I talked to your brother this week, and he’s been collecting data. He said that only two people hate me that he knows of: you and your dad.
I know he’s been at it since before Christmas I was getting these weird texts from him saying people were telling me they say hi. Your dad’s girlfriend, your grandma. I’m proud of him, because he certainly doesn’t get this from his father. He’s testing reality. It’s beautiful.
When I was a bartender, I gathered data all the time. I learned that I made $50 more a night when I wore contacts instead of glasses. I learned that I could only unfurl my smartassness with a certain kind of man– he would end up tipping me very well or, weirdly, ask me to marry him. I learned that deep alcoholism prevented a person from knowing who’d broken their ribs the night before.
It was me. They’d come up behind me and tried to hug me when I’d told them not to– so I elbowed them as hard as I could.
I told your brother I don’t think that you and your dad hate me I think both of you wanted me to be something I wasn’t capable of being and it hurt you very deeply.
I don’t know how to fix it. Because I can’t.
I know that this is a very boomer thing to say, but I genuinely did the best I could.
When I didn’t know something, I consulted experts, because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
My problem is that I trusted the wrong people.
I thought I was the problem, and acted accordingly. I was in therapy, I was following the instructions of my mental health team to the letter. I read all the parenting books. I got sober, I volunteered, I went to church, I joined parenting groups.
I went back to work– but only part time because someone had to cook dinner. I went back to college.
I was exhausted but I kept pushing because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
You’re supposed to grow. You’re supposed to change.
That’s the audacity of hope.
It never occurred to me that I was doing too much and my body was suffering. It still hurts that it wasn’t enough. Everything fell apart anyway.
It felt like liquid fire slipping through my fingers as I sobbed.
You and your brother went to live with your dad. I moved out of town.
I had cluster headaches and couldn’t get off my couch. I worked 60 hours a week and marvelled that a dead person could do so much and move the needle so little.
But. I started doing yoga. I started stretching, I started getting massages regularly, I followed my nutritionist’s instructions, I dedicated myself to sleep.
I listened to a lot of hiphop, I danced in my kitchen.
I wrote bad poetry. I tried to get it published. It didn’t work.
I looked at international teaching jobs. I looked at them again.
I visited Morocco and decided to live there– because why the hell not.
If I was going to be miserable, I might as well learn some languages.
It was all deeply painful. Every day I either ached or cried or begged the universe for it to stop. But I kept going, through Rabat, through your graduation (do you know I was there?) through dogsitting in Canada, through trying to start a business in Ecuador.
And now I’m back in Michigan, and have been for months. I keep losing teaching jobs– It’s almost a game at this point.
But I feel solid– annoyed most of the time, but a good annoyed. I go to meetings, I pay my bills. I adopted two cats.
There’s another data point your brother passed along. You’re very angry right now.
And rightfully so. The world can be shit. Nothing makes sense.
I asked him if you get angry like I do, and he said yes. It’s no wonder he’s afraid of you– It’s a powerful anger that can move mountains when applied correctly.
He also says you’re sad. He says you cry all the time.
So. I have a question for you. It’s a dumb question, and old-fashioned, but it’s the one that probably will help the most.
Can you muster the audacity of hope?
Can you see a more colorful world when you close your eyes? Can you imagine not being in pain? When you listen to music, does everything seem 2% better?
Hold on to that. Trust me. You’ll be fine.
I miss you terribly, but that is not the important thing here. The important thing is your pain. But even more important than the pain is you, as a person.
You– a light in this world, not seeing your own light, and crying alone in the dark.
I’m not there, but I see you. And you are so beautiful. You always have been, and you always will be.
