a midsummer night’s dream

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Summer has always been my favorite, but I’ve noticed a pattern over the last couple of years.

I look forward to it all year long—imagining the sparkle of the sun on the ocean as it rushes toward my feet, a breeze on a rooftop bar, long nights in backyards with fire pits glowing merrily. But last year—and definitely this year—I’ve fallen into such blues just as June comes around. This summer is strange thus far, and it’s not just because the weather has been less than optimal. We’re down to the last two days in July, and I always count August 1 as the official midpoint of the season.

I feel like I’ve been asleep for a lot of it. I remember long drives in June and breaks with my friends when I didn’t think about anything else, but for the most part, I don’t remember a lot of what’s gone on. This is a notion I think about a lot, though—what makes most days pass by without being remarkable? Why are only certain moments—even the most mundane—framed by my memory?

My mood took a turn for the better in the latter half of July. This has also happened before, in a phenomenon I’ve likened to a Rubik’s cube to my therapist before. Scumbag Brain takes over and moves colors where they don’t go, and sometimes, after spending so much time trying to move things back into place, one side just… snaps. Where was once chaos in remembering what I know versus what I feel, a couple of pieces slide into place and there it is: One side is solved.

“It’s just like I said,” I told him last night. “One small thing, one small change, and look at how much better I feel.”

While it’s a huge relief to have some things back in perspective, I can’t help feeling a little frustrated. I spent so many weeks trying to claw my way out to no avail. Why wasn’t I able to reach this type of “epiphany” sooner? Why was I so convinced that what would make me feel better wasn’t going to actually make me feel better?

I have to credit a lot of it to going far, far back into my memory, to the things that have comforted me the most. About two weeks ago, I was driving into Floral Park//Bellerose to meet up with a friend, and I really shouldn’t expect anything but consistency when it comes to traffic on Long Island. The Northern State was at a crawl, and when I realized it was going to take me way too long to get to the Cross Island, I hopped off at New Hyde Park Rd.

What a trip. I could vividly remember getting onto the parkway here to head east to see my friends while I was still living at home during college. I remembered coming this way to work my shifts at the Barnes & Noble in Manhasset. A huge new dispensary sat at the cross street on Union Tpke., next to a restaurant that’s been there for literally as long as I can remember. Cross Island Fruits was gone. Further down, near the turn for Hillside Ave., the little shopping center had completely new places, no shadow of Fashion Bug. I passed Lakeville Pharmacy and Surgical, where I worked during high school, now sold to a more commercial-sounding pharmacy. Further down Hillside was the diner where we went to dinner with my grandparents pretty often. I can remember the smell of hamburgers as one of the waitresses accidentally told Jen and I that we were going to be big sisters before our parents could. She apologized for it every single time we saw her afterward, even long after my brother was born.

For a split second, I thought about stopping in front of the house I grew up in, when I saw people in the backyard. I think about that brick-front, green-sided house a lot—I dream about it a lot, too. In my dreams, it’s always a completely different place, even though I’m still looking for the same rose-colored carpets and basement cedar closets.

This past weekend was Kells’ oldest daughter’s high school graduation party at her parents’ house, which might as well be the second house I grew up in. I could remember friends passing out next to the pool during the summer when we were 19 and all we did was party. One of those friends came by with her two daughters, who are both going into junior high school in September. I almost didn’t recognize two other friends until I realized I hadn’t seen her son since he was maybe a year old ((he’s about to be 18)) and I’d never even met her daughter. Kells’ cousin from Massachusetts made me laugh until I almost peed, like she used to. All we kept talking about the entire time was how fast the time had gone. It brought me back around to that notion of time passing with murk—so much going by, with only a few moments picked out in a highlight reel, and then suddenly, everything is different.

There has been so much, and there’s still so much more to go. So, into the latter half of the summer I stride, hoping I’ll remember what’s important. What’s always been true. What I know about the young adult who drove those roads in a terribly beat-up Toyota Corolla ((The Awesomemobile—even the windshield wipers didn’t work)) and then a beloved Volkswagen Cabrio—how she had no idea what was ahead of her, and was only starting to learn the techniques that would keep the darkest clouds at the horizon instead of across the whole sky. I’ve written before about how she faded a little before slipping through crevices, and how now, in the latter half of my life, she emerges—sassily coming from the shadows to snatch the Rubik’s cube from my hand, making quick work before handing it back to me and saying, “Here, I started it. You finish the rest.“

dear you

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Dear you,

You were supposed to protect us. No matter how important your jobs were, none was more important than that, and you never showed up to work. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that I get it, but you should have been brave. You should have always been brave when it mattered.

Dear you,

You still have the dreamiest, softest eyes I’ve ever seen. I wish they matched your interior. I’ve had people walk away from me before, but never after promising they respected and cherished me too much to do so — more than once. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that the sound of your footsteps and your silence instead of words have hurt more than any of the others.

I spoke to my best friend last night and we mused about what it might be like if you and I were ever to find ourselves in the same place at the same time. I would have to pretend I didn’t see you, and the thought of it made me feel sick.

Dear you,

You’ve made comments about photos you’ve seen of me, and as usual, you still know nothing. I did not take your bait, and instead, I cried in my car on the way to the grocery store, thinking about how I’m so glad I look so happy to you. If I could tell you one thing, it would be to keep your delusions and to keep ignoring me — you were always the best one at doing that, anyway.

Dear you,

I am tired of wanting your apologies to be real. I think, at this point in our lives, we could both benefit so much from sticking together, and the truth is you have absolutely no interest in that. Of all the people in the world, I think I wanted you at the top of the list of the ones who didn’t focus on what I was always doing wrong. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that I wish you knew how I really felt, instead of just believing what you want to.

Dear you,

I am not ready to meet you yet, no matter what my brain tells me.

Dear you,

There’s something you need to know about what it means when I tell someone I love them. It doesn’t matter what sense of love that is — it means you’re with me, always, like something I carry. I remember the moment I realized you were with me. You were with me, and literally overnight, you were gone. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that I wish you would have left me out of it, and that we had stayed mostly strangers. I wish I could stop carrying you with me.

Dear you,

You forgot about what happened — but I never will. I want you to remember that, whenever you get any ideas.

Dear you,

You don’t get to tell me you don’t want to be friends anymore and then try to walk back on it. I ran out of things to say, but if there was something left, it would be that that door only opens one way.

Dear you,

I will never tell you this, but whenever I think about the way I want to feel in a relationship, I think about the way I felt with you. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that a little more effort would have changed everything, but I don’t think that’s ever mattered.

Dear you,

I wrote you so many words that I never let you see. It has been so many years, but I am finally able to think about you with indifference. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that if I can get past you, I can get past anything at all.

Dear you,

I hope you’re happy. Really. I think that will change everything for you.

Dear you,

You’re a complete ghost in the wind, and I still think about you a lot. If I could tell you one thing, it would be that I wish you would have stuck around, because being friends with you felt so natural. And I miss how hard we used to laugh.

Dear you,

It pains me to think about how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other. If I could tell you one thing, it’s that I’m still here, I always was, and I could have shown up for you a little bit better than I did.

road trip breakdown.

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Last week, I escaped.

Flights had doubled in price. The train was nearly as expensive, and the trip home was offered at a before-sunrise hour. Fiona ((my car)) sat parked at the curb, reminding me she’d safely brought me to and from North Carolina a few years ago — and if I could make a 12–13-hour drive alone, 6.5 to Buffalo was absolutely doable.

I shoved what I needed into bags, said goodbye to the boys ((it was the first time I’d left them longer than overnight)), and took off. My phone, which I dropped in a parking lot last summer and shattered the back of, has been clearly on its way out. The battery drained quickly, even when it was plugged in in the car, so I made sure to buy a new portable charger and bring my iPad, just in case. I always pride myself on being super-careful and diligent about packing, even if it tips me over into neuroticism. Which, let’s be honest, it doesn’t always take all that much to do.

The first three-ish hours went great. Very minimal traffic, and my phone was ON it with iTunes on shuffle. Near Binghamton, I decided I’d get gas and take out my portable charger, since my phone had less than 20 percent of its battery power left. I hooked everything back up, got back on the road, and missed the entrance to the highway. GPS rerouted me through this woodsy service road, and when I hit a bump, my phone and the charger went flying off the stand. Great. I pulled over when I realized I couldn’t find the charger. There I was, basically in the woods, kneeling down next to my driver’s side, trying my hardest to peer under the seat and between the center console to no avail. “What the f—how does something disappear in the front seat and well of a car?!” I exclaimed to no one in particular. My frustration with this notion was longstanding by this point: For some reason, I feel like things have been mysteriously leaving me. Jewelry that falls off a dresser into the unknown. Socks that go to the laundromat with mates and come back single. T-shirts and bralettes that are literally worn one day and gone the next. Not to mention fabric scissors that have been missing for the entire two years I’ve had them, still in the package. Oh, and lovers//friends, because of course.

Eventually, I huffed back into the car, and saw the charger sitting on top of the bag in my passenger-seat well. Finally. I hooked it back up, got the GPS and music back on, and was back on my route. The entrance ramp to the highway soon came up, and just as I was using it, a small, reddish-gray squirrel flounced out from the greenery. “Oh no,” I thought. “Oh, please don’t go now—” To my horror, I watched as it ran into the road, narrowly missing my driver’s side tire. It didn’t miss the passenger side.

I have always, always been terrified of hitting an animal. It’s definitely one of my biggest fears, since I was never sure how I’d actually recover, and I’ve had some close calls that have left me shaking. There’s also a family of squirrels that live in the tree on my front lawn — they’ve started to come to the window and wait when they see me with a container of nuts. I’ve seen two generations of babies.

And that was all I could think of as I felt the squirrel under the tire and looked back in the rearview to see it rolling off onto the roadway. I was screaming by then. Full-on, feral, hand-over-my-mouth howling that I wasn’t in control of. Sobbing apologies over and over. When I realized I was fully losing it, I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a dilapidated, likely abandoned diner. No one was around to witness my absolute hysterics. I don’t know why, but I started to think about Nico, and the way I lost him quickly. All I wanted was to hug my cats, and they were so far away. Instead, I pulled out my phone and texted two of my friends. I took huge, deep breaths until my hands stopped shaking. When I was finally able to get back on the highway, I tried not to look at the dead animals on the side of the road, hoping beyond belief that I wouldn’t add another one. I wished I had someone with me.

I was slightly dazed for the next hour or so, turning my in-car rock concert off and switching to my favorite podcast. Traffic built up miles before the State Fair exit. When I looked at my phone, it had two percent battery life left. For some reason, both the car plugin and the portable charger were doing nothing. I pulled off again into a rest stop, quickly texting Kells to let her know I had to make a pit stop. I was in the middle of texting someone else to let them know when the phone went black. I dug around in my bag for a phone charger, plugging it into the car port. Nothing. I pulled my phone case off and attached the portable charger. Still nothing. Okay, not a huge deal, I had my iPad for this very reason. I opened it, went into Google maps, and saw “No Internet Connection.” I tried for the next 10 minutes to connect from the parking lot before realizing I needed to go inside and see if I could find an outlet or some login info.

After another half an hour, I had pulled up directions for the rest of the route on my iPad and gotten my phone up to 12 percent after plugging it into a wall outlet and letting it sit on a cold tabletop. It was starting to get dark out. I got back into the car, noting that it was likely just a straight run to the exit, and left my phone off. No music to loudly sing along to. No podcast to giggle at. Just the sound of tires. After a few minutes, I looked down at the map on my iPad screen to double-check what exit number I needed.

No Internet Connection. This time, there was another type of screaming.

“WHY?!” I howled, to no one in particular. “Why does every single thing I ever try to do have to be so incredibly difficult? Why am I always alone to figure everything out?” And then, more tears. “I just keep going when things are always hard. I just keep going, like I’m supposed to. I have been struggling so much; I decided to be ‘brave’ and ‘get out of my comfort zone,’ like I’m supposed to. What am I doing wrong? What lesson am I obviously too stupid to grasp at this point? What is it that I am always doing wrong?”

I’m not sure who exactly I was talking to. I’m an agnostic. Maybe my therapist, who’s always asking what I can take away from these experiences? Myself, since I’m always preoccupied with keeping my mood up all the time? The universe, because there has to be something, right? I can’t really be this alone. It can’t really be that everything is working against me.

What I did know is that I couldn’t cry as hard as I wanted to, since there was no place to pull over. Eventually, my phone popped back into function and I was able to see that I needed exit 48. I was at 43. Dear gods, thank you. I’d been in the car for eight hours at this point. The miles stretched long between exits here, and just as I was creeping up to 47, all I saw were tail lights glowing like animal eyes in the dark. It was 9:30pm. On a Thursday. And I cried, again. My now-functioning GPS said 45 minutes, when it really should have been closer to 20. Semi-frantic texts from Kells came in once I took my phone off airplane mode, and I instantly felt bad for missing them. Eventually, I saw that road work had closed down most of the highway, and soon, I was weaving past tons of traffic cones and lights. Just when I thought the closures went past the exit, I saw a makeshift lane leading to the ramp. I was so tired at this point that driving around them felt unnatural. Like I was doing something wrong, again.

I made it to Kells’ complex at 10pm, a full nine hours after I left. I made sure to mop any stray tears off my face by the time she came down to help me bring my things inside.

“I was so worried something happened,” she said, when she hugged me. “I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about what’s gone on…” and she referenced some abusive/dangerous behavior I’d been exposed to in the last few months. While it might have been a stretch—we did laugh about how ridiculous it sounded that someone might be following me on the entire nine hours—it really did solidify how well Kells knows me. It was like she was already tapped in on what was happening in my head. Maybe if no one else heard my outward breakdown alone on a highway in upstate New York, she had. All I knew was that as soon as she opened the door to the apartment and I could hear Riley barking excitedly, everything felt so much better. I’ve walked up the stairs to Kelly’s apartments to be greeted by happy dogs for so many years. This felt very much like home, even though it was far from where I live.

Later, when I flopped down on an air mattress, I went back to my outburst in the car. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I was still sad. But overall, I was frustrated. Frustrated that it really does seem like everything is working against me a lot of the time. Frustrated that while I need my space and my alone time, it isn’t how I want to live the entirety of my life. And while I was so glad for my friends who had reassured me that I wasn’t a bad person after hitting that poor little squirrel, did I really not deserve to have anyone next to me? I had to drive nine hours for someone to hug me and tell me they were worried?

The rest of the trip was without incident. I stayed off my phone. We sat in the sunshine on the balcony until our shoulders turned pink. We went to the cool restaurant with the robotic waiters and the best Pad Thai ever. We sat in a beer garden next to the creek. We strolled along Lake Erie, visited the new Southern Tier Brewery, closed out a night with giant pretzels and espresso martinis at the NYBP. At one point, when I went to my car to get my dress for dinner, I realized this was the happiest I’d felt in probably six or eight weeks. There wasn’t a lot of time for me to ruminate on bad things, but there was plenty of time for me to think out loud to my best friend. Who gets me. Who I might literally be lost without.

But I’m pretty sure I’ll just fly next time.

small wins

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My best friend has been absolutely pivotal in my development as an adult. There were things I told Kells that I had never said out lout before, and to this day, that remains one of the absolute best things about my relationship with her. I don’t even have to preface them with “I’m going to sound like an asshole, but…” or “I probably shouldn’t say this…”

She gets me, and my gratitude for that knows no bounds. So, naturally, in the last month or so, I’ve leaned pretty hard on Kells to remind me of what I know, enlighten me on what she knows, and to point out things that maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention to.

Last week, during our weekly WhatsApp hangout, I was—once again—talking about things I could focus on to help me stay in an overall good mindset. It’s been a little unpredictable, and I notice that I’ll have an okay day where things in my head feel better, and then, the next day is a slip back down toward the bottom of that hole I’m always trying to climb out of.

“Did I ever tell you about my small-wins blog?” Kells asked me. Another thing to note about my bestie is that she’s a little bit of an internet sensation. She’s massively talented at many things, and her writing has garnered her bouts of very-well-deserved attention and praise. For a long time, she regularly updated her own blog, and some posts were dedicated simply to her “small wins.” Small victories in any day. They took off in popularity, and for someone who is trying to focus on what’s working instead of what’s not, I’m taking inspiration. So, thank you Kells.

We’ll kick off with a big one: My new nephew was born on Friday. I’d been waiting for an update, and while I was on my way out, my brother texted me the first picture of him. Those weird, unsettling feelings in the pit of my stomach instantly turned into something else. I’m so grateful for this tiny human who I haven’t even met yet for helping me to feel excited, hopeful, and full of love. So, thank you, Myles Jameson.

Also, on Friday: I went back to Floral Park. It was Belmont Stakes weekend, so the street fair was happening. I honestly don’t remember the last time I drove around near the square or down Tulip Ave. I met up with literal childhood friends—I realized it while we were talking—I’ve known Tracie, Tina, and Jaclyn ((Jackies for the win)) since I was still in my single digits. It was such a trip being back around my old haunts and seeing just how much things have changed. Restaurants I worked at were gone. Banks had turned into physical therapy offices. And while I did recognize some faces ((some which I ducked away from for good reason)), so many young families were scattered on the block. Later, I got to meet more of my childhood friends’ children. “We were all in the same Kindergarten class,” Jaclyn explained to one of them. And we were. I remember standing with them while our moms talked, and now, I got to stand with the moms and remember what it was like to be a kid. I felt really, really lucky to actually witness new generations growing up in my small hometown. FP has its problems, for sure, but it was a great place to grow up—and I am so, so grateful to have reconnected with people who have known me for my entire life. I feel like that’s a rarity on its own.

I knocked one of the bigger things off my longstanding to-do list: I took the boys for their annual vet checkup//vaccines. These cats, man. Sometimes, I don’t know how I got so lucky. They are both so well tempered and sweet. Maddox, though, can be very shy and skittish. I was really worried about getting him into the new carrier I bought for them—Maddy is fast and he’s great at being a cat, so he has tons of clandestine hiding spots. I thought for sure he’d flee as fast as his legs could carry him and disappear into the unknown under my bed or in my closet. But no. He came running when he heard the treat bag, and went right into the carrier to get them. I’m surprised I didn’t scare him with my dramatically loud “Good boy, Maddy! Good boy!” declarations. They were both really, really good at the vet, too. No squirming, scrambling, swiping, biting, or yowling during any of the poking around their mouths, ears, bellies, nail trims, and the shots. It was a more expensive visit than I thought, but I still left in a good mood because everything had gone so smoothly and so quickly.

Another big one: While I was brushing my teeth last week, I turned my head and noticed a small spot in front of my right ear where my port-wine stain has completely cleared.

Completely. Cleared.

It’s such a small spot, but it feels so huge to see it without it being “stained” for the first time in 43 years. If there was a feeling I could jar up and revisit when I needed to, the moment I noticed would be one of them.

Also, it’s the spot where you’d get a tragus piercing. I have never been able to pierce any part of my ears, but after my next visit ((when I make sure to get the go-ahead)), I think I’m going to.

Over the weekend: I finally got to go to Forest Hills Stadium. I’ve been wanting to see a show there for so long, since I love an outdoor venue—especially a historic one. The weather was awesome during the day, and we hung out around the neighborhood for the whole afternoon. The energy felt great as soon as we stepped off the train—I loved the diversity of the people, and that weird teenage-level anxiety I’ve been feeling dissipated. I got into two interesting chats with older dudes before the show, and once we went inside, our seats were upgraded to better ones.

I’m not very familiar with the band, Bright Eyes, but I turned to my friend at one point and I said that I felt lucky to be around that kind of energy. The music was sad, but you could tell everyone in the crowd sang from places of real love and real emotion. I think that’s one of the reasons I like going to see live music so much—it’s really hard not to pick up and be carried off by the energy of the people around you. I spent a good amount of time just quietly looking around at people with their arms around each other. It felt a little like peeking into windows. I’ve definitely been trying to pay attention to how I perceive energy and how certain environments affect how I feel, and this was a really great type of workshop for that.

The show was canceled less than halfway through because an enormous thunderstorm blew in more quickly than I’ve ever seen before. But even that felt like a win—we scrambled to get to the train station and I urged us under an awning just as the wind kicked up. Deep gray clouds raced across the sky and treetops bent sideways. “We’re kind of lucky to get to see this,” I said, and the lady next to me nodded enthusiastically. “This is weather-nerd type of stuff—you want to see it, but you don’t really want to be outside during it.” Luckily, we were able to get onto the train before the intense rain started. By the time we got back, it had ended. I feel like there’s definitely a metaphor or three in there somewhere.

Smaller, but still noticeable wins:

– Finally found a pair of camouflage-printed flip-flops to add to my collection. And they’re Vans.

– Had my first beach day on Sunday.

– I’m almost finished successfully listening to my first audiobook.

– My Spotify station played a bunch of hip-hop I hadn’t heard in awhile.

– I pulled the High Priestess card twice last week.

– I got laundry and grocery shopping done after putting them off.

– The sun doesn’t set until after 8pm.

– Today was the first time in more than a month that I woke up without instantly thinking about something bad.

I’ll take it.

seven.

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I asked my tarot deck a specific question this afternoon, and pulled the seven of cups. I’ve been finding so many similarities—or maybe even small truths—in the cards since I’ve been familiarizing myself with them and dabbling in reading. While the seven of cups was right in line with what I was asking, I also realized I just had my seventh laser treatment in the last 19 months, and I’d been thinking about writing out my update here.

I remember my first appointment with Dr. Geronemus—I was five. I remember the hot press of the laser behind my ear, the clunky goggles that took over half my face to protect my eyes. The laser was the size of a ballpoint pen. Apparently, I responded really well to these “test spots,” so much so that when I turned six, I would be able to have my first full treatment. In 1988/1989, laser was too new and possibly too dangerous to apply to anyone younger than six. During one of my last treatments, Dr. Geronemus told me he performs laser treatments on newborns—some of them get treated weekly. I remember long stretches of time between my treatments. I remember soreness, swelling, feeling like half my face wasn’t my own anymore.

I don’t think I remember my first full treatment. But I do remember my most recent. It was last Friday.

I was happy for the sunshine. Before we left, I tucked my tiger’s eye and new optical calcite close to me, hoping for some anxiety relief and an easy trip into the city.

My last appointment didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. The lidocaine wasn’t as effective as it usually is, and I felt the same way about the Xanax I allow myself to take beforehand. I’ve been reading about trauma and triggers, and trying to note what they feel like for me. I was surprised at how painful this one was—so much so that I stopped speaking mid-sentence. I went right back into “turtle mode,” the way I did when I was a scared kid— just keep quiet, stay as still as you can, it’ll be over soon. It’s almost over. Don’t cry. I squeezed a stress ball hard and tried not to think about my mom, who I always looked for first when I woke up from anesthetic. I thought about young kids who got to hold their mothers’ hands instead of stress balls. I tried not to think about my mother’s hands the last time I saw her five years ago. Don’t cry. It’s almost over.

Healing was a little harder last time, and it was compounded by multiple triggers. I’d remember digging my nails into the stress ball, the way I froze, Dr. Geronemus asking, “you okay?” and the way I just said yes, even though I wasn’t. I cried a lot, and it only made my face feel worse. I’m not that surprised that I didn’t want to go for my next treatment. But I did, even though I felt shaky on Friday morning.

There was more traffic than usual, and the GPS took us through Maspeth to the 59th St. Bridge. The scenery was different. I saw a man living in a lean-to on the highway divider, and a mother in cute jeans hustling two kids into a taxi. A Roosevelt Island tram car lifted from the ground and smoothly ascended over us. I realized I’ve never taken that tram in all my years of being a New Yorker.

Despite traffic, street blockages, and someone who clearly did not know how to share the driveway space of the parking garage, I made it up to the office on time. Lisa had started checking me in before I was even at the desk. One of the newer nurses, Kara, ((or at least one who’d never helped me before)) took me into an exam room to take progress photos. She commented on how well my PWS on my chest is breaking up, and also, how it’s almost gone on my right side. The lidocaine was cold, like it always is. Plastic wrap was applied to keep it from getting everywhere. And then, I went into the “private” waiting room, where three other patients sat with the same cream on various sections of their faces. A lady with two-toned Chanel flats had it over her entire face. I wondered what she was having treated. A little girl had three scars on her face smeared with it. She didn’t look scared. But I’m sure I didn’t, either.

I’ve been struggling with my mood over the last five weeks, like I wrote about. There have been times when it’s been bad enough that I’ve leaned on half a Xanax to keep me from spiraling, which I don’t normally do. Thinking about this, plus, the fact that it didn’t seem to help as much last time, I took two full pills instead of one and a half. About halfway through my numbing time, I felt the second pill kick in. “It won’t be as bad this time,” I thought. I think it’s funny how I need pharmaceuticals sometimes to help me remember simple truths—some of those things that I just know, but I don’t believe.

Kara came back to get me and removed the lidocaine. To my relief, I touched my top lip and could hardly feel it. I was already feeling better. Dr. Geronemus came in and placed the eye shield, which is always one of the worst parts. I feel like I hardly noticed this time. As he started rolling the Miria over my cheek, I asked how patients are liking the Avava-developed laser so far. “They’re loving the results,” he explained. “The study is almost done!”

“Will I be able to see it?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It’ll be published.” In my partially-altered state, I wondered if I could tell people I’ve had both my words and my face professionally published at this point. “What’s going on in Jackie world these days?”

I started babbling about how dating is garbage, which always makes him giggle. “They all lie,” I said. “Literally all of them.” I explained what seemed like endless lies that I’ve been told over the last few months. One was married. One was sleeping with someone else. I watched one walk backward on a promise. And of course, there was the one that straight-up ran away, like a scared little girl. I’d seen more bravery in actual little girls dealing with actually traumatic things.

As I felt the sting of the Vbeam, Dr. Geronemus explained that he had a 50-year-old friend who’d lost his wife to a drunk driver, who had also been explaining that the women he dated had a tendency to lie. You’d think these things would end at some point. It made me sad to think of pain expounded by the universe and by so many unhealed people. I winced as the Vbeam snapped against my ears—it was so loud close up. There was also the smell—what I guess I can only describe as burning flesh. But by the time he gets to my ears, it means I’m almost finished. I loosened the grip on the tiger’s eye I’d moved to my palm, happy to know it wouldn’t squish under nervous hands.

Dr. Geronemus came back a few minutes later to cauterize a bleb that’s been bothering me on my eyelid. A third type of pain, but even faster than the other two. I’m still amazed at how quickly I’m in and out of treatment. They sent me on my way with two ice packs, and we picked up the car after being parked for two hours. Evidently, the Xanax came for me on the ride home, when I fell asleep mid-song listening to The Black Parade ((my requested ride-home album)). Apparently, I’d woken up briefly to sing a line or two from “This Is How I Disappear” before instantly falling back asleep. I woke up in my driveway, nearly stumbled up the stairs, and fell into bed, where I slept more than four hours.

When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t even had a treatment. Zero pain. No swelling. My face didn’t even feel strange. At one point, I scratched a spot on my lip and wondered why it hurt like that before realizing it was because it was laser bruised. Today, I am three days out, but it feels like almost a week post-treatment. There’s some soreness on my chest ((keeping me from wearing my newly moon-charged carnelian)) and my ears, as always, as well as one spot under my eye. But I was able to sleep on my left side on Saturday night, which is usually something that takes a couple of days. There’s almost no scabbing at all, other than the cauterized bleb.

I can absolutely understand why Dr. Geronemus’s other patients are pleased with the Miria. While I’m still “rocking my dots,” like the PWS community likes to say ((they’re the bruised dark spots from the actual laser penetration and destruction)), the Miria doesn’t leave any of these behind—only some small black specks, like grains of black pepper. I haven’t needed to take the Prednisone they send me home with, since there’s been no swelling at all around my eye. The Miria-treated spots are almost painless, but I do notice increased itching. I’m at the point now where my face feels a little scaly to me, and I’ve woken up scratching around my nose, which I’m careful not to do while I’m awake. After I take a shower and before I go to bed, I wash really carefully with mild soap and I’ve been applying First Aid Beauty moisturizer, which is basically gold in cream form—it has been helping more than Aquaphor usually does. During the application is the only time where I really notice soreness and sensitivity.

I am really excited for my dots to heal. I was looking at one earlier and noticing just how much larger the actual beam is now, as compared to the pen-sized one of my childhood. It’s no wonder there’s no need for general anesthetic or a full hospital-performed surgery on children anymore. The treatment itself is minutes. There’s been so much clearing—I wonder how much of it will even be noticeable on my right side after this fully heals. And of course, that makes me even more excited to see how much breaking up and lightening I will have on the left after six weeks.

Relief.

It was all I kept thinking about this past weekend, when I let myself hang out on the couch, order food, and nap to help the healing process. I used every tool in my small arsenal to try to keep the anxiety at bay last week. Considering the state of affairs in my head lately, it could have easily gotten out of control. I was so worried about discomfort and triggers. I have been so sad about so many things. It’s no wonder I basically collapsed in the car, once everything was over.

In my head, I can remember my purple-black skin, so swollen I could feel it, the surface hot to the touch. “It won’t always be like this,” I tell her now. “It won’t always be endless hours of terror you keep inside, and then, weeks of pain afterward. It won’t always be this hard.” I’m not sure if she believes me, but she knows she has bravery on her side—bravery that some adults clearly wouldn’t be able to muster.

I try to go back to that when I’m shown lies, disrespect, and dismissiveness. In the grand scheme of things, where does fallout from unhealed adults land when you’re burning self-consciousness from your skin? What’s an afternoon of spiraling thoughts when you’ve done scarier things alone? What do you learn when you realize just how meaningless some words are when they come from someone who will literally never know what you do or who you’ve had to be?

Eighteen treatments down, and only forward to go.

sometimes, i just know things.

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It’s something that I’ve said to multiple people on multiple occasions. Regardless of if it makes me feel like I’m suffering from imposter syndrome, it makes me “sound crazy,” if someone clearly doesn’t believe me.

Sometimes, I just know things.

I don’t always know how I know these things — some of them just pop up in my head, like a random idea. Sometimes, I look at something or someone and just know something, as if they’ve told me themselves.

And sometimes, I dream them.

The dreams have been happening since I was very young. I remember being at a sleepover in elementary school — maybe I was nine or ten years old — and I turned around to look at my friend’s basement stairs and thought, “I’ve done this before.” It has happened SO many times since then. Some of them are just flashes of familiarity, and others are full-on recreations of things I’ve absolutely felt and seen. It took me a long time to realize that I’d dreamed these things before they happened, and I don’t remember the dreams until it’s actually happening.

It’s a very odd sensation. The familiarity feels comfortable a lot of the time, but during others, it’s really, really intense, and it feels like there’s something else I should be remembering, too. Lately, I’ve been thinking about this sense of intuition and these “premonitions” I’ve had for almost as long as I can remember. It was pointed out to me during that tarot card reading I had about two weeks ago. The reader said to me: “You have a lot of intuition. You already know things. You get all kinds of messages, and you’ve been ignoring them.”

That sentiment has stayed with me since. I know my spiraling thoughts breed anxiety, and it is so hard to slow them down and feel like I can breathe. I’ve been wondering if there’s a way to tap into things I already know so that they’re a little clearer to me and will help me move thoughts that don’t serve me. I just want to feel okay when I know I’m powerless to stop things that have been happening.

I bought a playing card-sized deck of tarot cards a few years ago. The images on them are really awesome — they’re much more like modern art than traditional cards, which makes me want to look at them. I started reading the guide that came with them and was soon really, really overwhelmed — it didn’t seem like something I had the capacity to engage with at the time. So, they sat on the end table in my living room, next to my go-to spot on my couch.

As I mentioned in my last post, I feel like I’ve been scraping at whatever I can to try to change my mood. I just want to feel better. I want to be reminded of things I know. While it did feel a little pathetic to pay for someone to tell me things will be okay, I think it did work. Over the last two weeks, I’ve been studying my tarot cards, reading about their meanings, and the different ways they can be interpreted. I really like the idea that you can look at the artwork and decide the story or the message for yourself. For example, yesterday, I pulled The Lovers during my first spread. My card has a man and a woman facing each other, but it looks like the man is being pulled away. The woman has her hand wrapped around two of his dreadlocks. I really, really liked this image. It instantly made me think of people who are drifting away from each other, maybe through unseen forces, but don’t really want to leave. They’re both looking at each other, and the woman still has a literal hold on the man — I really loved that this was the first thing that came to my mind when I looked at the card. I realized it pertains to several different things that have been weighing on my mind, not just in a romantic sense.

Last night, albeit feeling a little silly, I went back to the shop where I’d had my reading — my reader explained that there would be a Blue Moon Circle class that I might find to be helpful, especially since I’m interested in strengthening whatever intuition I’ve always had. Surprisingly, I was nervous going in. I’m not sure why — I think I just felt a lot of things at once, and honestly, I didn’t want to cry in the middle of the session. There’s been less crying lately, but I still feel very much on the verge a lot of the time. I really am lucky to have my cats — they are so attuned, and they’ve both stayed so close to me, as if they know I’m about ready to break.

Anyway, I went in and said a shy hello to the eight other women gathered, and then the circle began. I told a blue candle about the things I wanted to let go of, and it joined the other lit ones in a vessel. While I didn’t have a specific question to ask of the tarot deck, the leader of the class pulled one for me.

It was The Truth.

I automatically felt a little better about my choice to attend the circle, especially when a deep meditation began. There was a sound bath involved, which I’d never been exposed to before, and it really was awesome how the tones quieted things down in my mind. By a few minutes in, I felt much more relaxed as I listened to the guide. She told us to visualize standing by water, looking up at the moon, and imagine an almost-glittering light coming down from it. As the next tone played and she repeated the word “moon,” it happened.

That strange, strange sensation of familiarity, but this one was so much stronger than the other ones I’ve had. It was like something had pressed me, hard, in the middle of my forehead, and there was a faint hum on the left side of my head. I saw the shoreline of Tallac Beach at Lake Tahoe. I remembered standing in the toe-numbing water. I remembered how the moon had never looked as bright as it had in the Nevada night sky.

I think I may have dreamed it before — the meditation, the guidance, the actual words. But the feeling was completely different. All I could think was “I’ve been here before. I’ve done this before. This is supposed to happen.”

There were different energy pulls. There was a difference in the things I was thinking. When we came out, I felt more at peace than I have in weeks. Meditation is awesome — I remember learning about it and the skeptic in me being difficult to convince that sitting quietly with your eyes closed could bring calmness. HA. Right. Me, my own Scumbag Brain, and silence. The perfect ingredients for the most intense panic. But I did learn how to do it, thanks to one of the first therapists I met with in Nevada. And it takes practice, but it does start to work, if you concentrate. I still use it if I can’t fall asleep at night.

It was a little harder to visualize some of the things in this particular circle — spirit guides or angels, any numbers that might’ve come up, any advice you could hear — but all I could think was that I need to pay more attention to those kinds of strange “dreams,” the ones that told me things I already knew. All I could think of was that when I repeated certain things to myself — things that I “just knew” — they became tangible. I could see myself sitting in the sand at Tahoe, writing things out in a notebook — things that I “just know.”

I walked back to my car clutching optical calcite and tiger’s eye in my hand, and I wondered about the things I’ve been ignoring. How I’ve dismissed the idea of manifesting. The ways I’ve been using my energy that haven’t been serving me.

When I got home, I decided to look through my collection of blank notebooks to pick one for the kind of writing I saw myself doing on the beach. A smoothly covered blue notebook with a quill on the front has been tucked under the journal on my nightstand for the longest time. I couldn’t even remember where it came from. Today, I took it into my living room and opened it. When I started reading the first few filled out pages, I remembered.

I bought it when I lived in Reno.

I bought it and started to write all kinds of things I was thinking and imagining when I was out in the desert, when I was close to Lake Tahoe. When I was close to the beach that I could see in my mind last night.

And today, I know that I feel a little different.

play your cards right.

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I want to talk about rage.

Not the kind of rage that hits you during a bad commute home, when someone cuts you off and you have to slam on your brakes and almost stop breathing. When you can’t lean on the horn hard enough or spew enough horrendous insults. This one is bigger.

I have trouble being angry. That’s not a huge surprise to anyone who actually knows me or has heard me talk about it. I don’t get angry easily. I don’t get angry often. And when it happens the way it has happened recently, I don’t know what to do with it. It’s no secret that I struggle with depression and anxiety—I’m as open as I can be about it, mostly because I want other people to feel safe talking about things they need to—and all I keep thinking about is that decently well-known phrase: “Depression is rage turned inward.”

When I get angry, I turn it into sadness. I think I’m probably too good at being sad, since I’ve certainly spent a lot of time doing it. I think maybe sadness feels a little more natural to me. I can feel awful with a good reason, not just one that has nowhere to go. But let me explain something I’ve been trying to practice for the last two-ish years—the 180s. I’ve been trying to reframe my thoughts and behaviors more intensely since the beginning of the year, because I came to a stark, scary realization: I don’t think I’m going to make it if I keep thinking the way that I do. So, when something anxiety-inducing pops up in my brain or when I’m on the verge of tears about something I can’t control, I try a 180: I think about what my instinctual reaction/thought would be, and I do the complete opposite. It was working out really well. There were some blips and bumps, but for the most part, every 180 I made was a clear move that put me into a different headspace where peace was the most important thing. Nothing is worth more than peace, to me. I know that. I’ve known that. But I feel like I’ve gotten so angry that peace isn’t a concept I can even fathom.

It started a few weeks ago, when I was on my way to visit a friend who had sent me really unhinged, really inappropriate text messages the night before. I’m someone that needs to do serious talks in person. Texting is impersonal, and it’s too easy to misinterpret tone. Phone calls just make me anxious. I’d rather look at you and realize that this is something happening between two human beings with faults and emotions. I always want to hear about how someone else thinks. So, I arrived at the house and walked inside, like I usually did when I came to visit, and checked two levels before locating my friend, asleep in the basement. I saw him, and I wanted to turn around and leave. The next thing I knew, I had woken him—abruptly—and was as close to screaming at someone as I think I’ve ever gotten.

This is the level of angry that I’ve only reached a couple of times in my entire life. It is white-out mad, when it’s nothing but fire and smoke in my head, and words loosed like a band of arrows from the back of my throat. A lot of archers showed up that afternoon. Arrows flew with abandon. I don’t know where a lot of them landed.

I am certainly not saying this wasn’t absolutely deserved. It was. This was some high-level disrespect that had been happening for months, and when I couldn’t 180 it, not really the way I wanted, I 180’ed into complete rage. I don’t even remember everything I said, but things just kept coming, even after I wasn’t as crazy angry, and I felt like I couldn’t stop. And of course, after I had calmed down and returned to my normal human form, I felt sad. I was so sad to have spoken to someone like that, even if they deserved it, so sad that who I am and what I wanted from this was not at the forefront of my action. I was still upset with my friend, but all I wanted was to hug him. Which I did, later. And I did get a chance to talk out some things in a more composed manner.

While things seemed like they were going to calm down a little, they absolutely did not in the coming days. The situation most definitely took a 180 itself, and went from tough, but manageable, to impossible and impassable.

And now, I feel like somebody else.

My mood had been so great for about three months. I had focused so hard on changing how I think about things, and I was so excited and proud of myself for feeling like I actually was living a different life than the one I felt sentenced to. My therapists had even commented on it. But it felt like all of that work had been balled up tightly, into a tiny thing that couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

For me, being in my 40s has brought back a lot of things. I remember who I was as a teenage Jacks, the passion and enthusiasm I would steer toward creativity, the strong, strong sense of who I was. It felt really good to grab her hand and pull her out of whatever crevice she’d been tucked into for too long. But I also got to remember what it felt like for her when she couldn’t get things out, when she was shoved into that crevice, and her thoughts became snakes in the dark, wrapping and wrapping themselves around her, sizing up their next meal.

I don’t know where my strength has gone. The confidence I had in changing thought patterns, the progress I was so happy to be making—I don’t know where it is. All it is now is rage, and it feels like there’s no outlet big enough for any of it. What do you do when you know what will make you feel better, but you’re not afforded the opportunity? When it took you so long to finally name it, finally embrace the things you know that help you, only to find them completely obsolete against a wall of silence and shadow?

My thoughts have not been my friends. They have been snakes. And it’s an infestation. They make me think about things I don’t like, things I won’t do, things that feel like they came from somewhere else. Even when I’m engaged at work, or caught up in an episode of a show that I like, or hanging out with Maddox and Mambo. I hear them, hissing from where they’re watching everything. It’s more than Scumbag Brain, which I’ve talked about and written about before.

I have been so desperate to feel better over the last three weeks. I feel like a pauper at a coronation parade, hands scraping at the road for some kind of scrap of merriment and prosperity. Oh, and it was my birthday last week.

Instead of buying myself something a little shiny or a little more expensive, I bought myself my first-ever tarot card reading. I’ve been thinking about it since it ended, and how it feels pathetic to be so despondent that you actually try to pay for happy thoughts or ideas. I sat with the reader, and—just like in my kitchen during a solo dance party, just like in my bed when I tried to quiet things down with a nap, just like when I was in the middle of feeding the boys—I started to cry. My throat tightened, and I literally could not use my full voice to apologize for things not turning out the way I thought they would. She had a lot to say about the things I don’t, and the way it makes things worse for me, and how it buries me underneath so much heaviness.

She asked me if I ever blogged.

It’s funny how things come full circle sometimes. How I used to use written words to say the things my voice couldn’t. How I’ve stepped away from it, even when I know it will work. We talked a lot about opportunities. She reinforced how my words have always been a life ring tossed into storm-grappled water, not just for me, but for people around me. I feel like I’m crawling back on to the shore, in tatters and depletion. And I’m wondering if anyone is listening.

an excess of metaphors.

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I feel like if you looked hard enough, even if you hadn’t known about the storm on Tuesday, you’d have known something tore things up around here.

Summer, almost twilight, and finally, a few more kids out in front yards. I was a little distracted by my music ((we’ll get to more of that later)), and quickly inched over as an SUV sidled up from behind. It was very much like things were stirring. And then, I looked up.

Above, the beaten ring of a basketball hoop hung halfheartedly from its backboard. A group of tattered, bruised balloons were draped at the edge of the ring, a tangle of dingy, graying ribbons bunched around the knots. One of them was red.

When I looked up at the street, I saw so many more of these street hoops scattered along the block than I have in the last few months. Some were missing hoops altogether. Others had remnants of ripped rope hanging limply from the hoop. One was on its side on the lawn, the pole bent in a slightly grotesque manner.

Further down and around a corner or two, the golf course was surprisingly empty for a night this nice. One man stood too many yards away from me for me to see if he was looking at his phone or if he was just staring out at the course. I looked up at the trees that line the other side of the fence, noticing their silhouettes were more jagged. And then, everything smelled like pine.

The fence was torn open. Just behind, the stump of a tree, a jagged cut about 10 feet up, exposing the pale belly underneath the bark. I remembered its other half lying across the road. It was gone now, but not without a trace—the entire stretch of grass and walkway was littered with branches, sticks, twigs, tufts of pine needles. I didn’t know one tree could produce so many pinecones. All these dejected things, like they all knew it wasn’t time for them to be on the ground just yet.

There was a literal metaphor strewn around the neighborhood.

It felt like there was a ton of potential a couple of weeks ago. Like all of our individual globes might start spinning again, even if a little off-kilter at first. Now, the hoops are broken. I don’t know about you, but I most certainly looked forward to seeing more of my friends. Now, I’m back to staring at my phone or staring into nothing at all, wondering where the hell everyone is.

Wasn’t this all supposed to be over? Can we not figure out what’s wrong because maybe everyone is wrong? Why does the whole place look different? Like you looked up and you’re in some thick forest and you can tell no one’s walked through it in awhile?

Tonight’s walk felt necessary after one of the worst weeks. I don’t just say that personally—it seems like everyone’s week sucked. It’s disheartening. Summer is supposed to be like magic. I know I’m biased because it’s my favorite season, but things just usually feel better here. But it’s starting to not feel so much better.

I’ve been staving off what will likely be an inevitable storm of tears. Attempting to stave off, anyway. I’ve been mostly successful. But it’s not if it’s coming—it’s when.

Why does that sound familiar?

I’m listening to my brain argue with itself. So far, we’re still relatively neutral in the tug of war. So, I took a walk. Because those help. And I knew I’d listen to a podcast ep that I hadn’t yet finished, because it was already hilarious and the hosts are my fav. But before I flipped to the episode, I put on Taylor Swift. I’ve been listening to “folklore” for two weeks, nearly nonstop. Fucking Taylor Swift. I was never an insane fan. Girlfriend could write a good song. Could take or leave. Now? Just fuck you, Taylor Swift. I was basically teenage-girl-level obsessed with “Lover.” The songs on that album were just so good. Like even if I didn’t love the melody or the chorus, the lyrics were all just so good. Like I wanted to stamp my feet and bitch about why I never thought to put those phrases together like that. “Lover” was still on my regular rotation when homegirl went and dropped this “surprise.” Surprise, indeed, motherfucker.

Again, I like almost every song on it, but there are two or three that I continue to replay. When I looked up at that basketball hoop, “cardigan” was playing, and I figured out why I keep hitting repeat.

“cardigan” sounds like depression.

Like if there were a tangible metaphor for what mine feels like, anyway. Maybe the mood is overall a little somber, even if there are some charming upbeat details in its background. And even when I can’t decide how it makes me feel, I still have favorite parts that I love to sing. To me, that song feels like teetering. Nope. Oh, we aren’t going to start thinking about that.

Teetering.

I swear, if I could run away from my brain sometimes—not even just the Scumbag side—I would. Too bad there’s literally no escape. Too bad I suck at running, anyway.

Teetering.

Is that what’s happening? Is that why I keep trying to push back that one emo breakdown? Or has the overall tone of the last week just been more overwhelming to me than I thought? Because it’s sad, what I feel. But when I try to pinpoint why, all the other reasons why I am still good keep bubbling up. So it doesn’t quite feel as all-encompassing…yet?

Do you think there’s really a breaking point? Like, for everyone? If there is, will we always wind up at its precipice? Is it inevitable that, at least at one point within your lifetime, you’re going to tumble over it?

This is the idea I’m grappling with today. And I’m paying more attention to my distractions. Times when I let you overrun the conversation because maybe you need to, and it’s easier to think about what you’re talking about than what I’m feeling. Flipping on comedies I’ve seen a billion times and looking forward to the parts that make me laugh the hardest. Taking too long to decide what book I’m reading next. Thinking over and over and over again about the words I’m going to put down on paper, the characters who I’m going to finally lead to their endings. Behaviors I might try changing.

And blog posts that I should be writing.

I don’t want to talk about my feelings.

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This is the story of a Scumbag Brain.

I fumble around the nightstand and hit “snooze” on my alarm while barely opening my eyes. I press it a few too many times more before I find my flip-flops and basically stumble from the bedroom, where Nico chirps, trills, and mews the entire time I’m getting his breakfast. What I don’t know yet is that this is the happiest I will be throughout the day.

The shower is usually turned on before the bathroom door closes and this is where the best of the mood starts to flicker. It’s Monday, or a day back after a long weekend, or a morning after a bad night of sleep, and all I can think about is that by the time Friday gets here, this moment will not even be a memory. I won’t even remember what outfit I’m going to put on, and I probably haven’t even figured that part out yet.

Everything takes such a long time. My hair needs to be mostly dry by the time I leave, or it’ll just stay damp and flat in the wrong places. I never feel like putting makeup on. By the time I’m finished, I will be scrubbing curl cream and cover cream and eyeshadow off my hands and scrambling to pack breakfast and coffee. I promise Nico I’ll be back and I remind him to be good, even though he always is.

I think of how many times I will have to do this drive by the time it’s Friday. I might not be paying attention to the podcast I found so interesting twenty minutes ago. The walk into work isn’t memorable, but it’s usually windy. If I’m alone in the elevator, sometimes I slump against the wall and hope the ride takes a little longer.

I start my to-do list. I sort emails. I check my personal email and my Facebook notifications. And I start on whatever project is the most pressing. Add comma. Delete hyphen. Hyphenate here. Cut ordinal.

I think about how tired I am. Sip coffee.

Cap headline. I’m really bad at writing headlines.

Change format to match other emails in set. This content is so repetitive. I would drag my feet so hard if I had to write this set. Our team does a great job. But I wouldn’t.

I’m so tired. Sip coffee. It’s still super hot, which I love, but sometimes the roof of my mouth suffers.

Initial page. No edits. Which is great. Maybe. Unless I didn’t catch something huge. Did I check the subheads? Factoids? Do I remember proofing this page at all? Should I check it again or should I just drop it off and worry a little more?

There’s chatter behind me. I’m glad they’re laughing with each other and enjoying themselves. But writing and editing are solitary, and I’ll be lucky if I have one conversation throughout the day. It’s okay. I don’t think I have anything good to talk about today, anyway.

If I close my eyes, I will sleep. So let’s go walk up and down the stairs a few times and maybe that tiny burst of energy will get me through to lunch.

In the afternoon, I’ll go visit Nico again. I eat something at my kitchen table and then stare at my bed, wishing I could crawl in and take a nap for the rest of the day. I am so tired. I probably haven’t had enough water. I never really do. It’s just another thing I can’t remember to do. Or I don’t want to do.

I don’t want to go back to work. I don’t want to figure out dinner. I don’t want to go to therapy later. I don’t want to go to the gym. I don’t want to go do laundry. Does Nico have enough food? I don’t want to go to the grocery store.

I’m so tired. I can’t think about staring at any more words on any pages. Forget about writing my own. I’m not even sure why I leave the tabs open for the two stories I’m working on. I probably won’t ever finish them. I get excited when I write one paragraph. Yeah. Really big accomplishment. I’m embarrassed to tell anyone that my dream will be realized the day I see a book with my name on it on a shelf in Barnes and Noble. I’m embarrassed because I can’t make it happen.

I’m so tired. So tired. But it’s too early to go to bed, because then I have to get up and do it again. All of it. But isn’t this the kind of job I wanted? I’m lucky, right, that I get to spend all day proofing, since I love it? Didn’t I work really hard for this? And I’m going to be tired anyway, so what does it matter what time I go to bed?

Crawl into bed. Why do the pillows not feel like my own? Why is it only Monday? How come I can’t formulate a specific plotline? What else do I have to do this week after work? What can I get away with not doing? Why am I awake again after two hours? How much longer until my alarm goes off?

 

Just recently, I explained to someone that I go through these bouts. Sometimes, it lasts a day. Or the whole week. Or multiple weeks. This, my fellow quasi-adults, is Scumbag Brain. It’s when everything shiny turns tarnished. It’s doubt, and deceit, and horrendous grumpiness, an overwhelming sense of unfulfillment, and a loud, loud echo of uselessness and negativity, topped off by inescapable fatigue. And it’s my own brain doing it, like my ultimate foe is locked in there and just ceaselessly rattling the bars on his cage.

My brain hates me. Whether it’s genetic, or environmental factors, or situational, or a combination of a million things, it is a freakin’ fight every day. This is one of the first things I’ve said to people when we talk about mental illness. It isn’t just therapy or meds–both of which can be unbelievably helpful; don’t get me wrong–it’s something you have to be cognizant of, every single minute of the day. And sometimes, I am just so tired.

Sometimes, my brain has run the track so many times that I don’t even want to talk about how I feel. “I don’t know what to talk about today, Dr. Psychologist.” I’m not sure how to answer the question ‘how are you?’ — to be honest, I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about my feelings or how I’m going to distract myself from them for now. Because that’ll work, sure, until the next time my brain-foe decides he’s bored. I don’t want to decide whether or not this is just situational, because I’ve been thinking about bad things all day/week, and it’s just one big damn unperfect circle.

I don’t want to think about all the things I should be doing differently. The ways in which my life is changing seemingly without my input. The echoes and the distractions and the sense of coming up short, and the inevitable “what the hell are you even complaining about?”

This is the story of my Scumbag Brain. And I’m not writing it to garner sympathy or attention. I’m writing it because, more often than not, when I explain the concept of Scumbag Brain, eyes widen and voices raise an octave and there it is: “That happens to me, too.”

And so, I’ll read a chapter. I’ll find some crazy question under the “Ask Reddit” subreddit and waste half an hour. I’ll swallow my three pills and my vitamins, carry my water bottle as a reminder to drink more, hug Nico because he knows when I need it. Maybe write a note or two in my phone and remind myself that it might only be Monday, but Friday will get here. It will. And maybe my brain won’t be so scummy tomorrow.

 

the little things give you away.

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I most certainly had not planned to abandon this endeavor. But when I come to think of it, I often go long, dusty stretches of time without the scratch of a pen to paper ((or keystroke to a blank page, per se)), no matter how many promises I make to myself.

When do you turn to writing–or reading, or drawing, or crosswords, or CrossFit, or Sodoku, a.k.a Who Decided Math is Fun? When do you go to your outlet?

There are several instances when I go to mine. Sometimes, it’s during the times where I feel so lit by creativity that everything around me gets brighter and the words crowd for a space at the front of my brain. Sometimes, a long stretch of writing follows a long stretch of tears.

There have been a great number of those lately.

I was going to write about the other type of brain activity I’ve been experiencing over the last few weeks. There are things fighting for a space in front, sure, but they are words of derision, disappointment, despair, deceit, and distortion. There have been a lot of tears.

I was going to write about the sense of loss I feel about the passing of Chester Bennington, a man who I had watched perform multiple times, who was one of the few artists who I felt like took some of those derisive and distorted words from my own head and made them into something real. I don’t want to say “beautiful.” While Linkin Park had some beautiful songs ((“The Little Things Give You Away” and “My Dsmbr” come to mind)), much of their music was very real to me – real words, tangible feelings, unapologetic darkness that I could shout along with in my car or appreciate as it pumped through my headphones. It was crafted well, and still resonated like my own heartbeat.

I was very much looking forward to their concert with Blink 182 this Friday.

I have cried a mass of tears, and it has left me silent, enraged, unfulfilled, incredulous. So instead of writing about those kinds of tears, I’m going to share something about a different type of tears altogether.

Copyrighted 2017

https://www.dropbox.com/s/4nwuwnwr0cs1hzn/Tears.docx?dl=0