cutting the cord
i was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. blue and silent. (always). when doctors ask my mom when my anxiety began, she says it was in that moment. she swears my instinct is claustrophobia. i knew what dying felt like before i had the chance to cry. before i had a name or footprints on a page. i was born late and huge, an extra ten days and almost 9 pounds. i'm tall, much taller than my mom, almost eye-level with my dad, i'm out growing them. and yet, i'm still attached. i cried yesterday, started to panic because my mom left. i couldn't go with her to new orleans, i have to stay 'home'. i told her, 'it's funny how often you leave, considering you're the one who forced me to move down here, and now i'm the one who has to stay.' she said, 'you can leave, you don't have to stay.' but i need her. she's suffocating me here, but i need her.
on the top shelf of my closet
all four years of high school live in a jose cuervo tequila box. i don't drink, and even when i did, i didn't drink tequila. before i typed out my poetry, i used to write it in the margins of my schoolwork. i have graduated and the box has moved states, and i still have not gone through the contents of it. not because i worry so much about my essays being cringe-worthy or seeing B minuses on the tops of the tests, but because i struggle to read my own handwriting - you know how some kids wrote in secret codes so that their parents couldn't read their notes? not me. i worry that my my words - whatever i thought was important enough to put in the jose cuervo tequila box - will disappear forever if i can't decode them. they say that your writing lives on long after you die, but what if no one can read it? not even the writer. when the words die, i die. 15 year-old me finally dies (the way she wanted to at the time). i spent a lot of time in college mourning lost words that were never mine to lose. it's been thousands of years and we still can't read Linear A, we have only fragments of Sappho, we don't know the way Catullus' manuscript was originally ordered because it was lost for centuries - we don't even have what we found anymore, just copies. i type what words i can remember, what things i think i wanted to say. Just copies.
ex anima
Dear mom,
First and foremost, I want to tell you that I love you. (Here is where you say “I love you more”). I love you more.
You have told me many times that I am the reason you were born. Quoting a movie, apparently, though I can’t find it when I look it up, so maybe you’re misquoting (which is even better - in that case, it is your own).
“She is the reason I was born.” - you?
I don’t know why I was born. It might be the same reason. You were born to be my mom and I was born to be your daughter. Did you know that women are born with all of their eggs? So, in a way, I was with you your whole life. Sometimes, I get sad because I cannot go back in time and hug you. I know you had sad times when you were a kid and I want to comfort you then but I was not born until you were 31. I like the idea that I was always with you.
I don’t think that I am your only purpose. While I do think that I am most of all your daughter (and dad’s daughter, and Eddie’s sister, etc.), there are other things about me. The same goes for you. You are a mother, a wife, a sister, an aunt (and you are good at all of those things), but also: you’re a great cook, you’re better than everyone at Boggle, you’re the most generous and kind person I have ever met, you are smart (especially at computer stuff that I don’t understand), you are fashionable (you don’t need my help even though you think you do). Most importantly, all animals love you (sometimes, I worry you will pick up a wild animal and bring it home and it would let you).
Sometimes you say mean things to yourself, particularly about your appearance, which not only makes me sad, but also has never made sense. For my whole life, I’ve wanted to look like you. I’ve only ever heard people say that you’re beautiful.
I know I say I want to die a lot (and, when I’m having panic attacks, I do feel that way. Thank you for taking me to endless doctors appointments for the last decade by the way), but I am grateful for my life. Remember when I said “I don’t believe things will ever get better”? You said “I’ll believe for you”. That was when I was in high school and I think about it all the time. I have actually told that to other people as well when they feel the same way. Things did get better, and then they got worse, but I hope they will get better again.
Thank you for giving me Eddie, too. And Mia. And Chilly (via Eddie).
Ex anima (I learned that from college. It means “from the heart/soul”),
GAEGBG
p. s. (this stands for postscript. i learned that in college),
i challenge you to a full game of rummy 500
51. i write too many poems about death
i will write down all of the reasons i want to live:
1. i have a mother and a father and a dog
2. i have a brother
3. there is a video game i’m not done playing
4. i have that tv show to watch
5. caroline, courtney, carolyn, and sean
6. sometimes, i think i’ll fall in love
7. i have unfinished drafts
8. i have laundry to do
9. there are so many books i said i would read
10. i should learn to speak japanese
11. and chinese and spanish and ancient greek
12. i’m going to finish my memoir
13. i want to get a tattoo
14. i want to dye my hair pink
15. i misspelled “dye” as “die”
16. I could learn to type faster
17. I could get an mfa
18. or a phd
19. or get certified in stenography and type really fast
20. caroline is going to play that video game with me
21. i’m going to get better at video games
22. my mom beat me at cards last time we played
23. i haven’t learned how to play spades yet
24. or paid off my credit card bill
25. i want to take a picture in my graduation gown
26. i have emails to send and unread texts
27. i need to go to the dmv
28. i’m going to buy new shoes
29. and move back to virginia
30. one day my brother might get married
31. or have children and i have to be the best aunt
32. i think there might be a klondike bar in the freezer
33. if there’s not, i need to buy more
34. sometimes i laugh so hard i cry
35. the saddest thing i’ve ever read has yet to be finished
36. i have so many things to tell sarah
37. i need to see hannah at least once more
38. i want a root beer float and a grilled cheese sandwich
39. i want those two things on separate occasions, so that is two extra days i need to live
40. i’m starting to miss fredericksburg (they have good root beer floats downtown)
41. my pens still have ink and my notebooks have paper
42. i need to burn those notebooks or throw them in the ocean before anyone can read them
43. no one can read my handwriting, not even me
44. i have fanfiction to write and fanfiction to delete before my parents ever see it
45. i think i’ll start collecting stamps or bottlecaps
46. i have to convince myself not to do that (i have too much stuff and i don’t drink beer)
47. i’m going to have a birthday next year and i’ll be 25
48. my mom told me i was the reason she was born
49. i have to find out the reason i was born
50. i was once a child who wanted to grow old
time cast its spell on you
Please hurry leave me, i can’t breathe
Sittin’ in your sweatshirt, cryin’ in the backseat
I dream of you almost every night
Always real, always right, always alright
If you ever change your mind
For you i’d bleed myself dry
You’re beautiful and i’m insane
But the fighter still remains
Delete the kisses at the end
Then i’ll set fire to our bed
I'll love you till my breathing stops
Always an angel, never a god
but you won't forget me
the full soundtrack
I could tell you the story of Lazuli by Beach House, and how it saved my life at 19, but I fear that would be cheating. I’ve written it down before, did a speech on it in my communications class, and told it to my therapist.
I could tell you the story of Wonder by Natalie Merchant, how it played on the radio in the hospital parking lot the day before my birth. My parents wanted my gender to be a surprise, but my mom knew when she heard that song that 27 hours later she would have a baby girl.
I could tell you the story of Round Here by Counting Crows, how Prozac worsened my depression when I was 15, how my mom drove me to school, how we sang that one line loudly, how she told me that even if I didn’t believe I could survive one more day, she would believe for me.
I could tell you the story of Maggie May by Rod Stewart, how I listened to it on the way to church, how Thursdays became my favorite day of the week and how Classic Vinyl became my favorite station, how it was Springtime, how I was 17 and happy.
I could tell you the story of Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton, how I baked cookies in my big beautiful kitchen in my childhood home, how I listened to the song while I did the dishes and felt at peace for the first time in years.
I could tell you the story of The House That Built Me by Miranda Lambert, how I walked through the neighborhood, past my elementary school and the swimming pool with my hand covering my mouth to hold in my sobs, how I listened to it the day I drove down 21 South, knowing I’d never come back and cook in that kitchen again.
I could tell you the story of Mother by Pink Floyd, how I sat outside the restaurant under the string lights hanging in the trees, listening to a man play a cover of a song I’d never heard before, how I felt okay in my new home state for the first time after three years of constant grief.
But instead I’ll tell you about Take Me Home, Country Roads, how it’s the only John Denver song that doesn’t make me cry, how they played it over the speakers at the end of the Hootie & The Blowfish concert where I wore my mom’s old t-shirt, how everyone walked together to the parking lot and sang a full rendition, how we all continued after we were too far away to hear the song over the speaker. How it was my favorite song of the night.
undead
it takes over a year to decompose myself. my gorgeous decay is interrupted and, when pulled out from the ground by a fleshy hand, i arise groaning. i climb six feet towards the heavens, leaving sparse footprints and claw marks on my dirt path upwards. when i return to green grass and breathing people, i am handed a bouquet. is this an apology? are you guilty? is it gratitude? a thank you? the rose thorns do not puncture the skin on my palms. i do not bleed anymore. the red petals fall through my bony fingers. he loves me not.
what is stoicism?
I didn't know much about Stoicism before taking on this challenge. I'll admit, I had a heavy bias against it because a person who used to be close to me, (who I now despise) used to be obsessed with Marcus Aurelius (specifically the Meditations).
After reading about the philosophy of Stoicism, I have mixed feelings about it. For the most part, I don't like it because it seems too dispassionate and individualistic to me. I do have a few things that I like about it and would agree with though, so I'll start with the positives.
On a small scale, I like the idea of worrying only about what you can control. When I was in the mental hospital, we talked about "radical acceptance" which is the idea that what has happened in the past has already happened and there is nothing you can do to change it, so you will have to accept it one way or another. Therefore, it's better for you and others to not allow yourself to get overwhelmed with anxiety or anger. An example they used was road rage - if you're in traffic and you're going to be late, you can't choose to leave earlier or force the cars to get off the road. There's no sense in getting angry about it.
I also like the anti-materialist/anti-consumerist attitude. I can talk about how much I hate consumerism all day, but I won't. I think this is a point that especially applies to today's world because, especially with advertisements, we are constantly bombarded with the idea that we need more "stuff" to make us happy, when I wholeheartedly believe that it's completely the opposite. I believe that most people want to create, to do, to invent, to interact, rather than to simply consume and purchase. And we would be so much better off if we could break out of the mindset that we are meant to buy, buy, buy.
On the other hand, I find that stoicism encourages an “it is what it is” mindset, which is my second least favorite phrase behind “life’s not fair”. To the second one, I would say: "but it should be". And to the first I would say: "shouldn't we strive for a better future?" Stoicism seems to be very individualistic, and doesn't just put the responsibility on the individual but robs the individual of the idea of collective power. The mindset of only being upset about what is within your control is resigning yourself to “what it is”. We do have some control over our external environment and we can convince others to join us in creating change. We are not passive or reactive actors in our own lives.
Moreover, I think that we should be angry sometimes. I think that the only way to fighting against injustice is to be fed up with systems and the actions of others. The only way that we can create change is by getting upset and banding together to change things. Again, there is power in numbers.
Caveat: I think that the modern conception of Stoicism is kind of different from the ancient one, and so some of what I'm speaking about isn't completely rooted in ancient philosophy but rather the teachings "self-help gurus". A lot of them seem to preach about self-discipline which I hate. For one thing, some people in this group, have an attitude that your lack of discipline is the reason that your life is subpar. If you woke up at 5 AM everyday, did 10 pushups, put money into your 401k, and were more grateful for everything around you, then you would be happy. One, this neglects to consider the socio-economic conditions that a lot of people live under, as well as disabilities and mental illnesses. In all of these cases, people can't do certain things that "self-discipline" requires due to lack of resources or lack of energy, etc. It's also unproductive at best and obnoxious at worst to tell people to be grateful for what they have (it often implies "because someone else has it worse" or "because it could be ripped away from you"). That just makes people feel guilty and anxious.
Additionally, the happiest I've ever been was when I was completely carefree but completely undisciplined. I skipped school, went out to parties and drank underage, I slacked off, I spent all the money I made instead of saving it and I'm happy that I had fun despite being sad and poor (and still undisciplined) now.
Most of all, I'd rather be passionate than content. I want to have security and peace of mind, but I want to grieve when people die, I want to feel longing for someone I have a crush on, I want to feel pissed off when I see injustices, I want to feel passion, despite how “irrational” it is. I hate stories with happy endings, I love tragic and bittersweet books, I love sad songs, and I write best when I am upset. I'd rather feel something so intense that it makes me scream and cry than feel something so subtle that it makes me feel numb.
the train trip that transcends time
I didn’t used to believe in past lives. Until I boarded a train in Vienna. There was a man a few rows ahead who looked familiar but I couldn’t put a name to his face. I considered the possibility that he looked like a childhood friend or a famous celebrity, but I couldn’t come up with anyone who looked quite like him. Sometimes I dream about people I’ve never seen - scientists swear it’s impossible, but my dad insists it happens to him, too, and he often meets people later in life that he’s seen in his dreams. When we locked eyes, something felt different. I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I recalled at that moment our story.
Coincidentally, it began on a train, the Orient Express, going from Paris to Budapest. I spent my inheritance on a ticket, which I came to regret come time to retire. We were in the dining car, and I tripped right next to his table. I have never been good at walking in heels. I had borrowed that pair from a friend and they were about half a size too big, making my balance even worse.
I knew that not everyone was staring at me, but the hush that fell over the room was significant enough to make me feel humiliated. I was not raised in the upper class - the inheritance came to me through technicality. I’d never met that side of my family. It was obvious that I didn’t belong here. I was about to regret my decision to purchase a ticket when the man next to me reached out his hand to help me stand up.
The first thing I noticed about him was the way that his brown eyes softened when I met his gaze. The second was that he was sitting alone.
“Yes, I’m traveling solo,” he said, knowing I was thinking of a way to broach the question.
“Why is that?”
“There wasn’t anyone to take with me.”
“I can relate.”
“You’re here alone?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
I realized that I was in the way of a waiter who was doing a much better job balancing a tray of plates than I was at balancing on my own two feet. I made the split-second decision to sit across from the man who I came to know as “William”, sometimes just “Will”.
We talked until the dining car closed when we were politely asked to leave, though I could see behind the waiter’s eyes that he did not like me.
“Would it be inappropriate to ask you if you’d like to come back to my room?” William asked. “And I’m not suggesting anything like that.”
“It might be, but I’d say yes if you did ask me.”
“Okay, then: will you come with me to my room?”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
I came to find that he had a nicer room than I did, but there was no reason to be jealous because I slept there too for the remaining days of my trip. William opened the door and immediately removed his suit jacket, tie, and shoes, and I started to consider the fact that he might’ve been propositioning me after all. I lingered by the door, trying to decide if “it’s vacation” or “I paid a lot for this trip, so I should get my money’s worth” was enough of an excuse to sleep with him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he noticed I hadn’t spoken.
“I’m still trying to decide if I should sleep with you or not.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No, but I think you should take your shoes off because you look like you’re about to fall over and I’m pretty sure you only had one glass of wine.”
“Okay.” I placed my shoes next to his and I heard the distinct sound of his body flopping back onto the mattress.
I gathered a lot from the way he smiled when he was sprawled out on the bed like his long day of mingling in the bar car exhausted him to the extent a day spent in combat would.
I didn’t ask him if I could take off my earrings, but I did before I mirrored the way he fell backwards into bed. He later told me he liked how I was “unapologetically myself”. In reality, I was ready to apologize for any misstep I took, but he happened to be easy to please on account of the fact that we were very much alike.
We were late for breakfast the next morning and I was absolutely positive that everyone in the dining car assumed it was because we were having sex the night before - I overheard a snippet of a conversation and I wanted to go over and correct the record, but William said I should enjoy my fifteen minutes of fame. Most people are unremarkable, and that I must be remarkable since they were making remarks about me.
The truth was that we spent the night playing Gin Rummy with a pack of cards he borrowed from an old friend and “forgot to give back”. I insisted on playing until I won, but I didn’t win until well after midnight.
We were in as much of a committed relationship as two strangers on a train could be by that night, which was when I stopped by my room to grab my toothbrush before I headed back to his. We didn’t sleep together, but we did sleep next to each other. It was quite possible that he caught a glimpse of me naked when I changed into one of the complimentary robes after I spilled champagne on my shirt - actually, he made me laugh so hard it came out my nose. He promised not to peek, but if I were him I would have, so I couldn’t blame him either way.
Since the other passengers made their assumptions and judgments about us, we decided to make some about them, making up rumors about the rich folks around us as they walked through the bar car. Most of them were unbelievable and some of them were crude, but all of them were hilarious.
I remember the moment I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. We were in his bed and he started singing this song he had stuck in his head, but he could only remember the chorus. He gave me the tune of the verses and we worked on lyrics. He wrote them down on a napkin and kept them in his pocket. The pen was mine, but he asked if he could keep it. I had no particular attachment to the pen, so I let him have it.
It was a few hours later that I asked him why he wanted it. “Why did you ask for my pen? It’s nothing special.”
“Not to you, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s special to me because it’s yours.”
I wanted to tell him that he already had my heart and he could have my soul if he wanted it. But instead, I asked him for the deck of cards he had, and he gave them over without hesitation.
I’m not a writer like I was then, but I still carry a pen in my purse almost always. I take it out along with a receipt, so I can write him a message. I don’t address him by name because I don’t know what his is in this lifetime.
I don’t have the time or space to tell him everything I’m thinking either so I keep it short.
“Just so you know, I loved you. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”
When an attendant comes by with the drink I ordered, I hand him the note and beg him to discreetly deliver it. For whatever reason - maybe it’s the desperation he sees in my eyes - he places it between two napkins and hands them to the man I knew as "Will".
I get off the train before he does. When I pass by his seat, he mouths “I love you too”.