Paris
In truth, I am not sure how to begin. I am not sure how to say what it was like to meet Laura after emailing for two years. I am not sure how to describe the very particular pleasure of getting to travel with my mother for ten days, or the thrill of finally getting to see Paris, after my false start two-and-a-half-years ago. So I'll simply begin with some photos, and then go from there.
Happy Mother's Day
Photo by the incredible E. Rhondeau Morgan
Two years ago I wrote about how lucky it was that I didn't see Paris with a particular person because I didn't think him worthy of the experience.
I wrote, Paris will wait.
In two weeks time I will see it with my mother. And honest to God, there isn't a person in the world I'd rather see it with.
A Reminder
Photo by Andrew Ling
Give yourself permission not to be not good at something. To write messy and imperfect words. To kiss the boy in the bar for no reason other than you want to. To let your legs shake during yoga. To take up space and feel totally feminine--whatever that means for you. Stand up straight. Make lists of tangible things for when you need something to hang on to: 1. Wash the sheets. 2. Wipe the counter. 3. Grind the coffee beans. 4. Knead the bread. Quietly and softly carve out a life on your own terms. Stop apologizing. Forgive that sometimes things take a while. Forgive the low-level, near-constant fear. Celebrate the small successes. Perhaps joy is its own body of water, wade out into it.
connecting the dots, patience, writer's block, and depression
I was in an elevator with my mother last spring when a woman got on with her husband. She moved slowly, every inch of her body shaking. I remember she stood with her back to us. Her hands on the the railing, her head bent low against her chest. They had gone out to get burgers. She couldn’t catch her breath. I can still smell the way the fries filled that small space. They got off a few floors before us, her feet shuffling, her breathing shallow, his hand on her elbow. In sickness and in health. When the door closed behind them my mother said, There but for the grace of God.
When I went to Utah this last go round, my mom took a fall on the mountain. I was behind her and skied down. There was blood on the snow. She didn’t know where she was. When we got to the base of the mountain she didn’t remember that she’d taken a fall, couldn’t understand why there was blood on her face. And for a very short--but nonetheless--terrifying period of time her mind was not her own and I was the parent, fear taking on new meaning. There but for the grace of God.
I have issues with the semantics of the phrase because I happen to believe in God that bestows his grace at all times and in all ways, and yet the sentiment is larger and truer than my poor dismantling of its parts.
Sometimes our bodies fail us. Sometimes our minds too.
There but for the grace of God.
I have been suffering from a crippling case of writer’s block. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except shame is a thing. And doubt, too. All eager bedfellows.
I saw Tom a few weeks back and we talked as we do and I mentioned that I’d been having a lot of really odd dreams--mostly about the man I loved when I was nineteen. Five in two weeks, I said. I haven’t even heard you say his name in years, Tom replied. Actually, well, come to think of it, I had two dreams about him last month, too... sort of a replay of our time together during college. And Tom and I sat there talking about the purpose of emotion (to make us pay attention). And in our last five minutes I let slip that I was dealing with a really devastating case of writer’s block and he sat back in his chair and smiled, Oh, well there you go.
There I go? What does that mean?
Your body is trying to rewind the tape. Unspool the cassette, so as to work out the kinks. Go back to the beginning. That’s what those dreams are about. Because we all fear we’re imposters. And we’re all afraid that what we’ve done, and done well, has been a fluke. And for you, nineteen--and the events of that year--were the things that set you on this very path.
The body is a magnificent machine. Endlessly fascinating. Mostly perfect. Occasionally not. Sometimes flawed. Frustratingly, totally, thrillingly human.
Depression is not a thing I struggle with. I did, once. I lived with its hands around my neck for years, I slept in the teeth of the thing. But for me it was symptom of a different illness. And in recovering from that illness, I resolved for myself the very ugly disease that is depression. Except that, There but for the grace of God. Because, resolved for now. Who knows.
More than one person has said to me that they don’t have an emotional landscape to trudge through. To which, I say, BULLSHIT. We all do. And if a person doesn’t think they do, what that really means is they are so uncomfortable--so terrified--of their own emotions that they will do anything they can to not feel them. Which is a pretty ugly thing to see up close.
I say all this because I got an email recently that referenced how I used to write about the time in my life when getting out of bed was an incredibly daunting task. And it seemed to indicate that was still the case. So I want to be clear. When I was depressed, that was true--getting out of bed was very, very hard. But while life is still occasionally impossible and very often overwhelming, getting out bed is not hard. Not ever. Don’t get me wrong, I always want to sleep in, but that is a different sort of difficult. I’m writing this now because I think I’ve failed in speaking about recovery by not vociferously distinguishing illness from everyday life. Depression is not linear. It is not something that can be rationalized. And should you find yourself on the outside, watching someone you love, tossed about on its unrelenting waves, I implore you not to try to fix the situation. I implore you not to point out how they have their health (they do not), or how they do not have it as bad as someone else (while perhaps factually true, idiotic to say, if not downright damaging). I implore you not to take your rational mind and reason your way into their illness. Because There but for the grace of God. Your job is to take their hand and hold it for as long as they’ll let you and bear witness to the sadness while making a space for it to exist. Let a therapist do the heavy lifting.
I am not a writer who can tell the whole of the story out right. For me writing is like peeling back one layer of paint to reveal another. And another and another ad infinitum. For me writing it is a stripping process that demands sitting in--and with--discomfort. Which is also the story of how I got better.
I write this now not to compare writer’s block to depression--goodness, no. Rather to elucidate the oddity and complexity and mystery of our neural pathways--the magic of it. To try to piece together some disparate threads for myself. The past, the sadness, and current frustrations.
It is a breath, a beat between healthy and not, happy and not. So I say small prayers of thanks, often, and I sit with my friends and I send flowers when I can and I do my best to trust the my brain will turn back the tape and the words will come.
{In other, but related, news, I did an interview for Everyday Health about Binge Eating Disorder. The clips tell such a small bit of the story, but if you’re curious what I sound like and look like in 3-D you can see here and here. (And apologies in advance for the impossibly long ads before the clips. I did not take the drug advertised and am a little disheartened by the placement of it)}.