I have been so incredibly fucking tired.
Last week, I realized I’d been running on fumes for decades. I realized I’d been nervous and exhausted and trying to make everything make sense for as long as I could remember. Even when I was drinking, even when the twins were babies, even when I was in Morocco. I’ve been dancing steps that other people told me were the right ones, even if it didn’t look like I was doing it the right way. Turns out that being on the spectrum means you’re allergic to doing what other people tell you to do.
God I hate that.
Still, I followed the steps. I worked my way through college after being written out of the will. I got married immediately after getting pregnant. I stayed home with the kids because we couldn’t afford daycare. I made all the baby food to save money. I got early intervention for my kid who wasn’t talking. I took responsibility for my own mental health. I cleaned the house in a passable way. I went to writers’ conferences with my mother-in-law. I made sure that everyone always had plenty of fruits and vegetables to eat. I hit the elliptical at the Y. I forced myself to run on a city river trail by taking a big black dog with me. I got sober. I was a Girl Scout leader and cookie mom. I was a PTA secretary. I made casseroles. I made Thanksgiving dinner for over 15 people every year. I quit the small jobs at the library and the local free weekly newspaper when childcare fell through because family is more important. I organized snack closets at school. I gave out Goldfish crackers and popsicles to the neighborhood kids in the summers because I knew that their parents couldn’t afford to give them snacks. I tutored a kid with dyslexia on my porch. I made sure the neighborhood refugee kids knew that our door was always open for them to jump on the trampoline or eat a banana or just pretend to be an ordinary kid for a while. I went back to college when my kids were old enough in order to be a special education teacher. I put a neighborhood food pantry in our front yard when the pandemic started. I worked in the toughest school in the toughest district in the area after I graduated because I wanted to help where it was needed the most.
I wasn’t perfect, but I did a lot, and I did it under circumstances that, frankly, most men refuse to imagine. I can honestly say that I did everything I could. Unlike our boomer parents, I can stand in front of you, in my too-tight jeans and fading hoodie, and say that I did my best.
I still got fucked over.
I think that you probably did, too. That’s why you’re here.
This morning, I remembered being 15 years old and reading Naked Lunch, by William S. Burroughs. He said that the naked lunch is “a frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork.” In those days, it rang true, but I didn’t know why. I was just in the presence of something deeply profound.
But now I know. I look around the table and see what everyone is eating, whether they chose the morsel or not. I hate to tell you this, but it’s all inedible, pretty much. It’s all shit. But we have to eat it, because otherwise, what are we supposed to do?
We have to go to the corporate job, because we need the insurance and the house. Or, we don’t have a corporate job and live in a crappier house and the deductible on our insurance gives us a heart attack if we think about it too deeply. We’re all trying to do the right thing, and choices have consequences.
Are you going to be selfish or are you going to do the right thing? And we’re all good people, right?
So we do the right thing.
We hold our nose, take our bite, and hope for the best. Even then, the only choice is to take it or not take it. There’s no way we’re getting something nutritious or good, we’re going to get what we get anyway. Either we get a bite or we don’t get a bite, but it’s never good.
I don’t want to say that the hoops that I jumped through, the things I did, the choices I made for my children and my family weren’t worth it. Everyone got out alive, and I know that a lot of people don’t. I should be grateful.
But part of this moment is realizing that not everyone has to make the choice about whether to take the bite or not. There are a lot of people who get along by filling the forks. And I think we should start calling them out. Because our choice is not about us, but rather about them.
The next time I get fucked over, I want to at least know that it’s happening. I want every sensation acknowledged, and I want to know exactly who’s doing it. But most importantly, I want them to know that I know.
That good woman, who did everything right? She’s gone. And I will look them straight in the eyes when they do it.
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