speak to those parts of me. In those moments, they remind me – just get through this night, and tomorrow you will get up and do it again. They’re right, and I do. 

Looking into the DSM characteristics and the published literature of it has been interesting, too. I didn’t know NSSI is considered a “behavior specialty” for borderline personality disorder – luckily, something I’ve never been diagnosed or considered for. Most of the studies done are in the context of BPD, and when they aren’t, it’s with veterans or adolescents. Yes, I was an adolescent during much of the time I self-injured; if I estimate the time, it was a period of 16 years that I was consciously trying to hurt myself, though the method evolved over time. 

Sixteen years of self-harm.

Seventeen years since the last time. 

Next year, my abstinence from self-harm will be eighteen, and I’m gonna buy myself a scratch ticket to celebrate. 

Thanks for reading; it’s not an easy topic, I know. It’s not easy for people to talk about, and therefore, it’s something I feel like I need to talk about. If one person out there feels less alone in their struggles because of what I write, then it’s worth it. 

Take care, and see you again in 2026. May the coming year be kind to you, and full of adventures and peace. 

Posted in Current Events, On Writing

Sweet Pain, and Savoring

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

*Content warning: self harm (historical)*

In the writing circles I have been gathered into, writers fall somewhere along a spectrum. One on side are plotters – those who outline, timeline, and map out how their story will unfold. On the other side are the pantsers – those who write “by the seat of their pants.” For those of you who know me outside of a computer screen, you may be surprised to learn that I am an absolute pantser. 

Fun fact: whenever I sit down to write this blog, I almost always know exactly where it starts, and almost never know exactly where it ends. Sure, most times I know what I want to write about as far as a general topic, or story I want to share. Occasionally, even that is a surprise to me. For someone who loves structure and clarity as much as I do, it vexes me to not be able to find a straight line in anything I write. 

Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely love writing. I love the feel of a pen in my hand, the ease at which the ink flows across the page. I love that a simple Word document can keep up with my racing brain, even if my fingers occasionally fumble on the keys. I love the aesthetics of writing in all media it takes, and I will buy any sticker with a typewriter on it I find. I love notebooks and stationary, and how fonts can be used to impart tone and how twenty-six letters can tell infinite stories. I have never considered myself as someone who suffers for my craft.

But the lack of being able to plan for “what comes next” definitely abrades my neural network, sandpaper rubbing against the grain. When it comes to writing, I cannot think linearly; and the longer I do it, the less predictable it is. 

The need is there – the need to put words to my feelings, the need to express the constant churn inside me. Recently on social media I saw the question circulating, “why did you write?” My prepared answer for when I’m famous one day is pretty much, because queer stories deserve to be told like anyone else’s. But under that, a far more raw and truthful answer – because I had to. It’s a compulsion. I don’t believe I could ever stop writing again. So even as I struggle to find a routine, even a rhythm, that makes it possible for me to hit the release valve on these dammed words, I know they must. And they will, whether I want them to or not. 

I recently finished a book called, What Happened to You? co-authored by Oprah and Dr. Bruce Perry. While I have long known the impact of trauma (both capital T and otherwise) on my own life, it was still incredible to hear the neuroscience behind it. Every word, carefully spoken by one author or the other, brought more understanding to my own struggles, as well as those of people I love. 

It was also the first time that someone besides my own therapist outright called self-harm an addiction. 

I’m not sure if I’ve ever spoken about that here. Likely in passing; it’s not something I hide. I don’t wear long skirts or pants every day, or long for tattoos to cover the memories. It wouldn’t matter if I never saw the scars again. I’d still miss it, and still think about the kiss of the blade every single day. 

It has been sixteen years, nine months, and fourteen days since the last time I cut through my own skin in order to find relief. Six thousand, one hundred, thirty-two days. 

The best part about that? I had to look it up. I stopped counting the days long ago. 

Oh, I remember the last date, the whole last event. That one didn’t scar – my body, anyway. I still think about it. Sometimes, I still even crave it. I yearn for that release. I dream of it, romanticize it, and I never go back. 

Not too long ago, I threw a pair of scissors across the room from where I sat. It took me a few minutes to realize why the hell I had done that. Yeah. It’s an addiction, and the lure of it is ever present. I called my therapist, then my doctor, then pulled out my WRAP plan and followed it.

Now here I am, over 800 words into this, and just now getting to what I actually wanted to talk about. Total typical pantser behavior. 

Another concept What Happened to You? brought to light was that of post-traumatic wisdom. There’s something to be said for living through shit and coming through the other side. You learn things – about yourself, other people, and how you relate to the world. You already know, far too well, what doesn’t feel good. If you’ve worked on your trauma, if you’ve discussed and analyzed and contextualized and gotten down and dirty with it, you know it. 

And if you know it that intimately, you can get to know the seeds the shadows leave behind.

One thing my therapist and I have been talking about a lot lately is learning to savor. Lately, just the past month or so, I’ve been trying hard to be more present with what is in front of me, and give my anxiety and depression less of my active attention. (Getting off social media has, annoyingly, been very helpful with this). And while ‘mindfulness’ has been a word that just irks me, thinking about presence and intention has struck a chord. 

On our trip to San Francisco, I had zero chill. Like, none. (There will be another post about that trip coming soon). The train car at the airport heard me clearly blurt out, “Holy shit is that a palm tree?” and “Oh my god, that’s a cactus!” I couldn’t stop staring at staggered rows of pelicans flying overhead in the sunset light. I laughed until I was breathless, chasing my kid in the surf. 

So hey… When’s the last time you looked back through your phone at the pictures you took, on a trip or at a concert or something you wanted to remember? 

I have looked at the ones from that trip nearly daily, and not just pulling them up to show people; but opening them on purpose to think about, and recall the feeling of wonder in my chest as I stared up the impossibly tall trunk of a redwood; to feel the warmth of the tidepool water on the beach, and the cool breeze between my teeth from my jaw dropping when we discovered herds of elk on the cliffs. 

This past week, on Wednesday, I sat down with my morning coffee like I do every morning. Coffee ice cubes, brewed with cardamom and cinnamon, a splash of milk; it was one of the most memorable cups of coffee I’ve had. Why? I’m not sure, but I do know that I savored every sip. 

Another thing – when it’s trauma that teaches you to savor, it also teaches you when it’s safe to do so. There’s a quote I keep thinking of and have yet to find again, about the overwhelming sensory experience in a modern-day grocery store (and no, it’s not the Jon Kabat-Zinn one, which is possibly misattributed anyway). But anyway, the grocery store? Not a safe place for me to be intentionally present and try to savor. Hell, no. Get me out of there as fast as possible. Grocery shopping produces (ha) such anxiety in me, that when I get ready to go, I make the list twice – once to know what I need, then to put it in order of my route through the store, which does not change. The kiddo even has made a little song to remind me that “it’s okay to be stressed, just take three deep breaths” while we make our way through the weekly hell. 

And now, with that behind me, I can savor. I have a beer that I really enjoy, my kid bouncing her way through a game on the beat-up couch, doofy dog under my feet, and I’m writing. Not at my usual time, not even at my preferred time – based on past routines, I should be cooking right now – but here I am. I can see the small smile on my face in the reflection, feel the cool air on my arms and warm socks on my feet. It’s raining outside, loud enough to get past my headphones, and is adding to the ambiance. 

I’ve got a bunch of chapters left to write for my novel, and not wholly sure what I’m doing with them. I’m already dreaming up the next series. And I’m writing a blog post, while remembering I need to keep working on my Skillshare class for social media marketing.

I’m safe, sheltered, fed, and warm enough. I should put on my reading glasses; I should drink some water. For a few more moments, however, I’m going to write – because I love to and because I need to – and just savor this little slice of time. 

… Where was I going with this?

Now go look at the pictures of fireworks you took, thinking you’d look at them someday. Make that day today. Call up a memory, a feeling, if you’re in a place to do so. Or make a new one – let a pastry melt on your tongue, wrap yourself in your softest blanket, or whatever is going to feel so good that when you fall asleep tonight, you can think of it again, and drift off with a smile. 

Take care of yourself. We all have to start there. 

A picture of a hand holding a smartphone with an image of a baby tucked onto someone's chest
Posted in Hawthorne, Memoir and Memory

Inertia

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

I know I’ve talked about social media here before – even as yes, you probably found this off the Facebook link – and how much I have come to hate it. Or, my interaction with it. No, actually, I think as a whole I despise it. 

I was an early adopted of Facebook, back when you needed the dot-edu email address to get it. I remember being thrilled to find something a little more static than just AOL instant messenger, and more interactive than Myspace. I remember rushing back to the dorm to log in and see what hilarious anecdotes that my friends from high school – because with Facebook, you didn’t have to let go of those now-tenuous connections – had come up with in my absence. 

I remember when the text before the box where you typed your post changed, and when Timelines were rolled out. I remember not having the word “meme” and cutting, pasting, and printing out funny things I saw on the screen to hang on my dorm walls. I remember being horrified when my little sister joined Facebook when she was 16, and realizing it was no longer just for college kids. For me, that was when I really noticed that huh… Facebook and stuff like that might be problematic sometimes. 

My wife was the second person I knew with a smartphone; the first person I knew worked in tech, so I didn’t think it was much more than a job perk. But the early days of my relationship with Hawthorne, they’d always be sliding their thumb over the same two inches of screen, reading off articles they found or showing me pictures of puppies dressed up in Halloween costumes. In 2012, when I took a job that gave me a smartphone, they helped me set it up. My lock screen was a cartoon of two strawberries with ears and eyes added to make them look like puppies. I don’t remember whatever the cute, motivational message beneath them was, but I remember Hawthorne being very pleased with the strawberry pups. I’m certain if I took the time, I could find that old picture somewhere in the cloud, in whatever corner our collective stuff is stored in. 

Over the next 8 years, social media became their way of dealing with unmedicated ADHD, their never-ending curiosity, and the pain that became so present in their life. On September 19, 2020, I took their phone off the charger on their nightstand. I scrolled their contacts for who I had to notify. They had also been on a couple apps where I knew they had connected with folks, and I messaged the ones who seemed to be mid-conversation to tell them what had happened. It was awkward, but I was in enough shock that it didn’t bother me until years later. 

I downloaded all the pictures without looking at them, and copied a couple phone numbers that I didn’t have. One last time, I watched the screen fade out, the picture of Lucy tucked into their flannel shirt in the NICU. I put their phone in the junk drawer in the kitchen, letting the battery run out.

The next time I saw it, I was packing the house to move. Mice had found the junk drawer and nibbled at the blue silicone of the case. I peeled that off, wiped off the rest of the phone with a Clorox wipe, and packed it away. 

I saw it again, here and there over the years, when I stumbled upon the box. At one point, I moved it to a pile of old electronics that I intended on destroying one day when I had some anger to let go of. 

In the meantime, of course, is when I have adopted the same habits as H. Pain? Anxiety? Don’t want to face what bullshit tasks need to be done? Time to scroll. And truthfully, I hate it. I hate knowing that I can be so distracted, so sucked into this tiny screen that I don’t notice what’s happening around me. I don’t notice the time passing; I do notice the things that don’t get done, the words that don’t get written. I finally took Facebook off my phone, and kept the timer on my Instagram. I figured that would solve the problem. It took a while to realize that it’s harder to market my books without the immediacy of Facebook in my hand, and my author page has suffered. I’ve also lost touch with the local groups of soon-to-be kindergartner families, and the resources I’ve accessed through the platform, like Marketplace. It took a while to realize that whenever I open Instagram to post something, I get immediately distracted, and by the time I’m ready to stumble my way through creating a post, I’m out of time for the day. It took a while to realize that it doesn’t matter if I try to curate what apps I have for media on my phone, if there is something I can continually access (Threads being my current obsession), I am going to reach for distraction. I don’t waste the finite willpower I have on curbing social media usage myself. 

Last week, while I was lamenting this first-world problem, my friend asked why I don’t just get another phone to use just for social media. It doesn’t need a SIM card, they said, just WiFi; I can bring it to events so I can post or do lives, keep all my social media on there, and think of it as essentially a work device. 

Because I’m not buying another phone, I scoffed, then thought about it. 

Currently, there are two old iPhones kicking around my house. One was Lucy’s Nana’s before she upgraded; she gave it to Lucy because “kids and phones,”  and Lucy has played with the (never charged) device for years. To her, it’s just a thin brick that looks like Mama’s. 

And I remembered that I had Hawthorne’s phone. 

After a couple evenings of looking (and trying to avoid the boxes of stuff that are more emotional, and failing), I found it. I didn’t feel any connection to H, even though it’s the last object they ever held in their hand. I plugged it in and charged it up. 

The screen read Thursday, October 15, 12:29 AM (it was actually August 5, 11:14 PM). There was Lucy, peeking out from the flannel shirt and smiling. There were 13 tabs open, including 2 from Facebook, 2 from YouTube, and 3 from Wikipedia about Maren Morris, Billy the Kid, Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company, plus 3 Google searches for song lyrics, a movie they couldn’t remember the name of, and a sex offender registry. Yeah, that tracked.

I still feel no connection. And yet, I reached out to some of our mutual friends and asked, it’s okay to factory reset their phone, right? They’re used to these questions from me. I need support like that when I let little pieces go. Most of the time, I end up taking a picture of the thing in question, making the FINAL-final letting go a problem for future-me. 

The phone is ready to be reset. It’s charged. I remembered the passcode, only 4 digits.

I’ve talked about doing this, rather extensively now, with my friend (the one who suggested it in the first place) and my therapist. I’ve had it on my to-do list every day for a week. Why do I keep putting it off?

There’s a part of me that wants to sit and explore it. See what stories those old threads might hold. Can I log into their Facebook? Reddit? Tumblr? I rub my hands and cackle maniacally, what havoc would it cause for Hawthorne to reach out to someone that way? Nah, it would be assumed a scam. I don’t really want to put myself through looking for things that might upset me, either. I already have the pictures; the files are on the cloud, and I have their old laptop, too. 

You know what the problem is? What’s stopping me from going through with this? 

I’m preemptively annoyed that I will have to go through the setting up of the damn thing, downloading apps and then, trying to remember my passwords for all the accounts. 

OH, THE HORROR. 

When I admit that, out loud (or, yknow, in text), I feel like such a shallow asshole. But almost immediately, I’m struck that right now? That’s a situation – not even a problem, really – that is absolutely and completely in my control. And right now, I can’t do much about the ICE raids, or martial law in DC, or war crimes and genocide in Gaza, or Category 5 storms approaching the coast. Right now, 8am on a Sunday morning, I can’t contact the school to get more info on what Lucy will need. I can’t go grocery shopping because the child is still sleeping. I can’t update my budget app because the banks aren’t open. 

So in this moment – when my anxiety is low, the house noise is mostly non-existent, the coffee is fresh and everything is closed – I can choose to focus my energy on the things that are in my control. 

The shit that’s going down out there… it’s too big for me to hold at this moment. It’s too heavy, too inactionable at this moment. I don’t want to see it; and I acknowledge my vast privilege in being able to choose that. I am very, very fortunate. And because of that, I need to use it for good. And that means, to me at least, that I need to start with what is at hand. 

Getting social media off my phone and onto something that I have to make far more of a conscious act to pick up will be good for my mental health. The better my mental health, the more regulated I can be, and then, the more regulated I can make the environment for Lucy. When I tell her “let’s focus on what is in front of us,” and “we can only do one thing at a time, right?” they are just as much reminders to myself as they are lessons for her. I cannot personally deliver aid to Gaza. I can write a grocery list and menu to shop mindfully, so that we are not contributing to food waste. I can’t release the Epstein files, but I can pick up the trash the storm scattered in front of my house. I can’t stop this regime, but I can participate in mutual aid. I can’t fix the hate in the world, but I can show my kid the love in it, and how we can return and reciprocate it back. 

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are, when you can. Take care of yourself first; we have to. We have to. We can’t pour from an empty cup, and memes just won’t fill it. 

Time to go figure out my passwords. Dammit.

Posted in Oscar

For All That I Carry

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

There’s always music on in this house. Always sound. For now, for these morning hours on this day, it is as silent as it will ever be. Lucy is at a friend’s house, waking up soon at a sleepover before spending the day with the sitter. TV is off, there’s no music; every single device on silent. The dog sighs occasionally, the cars pass outside the window. It’s early enough on a Saturday that the general sound of two men having a conversation across the street carry over. I’ve opened the window, the first time in months; there is no breeze, and the shade is still deep. I’ll have to remember to close it soon and turn the AC back on. 

Seven years ago, time stopped somewhere on Tuesday morning, July 17th and didn’t start again until 6:34AM on Thursday, July 19th. The time between exists only as a liminal space, a time hung in the balance of disbelief. 

Today, at 6:30, I held the tiny urn to my chest, cold stone, until it was warmed through, and I felt the cool patches from where I had given it my warmth. I set it next to his crown, then struck a match; the tiny stick splintered, enough fibers holding together that the flame didn’t fall. I lit the candle, the one given to me by someone else who had similarly birthed stillness, and sat. The Mother watched over, her face serene in the candlelight.

I spoke to him for a minute, words so similar to what I tell Lucy – I love you so much. I’m so proud to be your mama. I love you, I love you – and more that I hope never to say for Lucy – I miss you every day. 

My body knows the time without checking my watch. My whispers trail off, and I let the minute of his birth pass in silence, acutely aware of the emptiness of my hands and my womb. They ache for the tiny life they once carried. 

Then I rise, and gently lift the baby blanket his Nana made, the only thing I have left that held him besides my own skin. I opened my phone and pulled up the video of Andrea Gibson reading their poem “Love Letter from the Afterlife” to their wife. I let it play, feeling the words echo in the empty parts of me. “One day you will understand. One day you will know why I read the poetry of your grief to those waiting to be born –“ 

The playback stopped. I looked over at my phone, laying on the bed. The video was still up, so I didn’t move, just closed my eyes. Waited.

Waited until my body sobbed, unbidden, and I reached for the phone. I picked it up without touching the screen, and – 

“ – and they are all the more excited.”  

The mortal death of Andrea Gibson hit me hard this week, in this space between Hawthorne and Oscar’s birthdays. They left right smack between them – 9, 14, 19. I can’t ignore the symmetry of those dates strung together. I haven’t written since their death, but I’ve felt it coming, the words building up behind a dam made from capitalism and parental responsibilities. Apparently now is when the dam breaks. 

Every year, I try to be gentler with myself in this between time. I liken it to the days between Christmas and New Year in workplace. There’s no deadlines, no major work being done – I know that’s not true for everyone, but in my world, the fiscal year is separate and tends to be when the rush of deadlines hits. And, in so many ways, it is a new year for me. Forget CE/BCE or BC/AD. Life is divided differently for me, and I think, for all those who have carried both life and death in their bodies. There is the Before Oscar time, and the After Oscar time. And so, when the clock strikes midnight tonight, The Year After Oscar 7 begins. I’ll return friends calls and texts, and get the weekly grocery shopping done. I will set the new year off with music in my soul-home state, and dance with my amazing, brilliant, feral child as it echoes off the lush green mountains. Hawthorne and I played that music for hours and hours for both of the little lives we shepherded. How fitting to find the concert there, ten miles from Lucy’s birthplace, on the first day of AO 7. It also feels a little strange to think that’s what I’ll be doing merely 36 hours from now, from these moment of heaviness that drag my fingers to the keyboard to catch everything that is pouring out of me faster than the pen can. The reams of paper I already go through. 

Seven years. I’ve written before how “should” is a four-letter word. He should be seven; he should be starting second grade a few days before Lucy has her first day of kindergarten. We should be shopping in West Lebanon for new clothes for them to start school in our tiny town of Stockbridge, Vermont. Should sucks. 

Lately I have been feeling called to lean into my witchy aspects more. I started keeping my tarot cards closer, and being less prescriptive with my own self on when I use them. I’ve been reading more, and while I roll my eyes at the algorithms, enjoyed the content that’s crossed my feeds. I’ve been listening to my horoscope from an astrologer and witch I feel a connection to, and have finally done my star chart. But I find myself wondering, this year, about the symbolism and signs around Oscar. So, I did his star chart – and downloaded the full explanatory report, because again, I’m just learning. He’s a Cancer sun, like his Papa, that I knew; also Libra moon and Leo rising. 

Today, he would be seven years old. Today, grief weighs seven pounds and one ounce, and is the heaviest it ever is. I’ve tried to explore numerology before to no avail, and today is no different. I feel no connection to it; maybe I don’t understand it enough, but today does not feel like the day to pursue it, either. 

Today is a day to give myself the space to feel what needs to be felt, just like I did on Hawthorne’s birthday last week. That day I walked over 18,000 steps on the beach and on a hike at the (poorly named) World’s End park, and I found what I needed. Today I have some options after writing – writing is compulsory, after all – and whatever feels good, I’ll follow. Last week my therapist asked what containers I have for all this grief; how do I hold it? And really, the containers are the same as they have always been. Writing, and natural spaces where the air isn’t crowded with voices.

So if you see me today, just give me a wave. Leave a message at the tone, drop me a text or a DM, and just know that I’ll get back to you in the new year. 

Posted in Beliefs and Practices

Muted Rainbows Demand More Sun

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

Just a few months ago, in one of my many notebooks, I scribbled down that I couldn’t wait to welcome back June me. Now that it’s here, it’s almost disappointing; I feel far more subdued, far more anxious. I feel the things I associate with November and winter, not my favorite time of the year. 

I love summer and Pride and hot weather and sunshine. I love the thick, lush canopy of leaves that erupt from every stick that survived the ice and wind of the winter. I love the extra hours of sunlight – not so much the fights that come from trying to put my kid to bed before it’s dark – but the extra time that I take, that I am granted by the natural world. The longing for my home in the mountains doesn’t slice quite as hard when I can raise my eyes from typing and see a spectrum of broad-leaf trees, and pines that seem to relax because their friends and neighbors are visiting again. 

But this year, June dawns grayer and cooler than expected. Whereas the turn of the calendar always filled me with life and vibrancy, this time I find myself struggling with motivation and a level of anxiety that is usually reserved for fall temperatures. 

Pride season always fills me with hope and gratitude; this year, those burgeoning emotions war with trepidation and a near-existential dread. It feels like more than I have the reserves for after this past winter and cool, rainy spring. 

Changes come; patterns emerge, change, revert, change again. 

As we approach the solstice, I find myself seeking solitude. I am reflecting, drawn to digging into my own shadows. The tumult of the past half-year have found me here, sitting in the same physical place as Mabon. So much the same as then, and I feel so very different. 

I am drawing back, recommitting to myself right now; my body, my home, my kid, my writing. The investments of my time and energy, my blood, sweat, and tears; none of it is without deep thought and intention. 

I am indulging – no, not indulging, because that makes me feel as if it’s something I don’t deserve or need – I am embracing where my heart and soul are leading me. 

I’m no longer waiting for perfect moments and clean spaces – if I feel called to read my tarot, I pull out my cards. 

I’m no longer waiting until the house is clean to sit and write. 

I’m no longer waiting until the weather is nice if I want to go outside. 

I’m not waiting until the kid falls asleep to take care of myself.

I’m not waiting for someone to come over and watch a particular show or movie (though, let’s be honest, how much do I actually watch). 

I’m not waiting for things to be offered. If I want it and I have the energy, I take it. 

I’m tired of feeling like “deserve” is a word that doesn’t apply to me, that never has. That I don’t have intrinsic worth, just by being alive and here. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t deserve; I’m tired of constantly feeling like I have to earn, to strive, to compete. 

I recently bought a t-shirt from a writing conference I am attending that says “Writing is my therapy,” and as I sit here, words flowing from my fingers, I can feel my soul working through some sticky shit. 

I’m tired. I’m grieving. I’m frustrated. I’m despairing and frightened. 

I’m angry. 

I thought I knew anger well. She is but one of my familiars, after all. But there are times when she surprises me. She does not take my hand and smile gently, pointing out the flight of a bluebird. No. She grabs my face in her hands, forces me to look at her head-on, then turns my head to shove my face in what’s been waiting for me to see. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Thank you, I breathe. 

She draws a finger down my spine, reminding me that she is aware of the steel in it, even when I forget. 

So I sit here, writing, feeling, one eye on the clock. Today is a big day. 

It is Saturday, one week from Midsummer. It is Boston’s Pride for the People. It is No Kings Day. It is my eleventh wedding anniversary. 

I have been turning to… well, “faith” would be the easiest way to phrase it, but that feels jarring and uncomfortable. “Spirituality” doesn’t feel quite right, either, but not as icky. “Craft” still means writing. Eh, fuck it. 

I’ve been turning to my witchy shit a lot more lately. I shove stuff out of the way on the couch, or the blankets off the bed to spread out my cards. If the dog is asleep and I can get some space from the child, I still take the floor, or even better (and of course, far rarer) outside. I don’t spend (read: waste) a lot of time searching for the perfect spread to lay out, the questions that fit. I’m following my natural curiosity and determining what it is I need, and find that the cards appreciate that a hell of a lot more.

In almost all my spreads these past few weeks, in every deck, I keep pulling the Wheel of Fortune. This card indicates the nonstop movement of life, change and cycles, that what comes will also pass. [I remember someone I love dearly pulled the Tower for months, and I miss them acutely.] I’ve also repeatedly pulled the eight of pentacles (indicating hard work pays off, effort creates progress), the nine of wands (ready and prepared for a fight), the ten of swords (the pain is real, but the storm is passing), and the Fool (adventurous, experimental, possibilities). Again, these cards come up to me through three different decks, at completely different times, and after lots of shuffling. 

When I did my yearly pull for my birthday (which I actually did on May 1, Beltane) I rejected the first reading. It was full of angst and anxiety; also my most intense deck, so I tried with one that I feel is better for my creativity. And still, though I accepted it, there was a lot of uncertainty in messages; a lack of clarity in my life, clearly indicated by the cards. 

I keep thinking about that. These days feel so uncertain, so fraught. I’ve removed social media from my phone, and I feel better about that most days, but also know that I’m sticking my head in the sand. Whenever I pull it out and get a glimpse of what’s going on, all I can think of is “the fascism, boss!” 

So… now what?

Great, I know that I’m angry. I know that the world is constantly moving. I know that I deserve, not riches or success, but to live as myself, love myself, without compromise or apology. 

And so, I’ve signed on with a writing coach for six months. I booked a writing retreat and I’m attending a virtual conference. I’m clearing my mind before I get to work, and I’m taking messy action. I’m leaning into my witchy shit. I’m planting gardens and my own roots. I am investing in myself. 

I am afraid (I am doing it anyway).

I am creating (I am protesting).

I am parenting (I am resisting).

I am loving (I am rioting).

Here’s to Pride, not just today but always.

Here’s to No Kings, not just today but always. 

Here’s to La Vie Boheme, reminding us that “the opposite of war isn’t peace, it’s creation!”

June may have dawned gray, but I vow that I will keep reaching until I can pull the brilliant sunlight out of the clouds with my bare hands. 

And so it is. 

Posted in Current Events, Memoir and Memory

Careening, Curating, Creating

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

My thirty-ninth year has begun. 

I’m not one of those people who has a birthday month, or even a birthday week – unless it’s the usage of the extra day of PTO given to me by work, or coupons in my email that I mostly discard. It’s never been a big deal. As a kid, there was always a family dinner on the day of; I’d still get chastised for what or how much I ate, dessert was often forcibly shared. Honestly, looking back, I can’t remember most of the parties with friends; those that I do remember, were they mine, or my sister’s that I helped with? No idea, especially since my parents were pretty content with “this worked for the first one, let’s do it again.” 

I remember my 16th birthday, not for any sort of license or freedom, but because it was the first time I had to call 9-1-1. 

I remember my 21st birthday, going to Fenway with my boyfriend and my bestie and spending $16 on one beer and two hot dogs. I’ve always been a lightweight, so the pint of Sam Adams kept me warm in the chilly April evening.

I remember misunderstandings and hurt feeling with Hawthorne until we figured out birthday traditions. It had always been far more special for them than me, and it took time to get used to it. They wanted me to take the day off and spend it with them, both for their birthday and ours. I always prioritized theirs, when it came back to the issue of PTO. We got the hang of it, and spent most of them fishing, with some sort of seafood for dinner and chocolate for dessert, and cards we delighted in picking for each other. 

I remember the first birthday after Oscar died, and how I felt like I didn’t deserve one. 

I remember the first birthday after Hawthorne died, and how desperately I wanted no one to acknowledge it. I didn’t want to celebrate. One of my besties ordered dinner to be delivered to my house, and that was the perfect balance of being taken care of and left alone. 

I remember writing about birthdays before; but if I go looking to make sure I don’t repeat myself, I’ll get distracted, and this post will end up in the growing file of “unfinished and-or unpublished blog posts.” 

I remember turning 37 and feeling unable to function, turning the age Hawthorne was when they died. I remember the jokes with their friends about careening towards forty, and feeling like they stopped mid-pinwheel.

I know the most recent years have been dinner with the cousins and cake; I remember last year being the first time I wanted to celebrate in what felt like forever. I got to spend the weekend with some forged family. I was only recently back on my feet from my health scare, so things were a little weird.  

This year, I was excited for the things surrounding my birthday, the time I’d get to spend doing things I loved. 2025 has been full of change, heartaches and utter joy smashing into each other. With so much in flux, I was even less concerned with the actual date than usual. 

It rolled in like any day, which honestly, is the way I like it. The child was a creature – I believe putting on shoes was the breaking point, but that could have been another day. I went to work, saw a friend who’d stopped by for a visit; her little man being exactly 38 years and 10 months younger than me, we obviously celebrated with sweet baby snuggles. I spoiled myself rotten at the bakery with croissants the size of my face and two different types of cake. My own man was celebrating, his first day at his new job, and he came over afterwards. We dragged the kid out for a walk, managing to catch that golden hour in warm spring air before diving into literal pounds of seafood – fried catfish for me, mussels and shrimp for him – and hot dogs for Lucy. We’d had edibles for an appetizer, and cupcakes throughout the night.

And it was wonderful. A normal day, a normal amount of stress and grief and work shit; magic and cake and love sprinkled throughout like Funfetti. 

I don’t stress much about aging. I have a few grays – still a countable amount. I’m starting to see fine lines at the corners of my mouth and my eyes, evidence of a lifetime of emotion. My belly is round and soft after carrying kiddos, a little extra flesh under arms when I flex. My knees ache when my weight goes up, old sports (and general lack of grace) injuries make themselves known. I groan when I have to change positions at the end of the day, and I use the heated seat in the car to make my back feel better no matter the temperature outside. I’ve got probiotics and aspirin in my pillbox, and the biggest contained of ibuprofen you can get.

I am always learning to take better care of myself; it is an ever-continuing education. I got new reading glasses with the blue light thingy, and a recommendation for yellow-tinted lenses for night driving with the influx of stupid LED headlights. I’ve had my cervical cancer screening, and check my skin for changes in freckles regularly. I finally hit my weight loss goals, and am trying to focus more on movement than scale numbers. I’ve dealt with consecutive injuries – right bicep, right ankle sprain, left bicep – so just now feeling ready to dust off the gym membership. 

I am trying to incorporate both physical activity (walking, gardening) and deliberate rest and relaxation into my days. My man has been teaching me to play video games on the Switch – resurrecting my love of Tetris and Spyro, and introducing me to Spiritfarer.

I’ve been working on a social media exit plan and reboot, working to cut down the time I lose to anxiety and distraction on my phone. I’ve fully deleted TikTok, tumblr, and Twitter. I’ve closed my personal Instagram, keeping my author IG and Threads accounts, as well as my Facebook. However, one of the best things I did was to delete Facebook from my phone. Not my account – I still have it, personal and professional, but now I have to use the computer to use it. I don’t know about you, but scrolling on a laptop is not the same thing as just thumbing the screen on my phone. 

The screen time itself was not the issue; it was what lead to the screen in the first place. I remember Hawthorne telling me they used their phone (reddit, mostly) to keep themselves distracted from their physical pain. I remember with extreme clarity the moment I decided that was a good idea – sitting on the red couch in the new spot I’d chosen after they died, Lucy napping in her swing. I couldn’t read. I didn’t want to watch anything; everything reminded me of them and I couldn’t choose something new. I picked up my phone. 

More recently I’ve come to realize just how much I rely on scrolling to “manage” my anxiety. Once that rise of overwhelm started, that whiny, physical discomfort of having to do something I didn’t want to, or was anxious/nervous about, or I just… didn’t want to be so damn present, I picked up my phone. And I hated it. I didn’t want to do it, but I had conditioned myself. And then it got to the point where it didn’t matter why I’d picked it up – to make an important call, check the weather for the day, see the picture from Lucy’s school or message from my man – I’d end up scrolling. I tried setting limits and alarms; that only worked when I handed someone else the control to set the password on the parental limits so that once 11pm rolled around, my phone became just a phone with an alarm and messaging. But that didn’t stop the scrolling the other 18 hours of the day. 

I need environmental and engineering controls. I don’t respect self-imposed limits; if someone else were to tell me “no, you can’t go there,” but they leave me with the key? Eventually I’m going to be the horror-movie blonde who finds a way to justify exploring it and discovering the consequences for herself. For something like breaking self-imposed limits on screen time, the consequences (feeling guilty) just fed back into the reason I picked the damn thing up in the first place. 

I don’t want to be scrolling. If I’m using my phone, I want it to be because I want to be – not mindless distraction. I kept my games – Wordle and Squardle and Killer Sudoku. Those are daily things I enjoy spending time on, sipping coffee sitting in the car or on the couch. No guilt. I kept Instagram on my phone, and Messenger – I don’t get stuck in those and lose time. I kept Threads – now that one I have a limit for, because I do get distracted, but so far, it’s quite easy to come back from and there haven’t been any negative feelings. Reacting to everyone for Facebook birthday wishes on the computer was a pain in the ass, and forced me to take the time to do it by hand and actually read the names of everyone who left one. 

There’s no guilt for me in deciding to pick up the Switch, or play an extra Sudoku game, or indulge in more smut on my Kindle. There’s no uncomfortable shame in using my laptop to make a post, or edit, or put new words down. To me, that means that my amount of time using screens is within healthy parameters. 

It’s also forcing me to face my anxieties differently, especially at work, or with interpersonal things. I no longer have that easy distraction. It might not seem like deleting a few apps and accounts could do that, but I simply don’t use what remains the same way. I’ve sat on less emails, had to apologize for not getting back to people sooner less, been (somewhat) more prepared for things. I’ve managed to do not distract myself away from some emotionally painful things, both work and personal. I’m fact-checking what I do hear, trying to be more responsive and less reactionary. It feels impossible sometimes, what with the current state of the politics, but it’s absolutely necessary to my mental health. 

Best of all, it’s re-lighting some of the creative candles that have sputtered out. This right here, case in point; like I said, multiple unfinished posts that may never see the light of internet fame. I’ve been playing more with collage, with markers, with coloring and stickers. I’ve picked Master Class back up, and have been watching the creative folks I follow on Youtube more than fifteen-years old sad music videos. 

One of the posts I have hidden away is mostly memes about why we need art; about art as revolution, creativity as response – to injustice, to war, to fascism, to a government that doesn’t seem to want so many of us to exist. I may resurrect it (though Easter Sunday would have been better for that I suppose). 

At the moment, however, I feel like I am the center of six orbits that both intersect, and remain out of sync, with each other. I don’t like this much unknown, this much simultaneous change and ambiguity. It’s not comfortable. It doesn’t feel good in my body. But if wisdom comes with aging, maybe this is the evidence – my phone is in the other room, and my battery is dying; I don’t have time for distraction. I’ve cultivated what I am able to take in, and focusing on what I’m able to do, to take action in the ways that don’t empty me. 

And so I leave you with this; one quote in one picture, what would have been the capstone to the other post (and the article above about Ethan Hawke’s TED Talk).

Let us grow and age and create, speak and write and do language; and let the 39 dripping birthday candles blow out, and not one more. 

Quote by Toni Morrison on a background of library books with an open notebook and quill in an inkwell. The quote reads "This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal."
Posted in Beliefs and Practices

The Secret that Insta Therapists Don’t Want You to Know!

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

The offrenda is small this year. Symbols and touchstones take the place of photographs. A tussy-mussy of marigolds snatched from the last scraggly pot at a pumpkin farm lie wilting in front of the tiny urn and crystals. The light from the small candles barely reaches to the floor before the altar. This simple and unplanned space is all I could manage this year.

It has been a rough six months, on the heels of a difficult winter. 

Every time I feel like I’m turning a corner, that my mood and energy will start to improve  – with this new therapist, this new medication, the hours of sunlight a day –  something interrupts my anticipated progress, and I am grieving all over again. 

I grieve the hours stolen from me – by the depression, by the job, by the stupid amount of time I spend driving place to place. I am grateful for the pay and the health insurance, and the meaning buried deeply in the work I do. The traffic exhausts me and by the time I arrive home, it is all I can do to empty lunch boxes and get dinner together. 

I grieve the energy and patience lost to having to shoulder parenting a toddler alone. I am grateful for my village, without whom Lucy would not have had a birthday celebration or trick-or-treating on Halloween. My Target receipt would be miles longer for clothes and shoes, and I would have missed out on music and so much conversation with other adults. 

I grieve for my wife, as a widow. I grieve for my son, as a loss mom. I grieve for my daughter, as any parent does, as there aren’t enough hours in the day to both function in this world and to focus on her joy and her journey. 

I grieve for my friends and family who have suffered at the hands of others, even as they fight back against oppressive systems. I grieve for strangers who went bowling, for strangers who find themselves displaced and endangered as war rages in front of their eyes and ravages their families. 

I know that I cannot take on the sadness of the world, and that is not my intent. Nor is it my intent today to use this platform to provide a beacon of hope or light or whatever positivity I can muster. 

Because right now, even as I wait for my daughter to awake, for dear friends to arrive, even as a new exciting chapter is opening its pages – amidst the small joys, I am weighed down by everything from war to neurotransmitters. There will always be people who measure their power in the taking of human lives. The oceans are warming and the sea is still rising. My first child and my wife will still be gone from this plane. My brain will never make its serotonin quota on its own. These aren’t lamentations or intrusive thoughts; these are irreversible facts that I have to acknowledge every day.

I think we do a disservice to people suffering when we cannot acknowledge it without also providing some sort of golden thread of hope.

I’m not saying give up on hope. I’m not saying that we, collectively, should stop lighting candles or saying prayers or looking for the helpers. I’m not saying don’t continue seeking and demanding justice and ceasefires. I’m not saying little moments, gestures of kindness, or offerings of hope aren’t massively important. 

I’m saying that shit’s just heavy sometimes, and the presence of heavy shouldn’t automatically trigger a response of lightness. The “equal and opposite response” law isn’t an evenly spread layer of karma that makes the balance evident. Balance in the universe doesn’t trickle down to the individual level, and we don’t need to fall into the trap of false or toxic positivity to try to make ourselves or others feel better. 

So if all you can see right now is dark, I get it. I see it too. And it’s enough to acknowledge that. Whatever you can muster, in whatever season you’re in, is enough. You don’t need to look for the lesson or the silver lining. You don’t have to think your flaws are beautiful, or that blessings always wear disguises. 

There will always be heavy shit, there will always be darkness, and the seasons will change. If all you can do is acknowledge that, it’s enough. 

Posted in Beliefs and Practices

Me, Myself, I

Posted on by Queer Mama Rising

I’ve been talking to myself for years. Out loud, in my head, for as long as I can remember. Truth is, I can’t really tell silence apart from my thoughts when I’m alone.

I remember when social media discovered that not everyone has an internal monologue and how shocking it was (I was surprised, were you surprised? I was very surprised). I have no idea what it is like to live and not have a constant radio in my brain, peppered with dad jokes, movie quotes, and song lyrics, like hurdles for the racing of my thoughts. Even now, I can hear the words as they want to be written down. It’s so hard to keep up, even though I know I have good typing speed. The red lines indicating misspellings are new obstacles that must be corrected and cleared before I can go on. Unless I am taking minutes and need to keep up with others, there is no way for me to not edit as I write. It takes far more energy to fight that urge than it does to simply roll with it, hit delete with my pinky a few times, and correct the spelling. Does it screw up the flow of the radio? Not really, because I’m watching the screen and if I spell something like “F-I-H-G-T,” and don’t correct it, that’s when my brain stumbles trying to figure out how the hell to say that – out loud, inside my brain, where no one else can hear it. 

This is something I have wondered about with telepathy, or the burgeoning technology that allows those who cannot speak to be able to communicate brainwaves. Do they have an internal monologue? What gets transmitted? Is it all the static, the rushing thoughts, a high-speed monorail constantly switching tracks? Or does it have to be delivered, a thought like writing, like “this is what I want to say?” Either way, unless I lose the ability to speak and write (one of my greatest fears), count me out. I don’t want to have to share this with anyone; not for their sake, but mine. Usually. 

I started reading Oliver Sacks close to ten years ago. Between us, Hawthorne and I collected and read a dozen of his titles. As a person with migraines, and with close proximity to other ways the brain can betray the body, it was fascinating. I recognized some of the stories – patients I had taken in the ambulance and the things that they had said. Some of the diagnoses with more rare characteristics I know I’ve seen on hospital drama shows. The self-care movements of late, with emphasis on how we speak to ourselves, make me want to reread those titles. (Should I add them to my GoodReads list? TBR pile? Change their spot on the bookshelf? Does it count to my year goal if I re-read something? The train rushes on without answers.)

In listening to folks like Brene Brown and KC Davis, as well as in therapy sessions and with certain friends, I accept the challenge of looking inward. I think of all the different “me’s” there are: my inner child striving for perfection, my alter-ego struggling to come to the surface. I think who I try to focus on most are more time-based than psychological, though – past, future, and present me. 

How do I take care of me today?

Past me, I can give her therapy. I pay the fee and let her lead for the 50 minutes. It is her time, to bring up whatever she needs. Parents, relationships, pain, grief. She usually tries to save the good memories for me, or just share them with friends who aren’t paid for their service. She is gracious and if she doesn’t want to use it, she gives it back to present me. 

Future me, I can give her action. I can get that thing done instead of waiting til tomorrow; I can unload the clean dishwasher, prep the coffeemaker, charge the devices. Future me is often harried and forgetful, trying to get out the door with a dog barking in the crate and a toddler insisting her shoes be on the wrong feet. It’s not that she’s not grateful, she just doesn’t usually remember to say it.

Present me. What can I do for present me? I’m still learning. I’m learning to slow down, to let present me breathe. To enjoy the moments as they’re revealed, miniscule packages wrapped in grace. I relax my shoulders, unclench my jaw.

Present me has it tough. She has to deal with the negative self-talk I still fall into (though my most common nickname for myself, dumbass, comes out less and less these days). She gets caught up in the shit; being touched-out, exhausted, and unable to do anything of substance past toddler bedtime. A mere mortal, my wife used to call me, when I wouldn’t accomplish ridiculous amounts of things on an arbitrary list. Fuck that noise. 

All of these gifts – the therapy, the action, the grace – come at costs that I’m willing to pay, if not always able. Sometimes I screw up. I rushed through watering my plants this week, a chore I always enjoy. I usually stop to stroke the leaves, and yes, talk to each plant. They get compliments and wonder, apologies if needed (add to the list: repotting some of these plants. Who can help with the old hoya? What size pot do I need for the new succulents? Why is aloe such damn challenge for me to keep alive? How much food do the violets need? The tracks are singing.) This week I was distracted with a sick kiddo and wanted to get it done. When she is sick, she’s much more snuggly, and it’s easy to let myself rest with her like that. 

If future me gets action, she also gets accountability. That’s a gift, wrapped and waiting patiently, for present me to get there, the satisfaction of checking it off a list or the time and energy saved from it already being done. 

If past me gets therapy, she also gets space. She is not shoved into corners to let everything inside build and build and build; she gets the space to release that. Another gift to present me, the cleanse of release. 

And if present me gets presence in this bonkers and beautiful life, what more could she want?

There’s a quote that has been lodged in my head, paraphrased and uncited. The part that sticks with me is where it says something to the effect of, if we were to be fully present when we did something as simple as grocery shopping, we would be utterly overwhelmed by the beauty of the colors of the produce, the smells from the bakery, the choices before us. Not that I want to spend more time in the grocery store, but I get it. The moments when I put my phone down and pay attention to the moment – good and bad, the snuggles and the puking, the books and the bills – fill my cup. Those moments, the ones saturated in color or scent or light, the ones where I feel my connection to whatever earth I’m standing on, it’s those that I can give myself over and over again.  

And if my mind whispers along the tracks of calling myself spoiled, well, it’ll find something else soon enough. There is nothing wrong with enjoying the view; after all, we’re all just passing through.