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Dear dad,

​Sometimes I wonder why our ideas about the world are so different. Maybe it was because you were 10 years old when segregation became illegal in America and you grew up absorbing its implicit message that black people are somehow less than you. Even though you didn’t grow up in the south, you saw it. It happened in its ways in Brooklyn where shop owners could keep out the negroes if they so chose. ​It would be reasonable for you to believe your racial supremacy as a child in a country where people of color were told to keep their distance, where their ​facilities were broken and dirty and yours were shiny and clean, whe​re​ the​ir​ place was ​i​n the back and yours was in the front. So you watched segregation end and thought it was some act of caucasian compassion; just white people doing black people a favor. How noble of white people to offer “equality” to a people you learned to hold unequally. I don’t know if that’s what you were ​really ​thinking but based on your current attitude, it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

But ​have you ​held those messages​ all these years​ without asking questions? Did you​ enter into adulthood never wonder​ing​ why skin color ​decided worth​ and who would be in charge of determining such things​? If you had​ wondered​, perhaps then you could have seen what segregation really was; a problem caused by white people, not solved by them.

​I find myself often hoping those are the reasons you act ignorantly sometimes​;​ it was just a part of your childhood mythology. We all have them​ - beliefs that were taught to us too soon for our developing egos to call bullshit on them. ​My childhood mythology was built on something different, as parents and children often grow up worlds apart. ​I didn’t grow up during segregation, I grew up watching the Cosby Show wondering why there weren’t more black people on TV. I grew up wondering why all my Jewish friends had to go to school on their holidays because we only got the Christian holidays off. I grew up wondering who that woman living with Aunt ​P​enny was because no one ​thought it was safe to tell me it was ​just ​her girlfriend.

You say you grew up with black people who were “thugs” and ​who ​caused trouble, but I grew up wondering how people perpetually and so obviously attacked by ​the system​ ​could possibly be ​resourced to do anything but attack back. You say you grew up saying “Merry Christmas” and tha​t​ no one should ​dare take that away from you, but I grew up wondering why we were the only ones with such privilege and how ​a more inclusive holiday greeting could possibly ​exclude yours. You say you grew up in a simpler time when only straight people were “in the open” with their love​, b​ut I grew up wondering why my lesbian aunts​ (your sister)​​ had to live in such complicated shame. You say you grew up with ​simplistic gender norms and that things ought to stay that way, but I grew up wondering ​how so​meone struggling to fit into an over-simplistic social construct could be bullied to the point of depression and suicide.

I’m glad your childhood seemed to be so rosy​, though I’d reckon there’s a lot you’re not remembering clearly​. ​But I get it. ​I’m white, straight and cisgender myself so m​y childhood was rosy, too​,​ apart from all the​ unanswered​ questions about ​the sad state of things. But these memories you have? ​The memories of​ your unchallenged privilege? ​It’s time for them to be just memories. I say that not because I want to take something away from you, but because I want to give others the opportunity to have rosy memories of being represented, important, and respected, too. And to be safe. It can’t simply be that your memories of childhood are so precious that you’d rather see others suffer, live in pain, or continue to be cast out of society​, can it?

​I don’t really believe you have hate in your heart for others, but ​preserving ​your nostalgia​ and the power it implies​ is more ​critical to you than the current lives of your fellow human beings and that’s what privilege looks like.​ That’s what a lack of empathy looks like.​ It may have been a simpler time for you when you, a European-American straight, cisgender, Christian male, my father, were the pinnacle of ​importance​;​ when the Earth seemed to revolve around you, your culture, your faith, your needs, but I​ ​assure you the world has always b​e​en a very complicated place for most others. The people asking for equality are not new people​ - they​'​ve been there all along, ​hiding in the wings where you never had to look because the world was yours. They never showed their faces because it wasn’t safe, because they lived in shame, the same shame you’re trying to feed them now. The​se human beings are ​​​​asking for nothing more than the gift you were given at birth, which is to simply matter. ​That is not political correctness, that is not liberal propaganda, that is humanity. Who are you to say your memories matter more than someone else’s humanity?

The wild thing is that while those who have been hiding are finally revealing themselves, you’re revealing something, too. I think you know that. I think it makes you uncomfortable that your response to something beyond your control reveals an irresponsibility to your fellow man. That’s why you belittle it as nothing more than the liberal agenda, where left-wingers get together to find things to force down your throat. Your intolerance can’t be disguised now, your inability to let go of your privilege is in the open, and that’s a threat to every part of you.

And let me just say that “intolerant” has become a political word - a bad one - an accusation, an attempt at gaslighting. Really, though, it’s what you are. You lack the ability to tolerate people, things, and ideas that are other than you. Calling you intolerant is not an attack, it’s a description. It’s also something that can change, if you so choose. You say you feel shamed by those who are progressive and want you to accept other lifestyles. I don’t encourage shame, and this letter doesn’t intend it, yet I can’t help but wonder if it’s just the natural order of things - that the shame you doled out from your place of privilege is simply finding its way back to you. Some call that karma, I call it an opportunity for growth. Will you take it?

If you do, I’ll ​be there to support​. If you don’t, just know that my ability to understand why has been stretched as far as it can go.​​

Love, Your daughter

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my world

When a friend called offering me a chance to move to California, I was in New York nestled right into one of those “it’s complicated” situations with a guy friend. We both had the feels but one of us (not me) was freaking out about the idea of turning our friendship into something else. And yet every day he did something that turned our friendship into something else. I guess it was okay for us to be in a relationship so long as no one said that’s what it was. Anyway my friend called and said she had a cheap apartment opportunity which would afford me the chance to be in the place I’ve longed for my whole life. Then I looked over at the guy and thought: well good thing we’re not in a relationship.

Of course I went back and forth wondering if a human relationship, however ill-defined, was more important than some city lust. I wondered, even if we were only friends, if I ought to be more thoughtful than to leave a good thing with another person (a person I loved) 3,000 miles in my dust. Then one afternoon, while I ran some errands, “Midnight Train to Georgia” started to fly from my car speakers. In that song, Gladys Knight sings one of the two most beautiful lines from 1970s pop songs that taught my adolescent self what it means to love someone in this crazy world[1], and rested at a stop sign that sunny day, I thoughtlessly sang it with her: I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine. 

Sensations all over my body went haywire as the words left my mouth and my brain registered their sentiment. The words were not my words, they were Gladys’ and I just happened to know them. They were harmless words, but my body was in full blown panic and instantly I thought: It’s not true! I don’t want to live in his world; I’d rather live without him in mine.

Three months later I was a Californian.

But not without some heavy protesting from the guy who only wanted to be friends.

And not without 8 months of dating that guy long distance[2].

Life is tricky, what can I say?

 _______________________________

[1] This Jackson 5 line from “I’ll Be There” is the other one: If you should ever find someone new, I know he better be good to you, ‘cause if he doesn’t, I’ll be there. 

[2] In the end we broke up; I didn’t move back to New York. Turns out I really did rather live without him in mine.

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Seeking: Los Angeles Lite

Staten Island may be the rotten, annoying, privileged younger sibling of the 4 other New York City boroughs, but the further away a person gets, the more they may see the family resemblance. 

I grew up there, which is to say I took city buses to school, a ferry and a train to work, and my car to the mall often because on the island itself there wasn’t much else to do. I went through adolescence with the main goal of losing my horrid accent. I watched the Jersey Shore just to take notes on how not to be as a person. To each their own, of course - it just wasn’t for me.

Staten Island is not like the other boroughs in that its transportation is less efficient, its sprawl is less exciting to walk, its diversity is segregated (if you’re Italian, Irish or Jewish, you get the south shore; if you’re a person of color, try the north shore), and election results prove year after year that Staten Islanders think they’re richer, more elite, and more American than they really are. Also, at least a quarter of the island is owned by the mafia. Pro tip: If you see a group of white men in nice suits sitting together at an Italian restaurant, do not eavesdrop. They’ll know.

Staten Island is like the other boroughs in that it’s full of uptight, impatient, stressed out people who are too addicted to the convenience of living and working in one of the greatest cities in the world that they’ll deal with operating in a haste unnatural for humans, rising costs, hellish commutes, non-stop distractions, and the myriad types of pollution that sharing tiny islands of the non-tropical variety with millions of other people affords you.

I moved to LA because New York had exhausted me. It trained me to have a manic personality, which it turned out wasn’t something I had the emotional energy to sustain. I could physically keep up with myself, and proving that was some badge of honor, but then I realized it was silly to prove I could do something that didn’t actually make me happy. In contrast, LA seemed more open, calm, nature seemed to seep in a little more. Angelenos drive like they’re just out for a drive, and while my inner New Yorker always wants to respond to that with a certain finger, I had to respect the ideology of relinquishing control to the environment and simply getting somewhere when you get there. Plus, with my New York-developed work ethic, LA was sure to help me create the perfect balance of being late all the time and still getting shit done, which would make me some kind of half-assing superhero by comparison to those who were either born in southern California or relocated here from, say, Wisconsin.

LA felt to me like New York Lite; I could hustle at my own pace, continue being distracted by city offerings, and still bump into people on the street whom I could guarantee to never see again, all while enjoying the la la land cloud of Los Angeles, its sunshine, its vintage architecture, and its varying nature. 

Recently, however, New York Lite has started to feel like a burden of its own. Who can say if it’s the years of work I’ve done on my damaged self or if my tolerance for chaos is waning organically as I creep into my 30s, but I’m about to tuck and roll myself off this hamster wheel and once I do, I’m not turning back. At least not until I can get it all out of my system. I’m feeling the need to nest for myself, to parent myself in a way I never was, to take in goodness instead of working overdrive to keep out the bad.

My therapist says nurturing oneself and protecting oneself are two very different paradigms, and that in order to nurture yourself fully, you can’t feel threatened. I struggle to reconcile that wholly and completely, because I can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t have to protect myself in some way, and yet on some other level, I understand. I understand that in order to fully intake and receive nourishment of any kind, you can’t be stiff-arming scary relationships, you can’t have your muscles tense from wariness, you can’t have your anxious eyes searching high and low for danger. Integration of nourishment doesn’t succeed under anxious circumstances, neither biologically nor spiritually.

Those at the greatest levels of enlightenment may be able to achieve self-transcendence in any environment. For those of us who are less polished in our connection to soul, we need a little help from our surroundings. The place we live should mirror our inner self in some way, and LA mirrors the version of me that needed to hold on to mania in order to prove her worth and keep depression at bay. It mirrors the version of me that craves the external distractions and gets off on the self-righteousness of trying to live as a true introvert in an extroverted town. It mirrors the part of me that wants to rage against the machine only to perpetuate my feelings of powerlessness. Instead, what I really need, is just to create the ideal world for myself as I imagine it, which doesn’t include millions of people fighting for road, endless extroverted distractions, and delicious but unnecessary access to Mexican food at 3am. 

So when I look at these competing paradigms, nurturing versus protecting (dare I say the feminine versus the masculine?), I can’t help but notice that the comfort I feel in chaos is merely a comfort of familiarity, not a true comfort. The chaos is what I’ve known from my youth on Staten Island, my adulthood in Manhattan, and my early-stage individuated selfhood in Los Angeles. So is there a Los Angeles Lite? Or do I go straight for the woods and see just how much of me is made up of extroversion? Either way, my time in LA is nearing its end and I’m saying that for reasons unknown other than to just put it out there and own it. Plus I just finished writing my thesis for 4 months so I’m okay writing non-academic nonsense that has no rhyme, reason, or comprehensible ending. 

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The Perfect Panera Storm

From my collection of essays titled Only a Serial Killer Would Name His Dog Tina: And Other Tales of Perfect Strangers.

"Excuse me, do you know how this wi-fi works?"

I’m minding my own business in Panera, eating my tuna sandwich and mindlessly browsing Facebook when I should be writing or working or editing a photo. She startles me when she taps me on the shoulder because I’m mid-mastication and I just know that there’s tuna somewhere on my face that hasn’t yet made it into my mouth.

I never know how to answer questions about wi-fi because the internet is a subject on which there are vast experts. If I tell you to start by opening the wi-fi icon on your toolbar, these are the 2 possible responses I’m in for:

1.      Wide eyes and shrugged shoulders because you don’t know what that even means, or

2.      Laser beams shooting out of your face and into my heart because DUH, OF COURSE YOU ALREADY TRIED THAT. WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE, AN IDIOT?

Offering wi-fi advice has the potential to reap the consequences of the worst levels of advice-giving. Say, for instance, when your printer doesn’t work and someone’s first offering is “have you turned it on?” I believe in most states that reply is grounds for justifiable homicide yet somehow, occasionally you will get one person that offers a long pause and then admits “you know what? I don’t think I did turn it on.”

To avoid this potential fiasco, I find myself on the couch next to her, so I can watch and assess her skill level while walking her through the steps on how to connect. I’m codependent like that. Of all the help I give her, I’m most proud of my pro tip that when Panera cuts her off because it's peak time in the cafe, the Supercuts nearby has their own password-free wi-fi to connect to. (Sorry, Supercuts. But really, why do you even need wi-fi anyway?)

We get to talking and I discover she’s there to study with a classmate who hasn’t arrived yet and because normal grown-ups with jobs and lives don’t often hang out in Panera on their computer in the middle of a Monday afternoon, she assumes I’m also studying. Most people do.

In hindsight, if I had to guess, from the time we began talking until the time her classmate arrived, roughly 8 minutes passed. And by the end of that 8 minutes, we were both crying and hugging each other.

* * *

I’m back at my table as she explains that her workload is heavy, she’s exhausted, but it’s all worth it because there’s something bigger than us that leads us where we're supposed to be, even if we’re too humanly stubborn to admit it.

This girl has no idea how much I agree with her (and OMG do I agree with her) and she never will because she takes the entire lead on this conversation. I let her because it seems she has a lot to say, as though no one’s listened to her in years and she just needs to unload. She’s unintentionally exploding at the seams. So I put down the tuna, wipe my entire face with 2 napkins (just to make sure) and turn my chair around so we’re facing each other.

She hardly makes eye contact when she talks and while some view this as a weakness, I view it as simply a difference. From what I know about her already, she's seems to have been through a lot. Practicing the art of eye contact probably does not top her list of priorities.

And let’s face it, we can all stand to work on our eye contact.

I’m presented with a timeline of how she went from dazed and confused to this well put together student leading a very delicately balanced life of work and school with everything falling into place nicely beyond the realm of her own control.

She lost her grandmother, the person she was closer to than anyone in the world, 7 years ago. It was the first time in her life that she would have to address the complex mental and emotional strain that trying to cope with, and understand, death has on us. It’s probably fair to say that when the rest of us experience loss for the first time, it’s not the most important person in our lives. Loss is always hard, but her grandmother was her parent; out of the gate, she lost everything.

She was lost and alone and angry and when the grief was too much to bear, she turned to drugs. Descending into addiction with the illusions of comfort and control it gave her, her life fell apart. She was depressed. Suicidal. The drugs and subsequent lifestyle were controlling her life for two years, and she spent much of that time asking for God’s help, even though she didn’t even really understand what that meant.

Then, one random night, she had a dream; a dream that brought her grandmother back to her. In her unconscious playground, she followed her grandmother to see her father, a real life man she hadn’t seen in 10 real life years. And just as she was getting used to the dream sight of him again, he dream died.

As much as she was grateful to reconnect with her grandmother, she was startled by the dream and woke up feeling an overwhelming emotional response to her father’s death as though it was real, as though it had meant something to her. So much time had passed since she knew her dad and she couldn’t understand why he would be sitting so high up in her unconscious.

But the dream resonated with her so deeply that she sought recovery. She wanted to overcome her addiction and make her grandmother proud of who she was growing up to be. She wanted to overcome her addiction and reconcile with her father. It was time, she decided, to forgive him his mistakes; mistakes that are unknown to me but were, by the tone in her voice, impactful enough to have ruined their relationship.

By mending her connection to her father, she pulled herself slowly out of the darkness. They supported each other, they got to know each other all over again.

It was four years; four years of reconnecting, four years of growing together. Four years since the day she welcomed her father back into her life until the day he unexpectedly died.

Unexpectedly. He went in for an operation, left the hospital for home feeling fine and had a heart attack on his front steps.

She takes a pause as she tells me this; she needs to catch her breath before telling me today would have been his birthday so she's a little more emotional about it than usual. As I wipe the tears that are now dropping like Victoria Falls from my eyes, I ask her to please not apologize for being emotional about the sudden death of her dad. Recent, too, as I would come to find out he only passed a few weeks ago.

While she walks through the story, including where she was and how she reacted to the news of her father’s passing, I realize, almost counter-productively, that I've never listened to someone like this before. I've never been so attentive, so not concerned about what I could contribute to the conversation or if my tuna sandwich missed me. I forgot where I was and why I was there. I was so lost in her world. It was easy to listen to her, easy to go through each emotion she described because it was all so real, so raw, so simultaneously close to home and not even on the same planet.

Influenced by her short-lived yet new relationship with her father, she decided to go back to school. When she applied for colleges and looked for jobs, she was met with a lot of resistance. Scheduling conflicts and money troubles almost stood in the way of it all. But she pressed on and when her father died, as she says, like the flip of a switch, everything fell into its right place.

She says that the Universe is setting her up to write a book someday. And I’m not inclined to argue. I’m confident she has more to share. She says she’s sad to have lost her father but grateful to have known him. She knows everything happened the way it was supposed to; whether she accepted him back into her life or not, he would have died. At least this way she got four good years and the knowledge that the burden of his guilt was lifted.

He is the force behind her heavy and exhausting workload. He is the conductor of her very delicately balanced life of work and school. Her efforts to get a higher education, her drive to follow her dreams, her will to become a better person, it’s because of him.

And I would be lying if I denied that my efforts to share this story, my drive to write these essays, my will to become a better person, is because of him, too.

* * *

We hugged and wiped our tears, she thanked me and her classmate walked in. No one exchanged explanations, we just resumed normalcy as though none of that happened.

I finished my tuna sandwich with thoughts of these strangers and their complex lives swirling around in my head. I thought of her grandmother, I thought of her father, I thought of her. I admired her for owning her addiction, I admired her grandmother for her extraordinary metaphysical efforts to save her granddaughter. I admired her father for being brave enough to accept responsibility for whatever he may have done and move forward in happiness with his daughter.

Transfixed by her story and its emotional hold on me, I realized I knew this girl so deeply, so intimately, except for one major detail.

“Excuse me for just a sec, girls,” I say, peaking back over at them over my shoulder. I make eye contact with the girl I was just hugging and crying with. “What’s your name?” I laugh.

“Oh. I guess we never did exchange names after all that,” she says with a smile. “Evelyn.”

“Vanessa,” I reply with a nod. And then I turn back to my tuna sandwich and she turns back to her classmate and we both return to our lives. 

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Because there was light, part 3

Part 1, Part 2

The next day wasn’t much better. In fact due to the distortion of self that’s required with a corporate job, it may have even been worse. Instinctively, I found my depression masquerading around the office as anger. It made me sadder to realize anger is more socially acceptable than the depletion that comes with depression. It made me confused to realize I found a way to distort without actually pretending to be happy.

I was receiving worse news about my uncle and still had no idea what to do with it all. I contemplated flying home for a few days to face it and spend some time with him, but between money and my foolish schedule, I wasn’t sure how to pull that off. The guilt of that made me feel worse.

As I sat at work fulfilling empty obligations, my mind wandered to the night before. I kept seeing those headlights and grew more and more engaged with how light and dark play off each other, magnify one another, need each other. Seeing those headlights and imagining myself in front of them is what made me realize I didn’t want to be silent anymore. I decided then that I would find a way to be honest, even if my chosen career wouldn’t let my name be attached to it. Those lights and that darkness is what made me start writing again, here. I could finally see the darkness because there was light, and if anything could give me enough hope to keep going, it would be that.

After work I drifted off to my second job where I took a beat to get myself together. Aware of the importance of leaving my shit at the door, I gathered up some temporary self-ignorance and sat across from a young man I’ve been meeting with for a year, now. He brought no shortage of pain and just a few moments before we were to part, he asked me to walk him through a breathing exercise as we’ve done in the past. It was meant to be a somatic experience, focusing on the body and the breath, so I made my voice all soothing, had us both settle into our chairs with closed eyes and firmly-planted feet, and began to set the rhythm for our breathing. The exercise was going smoothly until he interrupted me. His eyes were still closed, his breathing still in beat, but mine had rejoined the tangible world in order to support him and watch our time. “I see something,” he said. “I tried to keep focusing on my breath but it just won’t go away.”

“That’s okay,” I said calmly. “Let it in. What do you see?”

“A light,” he said. “It’s coming from the ground and shooting up into the sky.”

“Is that a positive, negative or neutral experience for you?” I asked.

“It’s scaring me. But against the light I can’t help but notice how dark the sky is.”

Too familiar! Way too familiar! my mind shouted at me. I closed my eyes to meet him there so I could guide him through this more authentically. I needed to see what he was seeing and not my own association, which was obviously the headlights from the night before.

“It feels good now,” he said. “It was scary but now it’s empowering. I can see the dark! I can see the dark because there is light.” If the tone of his voice could tell its own story, it would be one of relief. His pain was finding its place in the darkness, his hope was finding its place in the light. A tear rolled down my cheek as I opened my eyes to confirm his were still closed. My hands squeezed the arms of my chair as I feared I might float away. I continued to help him explore his imagination while asking mine, which was exploding within me, to wait until his time was up.

But fleeting thoughts popped in and out of my head as they waited for their time and space. Is this real? Is this magic? Is this why human connection is so important? As I met him in his dream - or he met me in my nightmare - pieces of myself started to fall back into place. By describing the light’s beauty against the dark air and what it meant to him, he reminded me how connected we all are; just floating pieces of energy that compose the Universe. We’re not just in the Universe, we are it. And when you’re the Universe, you’re never really alone. 

When we were done, his eyes opened and smiled at me. I could feel peace buzzing all around him. He put his hand on his chest and offered me a deep bow of appreciation. He’ll never know it was all I could do to not thank him back.

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Because there was light, part 2

Part 1

I gave up on Enzo and slogged back to my car, tripping over myself to brush the sand off my pants. As I traced the outline of my front bumper with my body, staying close to my car in awareness of the moving traffic to its left, I saw headlights heading south toward me on the Pacific Coast Highway. I was surprised to see just how night it had become by observing the contrast of the black sky against the glow of the moving lights. 

My curious mind wondered why I needed light in order to truly notice the darkness and then in an instant, apropos of darkness, I fell into fantasy and imagined running out in front of the 2 sets of headlights that approached quickly. One was going faster than the other and somehow I was able to know that in the split second this fantasy unfolded. The faster car would obviously be my target but the slower one was a good backup in case the first one swerved. Strategy can come that directly that easily, and that's probably a good thing except in cases like this one. 

I wouldn’t do it, mind you. I've never been one for suicide but I have been known to fantasize about it. The line between the two is thin but tall, if that even makes sense. I guess it's not a line, it's a wall. I feel comfortable with this distinction as a trained therapist, knowing the differences between curiosity about death, fantasizing about death, and being in so much pain that death is the only way out. 

I made my way into my driver seat without much regret for the thoughts I just had. I took a breath and assessed myself for suicidality for good measure, if that’s even possible. I became aware that what I’m fighting most is authenticity. I spent a lifetime around people who wouldn't let me be my honest self, made friends in my adult life who did the same and then chose a profession where it could actually be dangerous for me to share these thoughts and feelings. Could you imagine if I was your therapist and I told you I fantasized about jumping in front of highway-speed vehicles just a moment ago? And yet I’m fucking human, in all its glory and all its pain, and being aware of that, being honest about that, understanding the total mess that takes shelter under our skin, does actually make me a good therapist. That’s what I think, at least. 

Anyway it wasn’t because Enzo rejected me, of course, it was because I didn't know where to go next. My career and relationships and self are evolving, and I’m grateful for that. Yet there’s this underlying pain that makes everything feel futile, no matter how great it may read on paper. 

Unfortunately, I had my dumb corporate job on my mind. It could be validation of a shitty existence if the thing keeping you from the sweet glow of moving headlights is that you need to be at work the next day. There’s a big project due and if I don’t get it done, everyone will be disappointed in me. I’m perpetually a disappointment to myself, but I couldn’t possibly die being a disappointment to others. I’d never rest.

On the drive home I imagined driving my car off the road twice, but at least I didn’t. I almost went to Carl’s Jr. for dinner which might as well have been the same thing, but at least I didn’t do that either. My uncle just had a massive heart attack and I don’t think I could swallow a burger right now even if I actually wanted to, even if it was actually for nutritional value and not some unconscious attempt to punish my body for how shitty a person I am, or whatever horrible thing I’m thinking about myself right now. 

I don’t mean to mention the part about my uncle so flippantly, or with such a selfish slant, but I’m pretty sure I have no idea how else to handle it right now, being 3,000 miles away getting second-hand information and just trying to wait patiently for more news. I can’t turn water into wine but where I can turn helplessness into avoidance, I will.

Anyway, even if I really tried to die right now, I don’t think this beach town would let me. I believe this to be true as I open my car windows and get whiff of whatever it is that blooms on the face of the bluffs this time of year. That rustic, salty, floral fragrance tends to calm my desperation and remind me that, like a magnet, I’m stuck to the ground of a tiny ball that’s spinning through the wild west of space, and if everyday gravity’s not a reminder that the Universe wants to keep me safe, I’m not sure what else could be. At least that’s what I have to hold on to right now. 

Part 3

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Because there was light, part 1

I hadn’t left the apartment all day, and I hadn’t said an actual word to another human being either. Bizarre behavior for a Tuesday, I guess, but one small perk to working for a big corporate company is that they’ll let you work from home sometimes and that’s what I was up to. Most nights after work I hustle off to a second job; corporate cog by day, therapist trainee by night. But tonight was an unexpected night off. I thought that would have made me feel freer to indulge in the perks of working from home; lying in bed, rolling around in yoga pants, snacking on peanut butter pretzels and lounging in the garden with the blue jays. But it didn’t. 

Instead, any potential for freedom maxed out on the opposite side of the scale, leaving me feeling like my apartment was a jail cell, one I deserved to be in, and that I’d never see a friendly face again.

Depression can be strange and dramatic like that. It can make up truths that don’t exist – like my degree of loneliness, my inability to go find someone who gave a shit, my lack of worth. Those truths can run amok inside your mind, your heart, and all of the corners of your body until your senses go dull, your logic ceases to exist and all good memories reveal themselves to be illusions. Or at least that’s the illusion.

My work day was coming to a close yet there was no ritual other than shutting the screen of my laptop to officially shift my responsibilities and allowable persona. There were no coworkers to say goodbye to with excitement of leaving the office in exchange for sunshine, a nice drive, and the job I actually care about. It was all just more of the same and there was a hidden pain under that. It wasn’t directly connected to the quiet isolation but it was exacerbated by it. I dissociated as a means of survival - the dance. The dance happens when my depression hurts too bad so I go numb, but the numbness scares me too much so I go crazy.

Just as I was getting a little too numb, a pain erupted out of me suddenly and I was changing my clothes with no real knowledge of why. I was in a frantic rush to get out of the apartment and while I wasn’t making any of these decisions consciously, a strategy was unfolding nonetheless. Before I knew it I was shuttling my empty shell of a human body to the one small corner of the coast that always seems to make things better. I sat on the sand and cried, walked along the water and cried, trespassed onto private property because I just didn’t care (though nobody should get to “own” the beach anyway) and cried. I didn’t know what I was crying about, or maybe I did, I don’t know.

The sunset was stunning. There was a hazy cloud floating right above the water that offered enough moisture to the sky to make the changing colors of the sunlight look like images from a pop-up book. The wind felt cool against my teary face and the water hit my feet with just the right warmth. I was noticing the beauty around me but felt like I wasn’t allowed to be a part of it. That’s how I know my depression is winning, when it succeeds at convincing me of imaginary, uncontrollable, impossible isolation. 

It was getting cold and grey so I thanked this place for always knowing what to say and began to leave. As I traversed the sand back toward my car, I spotted a dog. I told myself playing with him would be a healthy choice so I approached in my passive aggressive way of approaching canines that offers myself without imposing myself. The dog responded with a wagging tail but his mood changed quickly. “What’s your dog’s name?” I asked his nearby human. 

“Oh, this is Enzo. He’s real friendly,” he replied.

If he’s friendly, why is he growling at me like I have a raw steak in my pocket? I wondered. 

“Oh. He doesn’t seem to be much in the mood today, it seems” I said instead, wondering if I was talking about the dog or myself. 

I take it more to heart when a dog doesn’t like me than when a human doesn’t, and on a normal day I could respect that we all have our types and I just wasn’t Enzo’s, but this wasn’t a normal day. Enzo made me feel like crap, I’m not going to lie. My depression lunged at another opportunity to shove in my face proof that I’m a shitty person destined to be alone (and now dogless) forever.

Part 2

[andyouthebell-blog]

[andyouthebell-blog]

Ned, Please

An open letter to what was probably a cricket, circa 2012.

Ned, I found you on my wall last night, just above my hamper full of clean clothes, and I asked myself why bad things happen to good people. You stood there, clinging all – however many – legs to the very foundation of my home and wiggled your antennae in a way I can only describe as deeply offensive.

Why did you come into my apartment? What do I have that you want? You see, I live modestly and alone and maybe you heard that I was lacking companionship and decided to swing by and lend an ear about my troubles as I lament from my blowup bed but the truth is, I’m good. Thanks, but no thanks.

I have an incredibly irrational reaction toward bugs in my home and when that happens in my life - when my emotional and physiological states don’t match my own logic - I sometimes wonder if it has something to do with a past life. Maybe I was attacked by a swarm of your friends a few hundred years ago; maybe I was one of your friends.

Either way, we need to get a few things straight. I don’t want you here. I don’t mean on Earth, you’re allowed to be on Earth, but unless you’re willing to pay half my rent, abide by a few ground rules and help me clean the bathroom every weekend, I don’t see how we can coexist. Most notably, I kind of think you’re disgusting and that is likely the premise of my bad feelings toward you in general. I have compassion toward all living creatures and I never find myself in higher regard because I AM HUMAN WITH OPPOSABLE THUMB HEAR ME ROAR. We can all get along just fine. I just need you to stay outside in nature where you belong and let me live inside in human shelter where I belong. Does that sound unreasonable to you?

I will admit, if you were a stray puppy randomly stuck to my wall, I would be less grossed out. Concerned and seriously questioning gravity, yes, but grossed out? No. Can you blame me, Ned? You look brown and gooey, like Christina Aguilera in her “Dirrty” music video. I feel like I can become ill from sharing your air space. You might even have a hard shell, I can’t tell. I don’t understand you, Ned; nothing about you. You have more legs than I care to stare long enough to count, with two back ones in particular that look quite disturbing and muscular. This army of legs helps you scurry along my walls, nearing closer to my clothes at rapid speeds and I just don’t know how to handle you.

Maybe I’m being too hard on you, Ned, after all beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But even Ace Ventura couldn’t stand the white bat; I think we’re all allowed one kind of creature we don’t exactly want to hang around and cuddle with.

I’d love to be the kind to shoo you on to piece of paper and release you into the wild, or out my bathroom window, but I think we can both agree that’s not going to happen. I don’t want to kill you, either. I don’t want your brown Xtina goo all over my walls and your squished broken legs permanently stuck on the bottom of my hiking shoes. Obviously I would feel guilty if I killed you, and for the rest of my days I’d go wondering if some of your gross bug friends and family will appear one day suddenly to exact your revenge.  I don’t need this kind of drama, Ned. I like my life the way it is.

I have long admitted to not being the most mature and aggressive about facing my life problems but are you, a little dirrty bug, the one sent to teach me the error of my ways? Because Ned, maybe if I had the testicular fortitude to kill you when you were still on my wall, before you made your way to my unreachable ceiling, what’s happening right now might not be. I let it get out of control, I let it get worse before it can ever get better and at this point, I’m not sure it ever will be better.

You and I know how things ended temporarily between us last night. We shared a 4-hour standoff, most of which you spent napping next to the heat of my ceiling light while I tried to fashion a device long and strong enough to destroy you without me feeling too icky about it. Then, in a sudden moment of bravery, and really wanting this to be behind us so I could wrap myself in a bed burrito and sleep, I climbed on my chair and reached up my homemade apparatus; an extra long table pad with a plastic bag wrapped over it and 3 layers of paper towel on top to absorb your Xtina goo with an extra roll of paper towels on standby and a sneaker on my left hand for back up. And you went all fucking ninja on my ass, leaping on a diagonal off my ceiling, through the doorway into my bedroom and landing somewhere on or around the pile of clothes I like to keep on the floor that I will never touch again and will offer to the next renters of this godforsaken apartment.

I finally figured out why you have those weird-looking back legs. You should tryout for the Olympics with that kind of dismount, you deceiving asshole. After all this, Ned. I let you nap by my light. I gave you warmth. And I battled my morals and inner-self to save your life and yes, maybe I did eventually try to kill you anyway but let’s not forget: you’re the one that intruded into my house.

By the way, what is your deal with my clothes, Ned? First my hamper, now the pile on the floor. Were you an ill-intentioned fashion designer with bad karma in your last life? Seriously, bro. My clothes.

I haven’t seen you since your big dive, Ned. And this is making me uncomfortable. Because of you, I actually slept on the couch last night; angry, sad and confused. I’m not proud that I’ve let you get the best of me but it turns out I prefer that over the thought of you crawling on me as I dream sweet dreams of insect-less worlds and Ryan Gosling petting me.

This morning, when I checked my closet to see if you found a new place to hide, the sliding door came off its track. Apparently a plastic box fell and pushed up against it from inside the closet. Are you responsible for this, Ned? You can tell me, I won’t be mad.

When I tried to fix the door I said “come on, door! Surely you’re not going to let a little box throw you completely off track.”

The irony is clear; I’ve let a little bug throw me completely off track. And for that, Ned, I both loathe and respect you. You’re just doing what you need for survival, and admittedly, as much as I hate it when I play it back in slow motion, your little dive was quite impressive. I really did not see that coming.

The million dollar question now is: where are you? As much as I don’t ever want to see you again, a part of me needs to know if you’re stuck in the pile of my clothes like extreme hiker Aron Ralston. In 127 hours of dehydration and desperation, will you sever one of your nasty legs from your body in order to escape the canyon of my jeans and sweatshirts? Are you in my suitcase? Will I find you napping when I go to pack for my Christmas visit back home? Did you find a way out? I hope you did. Not just for my sake but for yours. And see, that’s what I’m starting to like about you, Ned. You could find a way out.

Back in the good ol’ days when my biggest concern about coming home in the dark was to check my bedroom for a very patient serial killer, I always tried to imagine what escape route I would take if my imagination actually proved to be reasonable. But since discovering my window screens are, like, welded on, my options are pretty much limited to my front door. But you? You have infinite possibilities.

I wonder how I will feel if I do see you again, Ned. Will I be excited? Will I have missed you? Will I be grateful for the things you’ve taught me about myself or sad that you haven’t impressed me with your fancy bug exit strategy? Will I be right back to where I started trying to fashion a bug killing apparatus with a table mat, a roll of paper towels, a sneaker and a prayer? Ned, please, let’s not find out, okay?

UPDATE: Three months after our fated encounter I found another creep of your kind in my bathtub. Ned, was this you? I did not feel grateful for the things you’ve taught me about myself. Because naturally, I washed you down the drain and the next day you were right back in the bathtub waiting for me. I don’t know what your game is but can we call it a win for you and move on with our lives? Thanks.

[andyouthebell-blog]

[andyouthebell-blog]

2 Guys, 1 Pup

Or: Only a Serial Killer Would Name His Dog Tina

From my collection of essays titled Only a Serial Killer Would Name His Dog Tina: And Other Tales of Perfect Strangers

___

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, it’s like a Disney movie of a day in Santa Monica. I’m taking a stroll along the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The air feels good on what little of my skin is showing. I’m dressed for an oceanside spring, wearing skinny jeans and a striped tank top with a yellow sweater and a pair of ballet flats that hurt my feet but are adorable. I’m comfortable in that, despite the relentless sunshine.

I’m not one to wear yellow often. I’m body conscious and try not to draw too much attention to myself, but the day is so perfect and bright; it feels like a yellow day.

I skip a beat on my walk to stare out at the pier and watch the waves hit the shore one time after the next. This is where I find my perspective. Always. I stand still, watching with focus as the tension of the water builds, strengthens, heightens and then curls into one row of beautiful wave. I watch as those waves hang in the build-up before crashing down and rushing the shore. I watch as they reach out to beachgoers, let out their sighs of relief and slide back from the sand to rejoin the rest of the ocean only to do it all again in a moment.

This time I close my eyes and listen for the waves instead of watching them. I’m letting as much of the ocean breeze inhabit my body as possible. I feel it and breathe it and taste it and smell it. My senses have never been more alive.

“You know, you should watch out for that guy.” I hear a man’s voice behind me and my real life dream is snatched away from me in an instant.

“Excuse me?” I ask curiously.

“That guy behind you, over there on the bench. I’ve seen him touch himself inappropriately, if you know what I mean. I’m just saying, be careful.”

“Oh. Alright.” I glance back quickly to find who he’s talking about and yes, I see a man but no, I don’t see him touching himself inappropriately. “Well, thanks for the warning.”

“Are you going to stay here?” he asks, surprised.

“I am, thanks.”

“Well, he’s being a creep. I don’t know, I’d leave if I were you.”

“Well so long as he keeps his creep over there, I’m not really worried” I say in defense of myself. I don’t like when people judge my choices because it reminds me of my mother. Unlike the family of neurotics I come from, I try not to look around for things to worry about. The guy’s minding his business and despite what this gentleman has told me, I haven’t seen anything with my own trusted eyes that indicates he’s a threat, therefore I’m going to keep living my life. Apparently, my response meant something else to my new friend here. 

“Oh so you’re one of those girls?” he laughs. Admittedly, I’ve already taken certain things into account about this guy thus far. He’s cute, he’s dressed nice in the I worked really hard to look this casual kind of way and I appreciate that he’s trying to help me. At least I think he’s trying to help me. But what does he mean by “one of those girls”?

“Listen, what am I supposed to do? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but this area is crawling with folks who take sport in making other people uncomfortable. I can’t police him. And I haven’t even seen him do anything wrong. If you think he’s such a problem, why don’t you go handle it?”

“So you’re cool with it. A down girl.”

“If by ‘down’ you mean I’ve seen worse on the New York City subway on the way to work, then sure.”

This response feels defiant, like I’m arguing with my mother as she tries to stop me from going somewhere because there happen to be bad people in the world. 

His cute is wearing off quickly and is replaced by a layer of obnoxiousness, but I’ve been brainwashed by too many romantic comedies to rule him out completely, even if he is being a jackass, even if I should have been triggered by him calling me “down.” Maybe this is just his sense of humor. Maybe I’m just bored.

“I bet you’re real honest with the guys you date,” he confesses.

“I guess.”

“I bet you’d have no problem telling a guy if his junk was too small,” he laughs.

I can’t tell if he’s being condescending or venturing into the World of Creeps himself, and in general I’m just tired of Guys and Their Size: an epic love story as old as mankind. It's boring, worry about something else. So I just shoot him an eye-roll and try to ignore him, resuming my peaceful solo activity of wave watching.

“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing,” he interrupts. “Honesty is good. I could use some of that actually.”

“You’re not honest?” I ask foolishly.

“No I’m honest. But I don’t know too many honest people.”

I shrug my shoulders and continue staring out to the end of the Earth.

“Would you tell me if my penis was too small?” he asks, sheepishly.

“Why are you insisting on ruining this conversation?”

“Oh come on,” he laughs, as though I’m being uptight. “What if I wanted you to be honest with me about it?”

I don’t want to have to leave this spot, I was here first. But I’m so done with this guy. I’ve given him no indication that we’re cool enough to go into this and I’m baffled by his entitlement, obliviousness, or straight up disrespect. Worse, I’m furious that he’s making me be this person. I’m not a prude and I’m not uptight and fuck him for making me feel like I need to defend myself like that. But when a guy like this comes out of nowhere and starts forcing this conversation on you, you just can’t help but hate all men, even if only for a minute. He breaks the silence.

“I want to know what you think. Honestly. There’s a tree over there, we can go stand behind it real quick.”

I’m done.

“Let me get this straight.” I laugh in astonishment. “You just met me two minutes ago and you’re inviting me to go stand behind a tree with you, in a public park, so you can show me your penis and get my feedback?”

He smiles and nods his head.

“You know what?” I ask with an even bigger smile. “You came along interrupting my perfectly lovely alone time to warn me about the creep on the bench. But what I can’t figure out is, where’s the guy that comes by to warn me about you?”

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“You’re right. It’s actually worse.” I respond as I walk away. 

“Come on,” he calls out after me.

“Fuck off,” I reserve as my final words to him. 

I check back to the supposed perv on the bench and he’s still, despite all of the wildly erotic conversation happening before him, not touching himself inappropriately. I’ve been set up.

I cross the street away from the water and walk on the city side of Ocean Ave. Equal parts genuinely confused and repulsed by what just happened, I walk it off and when I get far enough away, I cross back over to the ocean side of the street and find a nice quiet place to sit down. The bench is sectioned off so I feel a little safer here. I close my eyes and start where I left off before Creeper McTakesOutHisWangBehindTrees interrupted me. The waves, I’m focused on the waves.

I hear the tension build, I hear it strengthen, I hear it heighten, I hear it curl over into what I can only assume is one beautiful row of wav…

“Oooh, that’s a pretty tattoo.”

Now what?!

I open my eyes to find what appears to be the adult version of the kid in front of Ralphie and Randy in line to see Santa. You know what kid I’m talking about, the one with the aviation goggles and a lurking serial killer stare. The kid that says, in the creepiest kid voice possible, “I like the Wizard of Oz.” That kid.

He’s all grown up, apparently, and staring at the tattoo on my foot with the same smile, only he’s replaced his aviation goggles with reading glasses and is now accompanied by the least friendly dog I’ve ever met.

“Oh. Thank you,” I say as I turn back to the ocean.

“What does it say? I can’t see it fully.” Same stare, same smile.

To avoid speaking, I just loosen my shoe a little so he can read it himself. He approves, but my guess is he has a foot fetish and would approve anything.

Waves. Tension. Building. Strengthening. Heightening.

“Oh you have one on your wrist, too?” he asks. Same stare, same smile.

“Yes,” I mumble as I fight to keep focus on the waves.

“So how many do you have?”

“A few” I spit out in a haste wondering why he isn’t catching my drift the more I turn away from him.

“Ooooh! Where are the others? Can I see them?”

“If you can’t see them already, then you can’t see them.” I snap this at him thinking it’s obvious - you found the visible ones, the rest are obviously under clothes, pal.

“Can I guess where they are?”

“Listen, you can do whatever you want, I’m just trying to have a nice, quiet afternoon,” I say as I move to the other corner of the sectioned-off seating area.

“Do you have one on your lower back?” he follows me. “What about your rib? I feel like you have one on your rib. Can I see that one?”

It’s a random guess and he’s right, but I’m less triggered by his eerily good guess and more by the fact that’s comfortable asking to see it. I let out a genuine belly laugh. “No. No you cannot.”

“Aww, come on. It’s no big deal” he says. Same stare, same smile.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure!” he replies with great excitement, finally getting my full engagement.

“Am I giving off some kind of vibe or something today? Is there a loud energy around me or a sign on my back?”

He laughs and shakes his head because he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. But he still wants to see my tattoo and isn’t shy about letting me know.

“I’m not taking off my shirt. Not here. Not anywhere that you are. That you’d approach a strange woman and ask that is actually baffling to me. You know what else I’m not doing? I’m not going behind trees to assess dick size. I don’t know what about me is giving you people the opposite sense but we need to SHUT. IT. DOWN!” I use my hands to emphasize each word.

I startle the dog with my screaming and I’m relieved to find out she isn’t a product of someone’s taxidermy hobby, a plot twist I became suspicious of when I realized she wasn’t doing a whole lot of moving. I’ve never met a dog that I didn’t like at least a little bit. And I’ve rarely met a dog that didn’t love me or at least love the first 4 seconds of meeting someone new. Yet here this thing was just kind of staring and being creepy, just like her human. If I had to describe her breed, I’d say part pointer, part fuzzy rat dog, part sociopath. She stands there still motionless and dead inside but again I’m resisting leaving this spot because I got here first and I’m tired of being chased out of Santa Monica by creeps. I’m desperate to change the subject, so dismissively, in hopes of helping him get bored and move along, I mutter “cute dog.”

“Oh thanks, her name is Tina.” Same stare, same smile.

Tina? Your dog’s name is Tina? And did you build her yourself?

“Hi Tina,” I say cheerily, against my better judgment. I think maybe I can break her of whatever spell she’s under but I learn quickly how wrong I can be sometimes. So I sit with my arms crossed wondering why he’s still standing here staring at me, especially after I just yelled at him.

Come on, don’t make me be the one to leave. I just got here. I’m trying to enjoy my day. Leave me alone!

Creeper #2, now known affectionately as Creeper McPutTheLotionInTheBasket, sits down beside me and that’s my cue to give up and find somewhere else to go.

“Okay, bye bye” I say to him as I stand up abruptly. I turn to attempt eye contact with the dog one last time. “And Tina, it was nice talking to you.” I’m looking for any sign from her that she wants me to call 911 but she just ignores me so I leave. He tries to come after me to rekindle our connection but I keep walking and he gives up.

I officially have to shake this one off. Tina? What kind of man names his miserable dog Tina? A serial killer, I think.

I run away from Ocean Ave and find sanctuary in a little book store, the first place I happen upon with open doors. I go hide in the corner and take a few deep breaths as I grow furious with all the things I wish I had said to them both. With the pang of hindsight, I find myself disappointed in the way I’ve handled it all, drawing special attention to how many times I wondered what I was doing wrong to attract this type of behavior. I wasn’t sure if I had sufficiently held either man accountable for his own actions, his own betrayal of common decency, his own blatant disrespect, but I knew for sure I wondered what vibe I was giving off that made them think it was okay. Look at me, successfully socialized to victim blame! The patriarchy must be proud. 

As I get all riled up from my afterthoughts in the book store, I wonder if I should go find those men again and tell them their behavior was unacceptable. Yet I can’t shake the thought that maybe I did implicitly tell them it was okay within the context of our conversations. I can’t fully seem to take ownership of my anger and am still searching for ways to make it my fault. On top of buying into whatever narrative we’ve created that says women deserve to be harassed, I’m still scared to go back outside because now I’m all fucked up and confused and if another creep approaches me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I dial my friend Abby.

“Where are you? Can we get dinner? Like right now? I need strength in numbers and the knowledge that sanity still exists. I just met two guys; one wanted to take me behind a tree and show me his penis and the other had a dog named Tina - Tina! - and asked me to lift my shirt.”

“What the fuck. Okay, I’ll be right there.”

While I wait for Abby, I grow to forgive myself. I forgive myself for the assumed self-blame and I forgive myself for not teaching grown men how to behave. As much as an opportunity could prove fruitful, it is not the job of a random woman on the street to teach a random man on the street what respect sounds like. Abby arrives and I feel relief, wondering if any of my rambling thoughts make any sense. And as quickly as it all began, it was over.