Don’t Worry I Did Eventually Call My Therapist

Love, therapy

I should go see my therapist but I don’t want to. Admittedly, I feel a little like a five year old digging her heals into the sandbox. I just don’t want to have to show up a month later and unpack the shit show that I have made of my life. Is it shame? Is it embarrassment? Probably both.


To have to be witnessed when you don’t even know what’s going on yourself sounds miserable. The alternative however, seems to be to lose your mind all alone. Maybe it’s best that way. Accountability at this juncture isn’t good for anyone especially me.


Grief, it does this thing that reminds me of that one really hard level of Donkey Kong in the second railroad world. It starts off with Donkey and Diddy in a tiny rail car, you have to go through this ominous abandoned coal mine with a broken track. You have to execute these breath-taking jumps from one broken bit to the next. If you don’t hit A and B in the right sequence, while traveling at the exact right velocity you’ll die. Just fall to the bottom of the screen. Snap, down one more life. And then almost cruelly it takes you back to the start to do it all over again.


It’s like that most days. Other days it feels like your big brother holding your head under water at the public pool everyone else frolicking about while you try to both not make a scene and not inhale two lungs full of chlorinated water. But still other times it feels like an underwater tea party with a couple of friends at the bottom of the pool. Air bubbles escaping through smiling teeth, count to ten, bob back to the surface. I’ve been having a lot of tea these days.

Visiting Home

Love, soulfood

Every year because I’m nostalgic as shit, I sit down and write a birthday post. I reminisce about such and such and how it made me feel so and so. We all leave wide eyed, mouthing-over share much God damn. This year you got a taste of that, okay I huge whiff, but it wasn’t really reflective as much as it was let’s all cry for Reagon and her poor little crushed dreams. Sorry ‘bouts that, some days that’s the best I can do.


Last night after two cocktails (because I am astoundingly sober and legitimately have a ½ a drink limit) I was scrubbing away at my house as I often do reflecting on my adulthood. Trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m t-w-e-n-t-y n-i-n-e. I know I know, just a baby. Which I’m sure will feel more true in another ten years. At the moment it feels like I’ve lived 1,000 life-times in the last ten years.


I’m not here to attest, another year wiser. Because though it’s cumulative, every year has been different. Each a new lesson. All cataloging themselves in my mental rolodex of this shit feels familiar. Let’s look at that a little closer shall we.


19- Grief and despair shape shift from week to week, weak to weaker.


20- Ignorance and determination are bed maidens, and sometimes they’re all you’ve got.


21- Love will fill craters of inconceivable depth. Hopeful innocence painted the most tender year of my life – Ever.


22- You are your mother’s daughter. Can’t and slow down quiver in your presence.


23- Ignorance is not bliss, girl. You keep your eyes wide open and steel your heart.


24- Loneliness is the most foreign, carcinogenic lump in a rejected throat. And still you will swallow.


25- Well I’ll be damned you are fucking physically beautiful. That’s yours. From you, for you. Guard that with your life.


26- Run. Explore. Quit. Just go. Eternal love holds your hand when you cross the street of change. You’re still strong and beautiful, that’s enough.


27- And you’ll be wrong, like you’ve been before. And you’ll be right, like you’ve been before. What you’re not great at is caution. And I don’t know that I want you to be.


28- Why hello love, my old friend. Intricately woven, the fibers sang family, finally. It was all I’ve ever wanted. I pulled that blanket up to my eyeballs and lay in that bed all year.


29- You are just a girl. A woman most days. You are not in control, but you wont stop grasping for stability. Balance there is hard. Love, sadness, power, grief, joy and there you are stuck to the side of the drain like a wad of fallen hair. It’s all swirling around you, hurling down the drain. Hey Mom look! It’s a tiny tornado.


I love a real storm, when everything falls silent, the sky turns purple, the flatness of distant rain hits your nose. It still finds me in the desert, I inhale deep and let out a thrilled- it feels like home. Watching, hell chasing tornados, is what you know. But don’t you forget that you are just a girl, and it’s undiscerning, vicious, lethal.


Twenty-nine, man, and only twenty-seven days in. I don’t know if I should sound the alarm, hide in my bathtub with a mattress pulled over my head or drag a chair out to the front lawn open a beer and take in the show.


“Jesus Christ, look, the crazy neighbor is out on the lawn again”.

before you can be a grief counselor, cry.

Love, soulfood

I walked into grief class fifteen minuets late, thinking that I was fifteen minuets early. I sat in the only open chair, quickly settled and scrambled for what to say in my introduction. Shit I missed the prompt. My turn comes I freeze and then launch into a Reagon in an interview speech about how I think this is an extremely relevant way to help people, it’s important work albeit hard.

What I meant to say was:
Because I have been absolutely devastated and I will be absolutely devastated again. I need to know how to not totally lose my shit. I’m a mental apocalypse prepper if you will. I’m here because my grandma died and my boyfriend is going to.

It’s not that I’m delusional and think that me and all of you good people have drank from the everlasting well. It’s that I -foolish it may be- believe that I me and mine will grow into old age. We’ll die in our sleep when we’re good and ready…. or we’ll all go out in a massive weather event directly related to global warming… but either way my-our- death/s will either be timely or communal.

When I was six my grandma had open heart surgery. From that day forward I kept a silent semi-concious tally of the days that we had left together. In high school I began writing poetry about her to brace myself for her loss. I knew for thirteen years that I was going to lose her and that it would be the most horrendous thing that would ever happen to me. I was right.

I didn’t live those thirteen years in fear. When I was with her the thought of loosing her never crossed my mind. Instead it creeped up on me as I looked in the mirror, when I woke up in the middle of the night and as the last jump and skip that my brain would make in a series of thoughts.

It’s been NINE years since I’ve seen and held that beautiful soul. I’ve started talking to her more and more lately, but I’m quickly deduced to water works. I want to answer back for her in her voice with exactly the thing that she would say. But those memories are fading into a sun bleached blur more and more every day. I wish that I would have written all of it down. I wish that there was a tape. I wish that there was a recording. I wish so badly that there was a way in this earthly realm that I could hear her just one last time. And then tie that time to my wrist as a house arrest bracelet for my despair.

She’d say Reagon Cara in the most sweetly concocted blend of disapproval and prolific love.
She’d call me RC and pop some delicious confection in my mouth, a cookie, a candy, a fire ball.
She’d call me doll baby and contort herself to accommodate an adult size version of me and the always impossibly tiny version of her in her rocking chair.
She’d say- Ohhh yeah tell me all about it. And I did. Infant, teen, grad student, she will always be my ear.
She’d say every time she helped me change my clothes- skin the cat. And once after her stroke- I waited on you like one little pig waits on another. She was unrehearsed poetry and theatrics living the life of small time socialite and Grammy.
She’d say once- but Reagon is the most honest person that I’ve ever known. And I stood up straighter for the rest of my life.

Last week I went back to her kitchen. I stepped down off of the spindled wooden chair under the wall phone. And looked at every inch of that kitchen. A green plastic bowel on the counter. I could smell it, clean, piping hot, delicious. I could taste it clean, piping hot, delicious. The brown patterned low pile carpet under my feet. Her kitchen feels simply like a place you want to be. What I wouldn’t give to set your table one last time my darling Grammy.

For ever yours,