They saw me planting seeds of doubt in the minds of their most loyal shills.
They saw me exposing their lies at every possible turn.
They saw me discouraging people from joining the military so that we could allow those who stand to profit the most from war to stand on the frontlines.
They saw me building bridges of solidarity that are dangerous to their power, which relies on dividing us amongst ourselves.
They saw me connecting the dots in people’s minds.
They saw the people who thanked me for eloquently and coherently assisting them in making a point which they understood in their minds but were struggling to put into words.
They saw the conversations I was having with people who considered me an enemy at the beginning and a respectable adversary worthy of demonstrating human decency to at the end.
They saw my efforts at humanizing Palestinians to those who’d been trained to view them as lower than animals.
They saw the way their paid trolls fell silent when I slapped them with cold, hard facts that they couldn’t refute.
They saw the people who said, “Well, I guess that’s a good point.”
It scares the shit out of them. I scare the shit out of them. So they took away the most powerful tool at my disposal: the ability to post comments. 😂
I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember, since AT LEAST age 11, diving into comment sections to stretch my persuasion muscles. People on all ends of the ideological spectrum have expressed their admiration for my patience and perseverance. Even when they disagree, there is no denying that I am particularly skilled at making a point.
This is my superpower. They can’t silence me. They can try, but the AUDACITY of them restricting my ability to comment has emboldened me. I feel so powerful right now. I feel like I can do more, so much more than comment sections. Blog posts. Articles. Books. I’m in the wrong field. Writing is and always has been my calling. I can fuck them up so bad. I know I can. With every fiber of my being, I know this to be true.
Turning off my ability to comment is a blessing. I will use the enormous amount of time they’ve opened up for me to write something more substantive. I will not be silenced. The harder they try, the louder I’ll be.
Thank you, Instagram. You fucked with the wrong one. Whereas before I was feeling uncertain and helpless, now I feel more certain than ever of my true calling. The moment you turned off my commenting, you reaffirmed my power. Whereas before my attention was widely dispersed amongst several conversations which caused me to lose sight of the bigger picture, now the outcome of those thousands of conversations are in clear focus. And I can’t unsee it. I cannot unsee and unremember the multiple individuals who have personally credited me for changing their hearts and their minds. I cannot unsee the lurkers who watch from the sidelines, liking my comments and using my words as ammo in their own conversations.
They aren’t my words alone. There is no original idea. None of it came from my mind. Ideas and facts just conglomerate in my brain and I spit them back out in a cohesive, comprehensible manner. My words belong to humanity. I will keep speaking them until the last moment of my life, and even then my words will continue to live on. You can kill a person but you can’t kill an idea once it’s already made contact with so many other minds. My words are, and forever will be, part of the human legacy long after I’m forgotten.
I am unstoppable, motherfuckers.
Wake Me Up When October Ends
Content Warning: Mentions of Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation
I’m not okay, nor should I be.
Witnessing a genocide play out, watching something worse than anything I’ve ever seen in any horror movie being inflicted onto 2.2 million humans, and feeling so utterly helpless to stop their torment… there are no words for the deep psychic wounds being inflicted on all of humanity, including myself. These last few weeks, I have sunk further and further into a pit of despair, cursing myself for not having the omnipotent power to make the suffering stop. Cursing myself for being so overwhelmed in my own life, which is so cushy and privileged in comparison. Feeling the guilt, the shame, the self-loathing for being complicit, for paying my taxes and being a consumer and not having done everything in my power to prevent even the tiniest fraction of this.
But what good comes from ruminating like I do? What good comes from wishing I was dead, or was simply never born, or most of all, that I could have the opportunity to give my life for a Palestinian child? What about my own child? I would be willing to die for her in a heartbeat, but that’s easy. The real question is… am I willing to live for her? Am I willing to heal myself, spare her from a cycle of generational trauma, and in so doing help heal those around us by giving them permission to be completely themselves?
I’ve been meandering down this path of healing for a couple years, feeling like I had all the time in the world to reassess and ponder and gradually wade into deeper pools of vulnerability. Experiencing mental breakdowns every couple months as I pull out the bricks in the walls of my psyche to reveal ancient wounds, guiding myself through the emotional geysers to stable ground. It felt like maybe I was getting somewhere.
Then October happened.
One thing about me which I have subconsciously learned to suppress over the years as a survival mechanism: I got some of that hyperempathy. I can vividly experience people’s joy and also their pain. This was more than many people in my life could handle: they said I was too much, too sensitive, too passionate, too emotional. I internalized these messages and evolved into the opposite: too passive and suppressed, too distant, too dissociated, too nonchalant, too chill.
The authentic me HAS. NO. CHILL. Not a fucking ounce. And it is something I cannot be embarrassed by any more. After observing in people such a pathological level of apathy to the suffering of their fellow humans, I aspire in every way to be the opposite of that. Fortunately for me, that means I aspire to be wholly and relentlessly myself.
I’m not on a gradual journey of rediscovering myself, anymore. October broke me wide open. It built me up initially, before hell broke loose, then tore me down to the furthest depths I have ever experienced. As someone profoundly fascinated by death, coming from my self-led venture in exposure therapy to it in order to conquer the existential dread that inspired nightly panic attacks as a teenager, my mind has been down some pretty dark roads. I felt I’d conquered my fear.
But I’ve unlocked a new fear, a much darker fear. Death is so kind, so merciful. But being alive and wishing for death… I thought I knew what that felt like. I’ve been in the hospital before for suicidal thoughts. For a time in middle school, I self-harmed. They were the shallow scratches of a kid who knew of some pain but not deep trauma, who had seen traumatized people cut themselves and thought maybe it’s supposed to help, somehow, so maybe I should try it. But I didn’t actually know, yet, about the deep psychic wounds that spark a rage and a hate so ferocious that it pulses through my veins and screams to be bled out. Exsanguinated. For just one moment, the urge to inflict violence upon myself consumed my being. Fortunately, I was too worn down, too out of fucks to give, to move myself out of my bed and retrieve an effective instrument.
I took a much needed rest and knew I had to give myself a break. The weight of the world does not rest squarely on my shoulders. Even if it did, inflicting pain and violence on myself, even in my own thoughts, accomplishes nothing. It is not my time to experience that degree of suffering. Nor is it my time to die.
Accepting that means accepting that it is time to actually live my fucking life without apologies, without concern for causing offense. After all, many humans have offended me to my core already, so why should I feel that I owe them my passivity so as not to offend them or bring them discomfort? The many, many, MANNNNY times I have started to type out a post, long or short, on a blog or on social media, and then heard echoes of “too much,” “too sensitive,” “drama queen,” “nobody cares,” “oversharing,” and clicked the cancel icon? Never again. I don’t care if I’m just screaming into the void, I don’t care if nobody reads it, I don’t care if I’m the only person in the world who gives a shit. It’s getting out there. It’s getting out of me. It has to so I can move on and create new things.
I’m listening to an audiobook. It’s called “Banish Your Inner Critic: Silence the Voice of Self-Doubt to Unleash Your Creativity and Do Your Best Work” by Denise Jacobs. It may just be a run-of-the-mill self-help book that reviews and reframes concepts we’re familiar with: cognitive distortions, shame, etc. But as my mind swirls with images of horror, heartbreak, death and destruction, it’s an olive branch I’ve clung to over the last 2 days. The female voice is a soft monotone; it reminds me of a Star Trek computer, and I like to imagine I’m being read to by an actual starship in a place hundreds of years and light-years from this dystopic hellscape.
The author made a suggestion that I feel compelled to share because of how funny it is, and humor is one medicine the world needs more of. The author recommended that we should give our inner critic a name. Her example was Barb. As in, “Okay Barb, telling me that I’m a lazy piece of shit is not helpful.” I laughed, imagining myself sitting at my desk at work, my head resting on my arm as my mind plays its usual reel of self-deprecating greatest hits, and suddenly exclaiming out loud as I pound my fist on the desk, “I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR BULLSHIT, CAROL.”
Well, Carol might have been steering the wheel in October, but now I’m the one driving.
I expect to become more active on this blog than I’ve been in the past. I know I’ve said this in many posts before, but my spirit has been reinvigorated by its thirst for justice. Witnessing a genocide is ego-shattering. It makes us see humans differently and to see life differently. It makes us question everything we thought we knew about the world. It rattles our foundations and destroys our faith in any of the institutions we thought might be able to prevent this. Or, indeed, it makes us question what we previously did not have faith in. Can I still call myself an atheist now that I’ve found myself clutching my hands together, tears rolling down my cheeks, and begging any omnipotent or semi-omnipotent being that might be out there to intervene? At the very least, there is an intuitive sense that there will always be more than meets the eye, regardless of how far science can take us.
What I don’t believe is that something or someone is coming to save us. We must save ourselves and each other. We do that by healing through our creative expressions and imagining possibilities for healthier ways to relate to each other. Softer, gentler ways, but also assertive ways to protect ourselves from each other’s and our own manipulations and deceptions.
For me, the scariest part of unmasking has always been the anticipation of people’s reactions to my authentic expression. People who have known me since childhood likely remember a hyper, silly, loud, boisterous child who wore their heart on their sleeve. There wasn’t a person around who didn’t know how hard I cared about the people and things I cared about, because I wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Well, until I did, because I was told one too many times to shut the fuck up. The worry has been startling people who have only known me as an adult with the carefully curated “chillness” of someone who is pretending that they are not constantly internally screaming.
It’s time for me to start screaming at the top of my lungs, folks. Brace yourselves, because there’s a lot of catching up to do.
This is not a draft.
I’ve written so many blog posts in the last couple months. They’re sitting in my drafts folder, waiting for the moment that my perfectionistic brain decides that it’s actually okay to share ideas that are imprecise. They’re all variations on the same theme: unmasking.
A couple months have gone by since I’ve read “Unmasking Autism” by Dr. Devon Price. Since then, it’s been challenging to find the words to describe the impact reading this book has had on my life. It may even seem that it has totally unmoored me. Although I’ve self-identified as autistic since my early 20s and was professionally diagnosed at age 24, after reading that book, it feels like I’ve been diagnosed all over again. It was all so intellectualized, before. It was something I knew about myself, but didn’t actually know. The mask was more like a face tattoo that I’ve only recently been given the tools to start lasering off.
Underneath the mask is a child. She’s all at once thirteen, and twelve, and eleven, and ten, and nine… etc. Like the short story by Sandra Cisneros, “Eleven,” that I read in sixth grade, which begins:
What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Well, less than a week ago, I woke up on my 31st birthday. And I didn’t feel 31. I didn’t feel 30, or 29, or 28, or even 20. I felt 13. That was the age that masking became about more than social acceptance; it became about survival.
The bullying had started years before, most likely at age 7, but it all came to a head in 8th grade. A lot was going on. I had an emotionally and sexually abusive boyfriend. His ex-girlfriend was campaigning to turn the entire grade against me, and he facilitated her efforts. People were leaving me threatening voicemails on my family’s answering machine. The school administration was more concerned about stifling my personal expression than they were about keeping me safe. Friends distanced themselves from me to protect their social standing. At least two individuals created blogs with the purpose of slandering me. An unfortunate haircut elicited homophobic slurs. Self-harm was one of my coping mechanisms. It was all very Odd Girl Out.
It was not the first or the last time that I endured social exclusion, but it was the one period in my life that the message that who I am is fundamentally wrong was coming relentlessly from nearly all directions. It was the last time I’d ever feel safe being true to myself, thus the psychological age regression to age 13 that I experienced throughout the week of my 31st birthday as various triggers provoked feelings of worthlessness.
The unmasking book was a key that unlocked an emotional fortress containing not just the delight and wonder evoked by self-rediscovery, but the pain and fear that had motivated me to shove it all away. These feelings remained trapped behind a steel facade of aloofness for two decades. People who have met me as an adult have shared that they perceive me as being chill and down to earth. That’s the version of me that they’ve come to accept and even admire. But how will their perceptions change when the mask slips and they meet the version of me that has no chill, who is blunt, dreamy, highly sensitive, and a little too obsessed with certain topics? How will they react when I start laughing and can’t stop, when I tell it like it is with no sugarcoating, and when I’m so engrossed in the circus happening in my mind that I can’t listen? Will they stop loving me? Will I face being alone all over again?
These aren’t the issues my 13-year-old self imagined having in my 30s. By now, I’m supposed to have stopped giving a fuck what anybody thinks. I’m supposed to be unapologetically myself. Take me as I am or fuck off. I didn’t think I’d still be struggling with social anxiety. But that’s the consequence of masking for so long. I wasn’t able to fully process and came to terms with the things making me anxious, just shoved them to the side to deal with another time.
It seems the time is now.
Well, here we are again.
Truth be told, I wasn’t planning on coming back. The months kept flying by and I accepted that a consistent blogger is not something I will ever be, so I might as well stop trying. But then my SIL Marzy asked me about starting a blog, so I directed her to WordPress. Talking about it got me wanting to make another post. I feel as though my writing muscle has significantly atrophied. But that doesn’t really matter here.
There have been many changes to my life since the last post was written in late 2021. Now my child is a full-blown toddler and her language development is exploding. I can understand almost everything she says; if I don’t at first, I’m able to figure it out. More than anything, she loves being outside and hanging out with other kids. I’ve always been more of a homebody, but it’s nice to get out with her a lot and explore areas I wouldn’t have otherwise.
In addition to that, I’ve graduated with my second degree and am working full-time as a serologist. Right now, my career plan is just to vibe. The work I do is comfortably repetitive and well-suited to my neural wiring. Not having to squeeze pennies as far as they can go, not having to worry about health insurance or job interviews or grade point averages is a serenity that I intend to maintain for the time being. Will I go to grad school? Will I get to the top of my career? Don’t know, don’t care. Honestly, keeping my head above the water during late-stage capitalism is the most I can ask for.
A previous post talked about how becoming a parent didn’t imbue me with the habits and mindsets that I felt are important for being a parent. It is the most challenging role I have had to play in my life, and also the one that has lit a fire under my ass to become the best version of myself for my child’s sake. But, more importantly, for my own sake. It never feels like it’s going to be enough. Looking back to where I was when I made that last post, though? I’ve made so many purposeful decisions since then that have carried me here.
I ended my relationship to my daughter’s father. It had felt platonic to me for a while. I wanted to improve my relationships so that I could model healthy ones for my daughter, but suppressing my own truth to make a relationship “work” isn’t how to do that. My truth was that I have never actually been in what I feel is an “adult” relationship. We were barely into our 20s when we started dating, and I held on to the maladaptive emotional and communication patterns of my adolescence, as well as the low self-worth. The walls of steel my subconscious had built around my psyche to protect me from bullies were preventing me from being vulnerable with people and forming deep connections. My former partner and I bonded on more creative and intellectual levels, but there was an emotional chasm I couldn’t figure out how to cross. I did try, but the thing holding me back was just knowing it wasn’t meant to be between us. Not just that, but I desperately wanted to unpack the heteronormative programming that resulted in me dating guys non-stop from ages 12-29, despite not being sexually attracted to them. I can be romantically attracted to them, but even that comes from idealizing fictional relationships and people. Needless to say, I felt stifled because I wanted to unpack it all, but it didn’t feel right doing that while still in a heterosexual relationship. So I ended it. And, like so many times before, it hurt. Hurting people hurts me. A lot. But that doesn’t excuse this pattern I have of staying in relationships because I’m afraid of hurting somebody, because the hurt is going to happen anyway, sooner or later, one way or another.
I’ve been single now for almost a year and a half. The last time I was single this long was from ages 0-12. I don’t know if I’m in a place where I can trust myself not to fall into the same codependent relationship patterns. But I’ve been working on it.
Another change I made happened soon after breaking up with my partner, and that was breaking up with my therapist. Our sessions just didn’t feel productive. I was with her for a long time, too. She just didn’t seem interested, and I don’t blame her because I had the same complaints for years with no action. So I found another therapist, a queer woman of color with training in CBT, and I do vibe well with her energy. She wouldn’t allow sessions to stagnate like my previous therapist did. She gives me homework to focus on between sessions, and encourages me to think and talk about the things I’ve kept suppressed for so long.
One of the most life-changing things that has happened since my last post, other than what I’ve already mentioned, is being diagnosed and treated for ADHD. I am, officially, an AuDHD-er. An autistic person with ADHD. I seriously had a week or two left of school when I started taking the medication. Realizing that people really can just sit there and type an entire term paper in one sitting was something. I mean, what could I have achieved, academically, if I had been diagnosed a long time ago? There’s no point in dwelling on that, and I’m actually super proud of myself for doing so well in spite of it. I already have another post written in my mind on this subject. Perhaps it was my intention to write that post instead of this one, but there was a lot to catch up on.
And so it goes. Ideally, the next post will come within a week. Or it could be two years from now. But it’s happening. So stay tuned!
Till next time,
K
Level Up
Just read my summary of 2019 from a few posts down and how it was a “surreal” year. lol
I didn’t even know what that meant. Just clueless as to what was to come, and kept on coming into 2021. In retrospect, 2019 was the last year containing anything of what, in my life, I had considered to be normal. That was a more innocent time, when you were likely more able to tell from an article’s headline that it was from The Onion. However, as much as 2020 was a mind-effer, a horrible time in many people’s lives, it was a bit of a smashing year for me. The first half was a bit shaky, for reasons described two posts ago. After I went all in with my pregnancy, everything became exciting and rather interesting. After my 28th birthday in late June is, I’d say, when life itself seemed to bloom and glow. It’s a time forever seared in my memory as sunshine and rainbows. Potentially traumatic things occurred, particularly during the birth, and I just merrily hopped my way through them.
Then here comes 2021 all, “Here, have some fascists reaching a breaking point, and a snowpocalypse, and a bunch of people refusing to do their part to protect the public health, prolonging this pandemic situation. Oh, and a bunch of other people thinking it will be okay because Trump is no longer president. This is the world your child lives in.” These types of things give me anxiety, and that’s not the type of response that I want to be typical for Lucy. If I’m going to teach her healthy habits and great coping skills, obviously I need to be modeling that to the best of my ability. So that’s something I just have to work on figuring out for myself. Reducing social media use is a good start. My mind isn’t that different from Lucy’s. Just a little redirection helps.
Another source of anxiety is the whole, “I’m about to turn 30, where has time gone, didn’t think I’d make it this far, etc.” Imagine what 15-year-old me would think if I knew that there I would be, at 30, still on my same bullshit. Surely I’d have figured it all out by now? At the very least, I’d have wanted to roll into 30 with the ability to say, “I’m super happy with how far I’ve come, especially in the last nine months during which I became committed to making better choices in my day-to-day life.” No previous-aged me would want to wake up on my 30th birthday and think, “Damn it. Back on my bullshit.”
So that’s one source of intrinsic motivation: wanting to wake up on my 30th birthday not feeling like a piece of shit.
That’s up to the choices I make in any given moment. “Oh, there’s a muffin sitting on the counter. I am not hungry, but I am a little bored. It looks good. Well, go for it.” That’s a common thought process. But it’s evolving into, “Muffins, irrelevant. Anything on the countertops, irrelevant. What am I here for? Oh, I’m filling up my water bottle. Let’s do that.”
If I’m being honest with myself, though, my approach will need to be more disciplined. I can’t keep coasting on tiny improvements. I’m holding back when I know I’m capable of more. In a manner of speaking, it’s time to throw another bowling pin into my juggling routine.
Over one year later…
Hopefully no one was waiting for an update, because I never did follow up with that last post containing very special news. I suppose I had hoped to keep a record of my pregnancy journey, but that ship has sailed.
My daughter was born Thanksgiving Day 2020. She was three weeks early. I’ll save the birth story for another day… or another year, perhaps, given my consistency of updating this blog. Bottom line is, I have been doing the mom thing for 10 months now. She is the true love of my life. It certainly hasn’t been easy, but I was expecting it to be much more challenging than it’s been. She’s a treasure, a beauty, an absolute delight. On this blog, I will refer to her as Lucy.
I have returned to this blog and am giving it new purpose:
- Accountability to myself and a potential audience
- Communicating my goals and the actions I take to achieve them
- Sharing my experience in case it helps somebody else in their personal journey
- Seeking opportunities to receive suggestions and constructive criticism
There are several abandoned blogs out there that belong to me. Anytime the hiatus becomes too extensive, my solution has been to just start fresh with a new one. This time, though, the idea of “starting fresh” is counter to my ever-evolving perspective.
I want this to be a blog that documents my journey of wellness. I have been on many “wellness journeys,” lasting anywhere from a few days to a few months before I returned to the behaviors of dysfunction. I can’t say it will be different “this time around.” But I’m trying a new strategy.
It isn’t just about replacing poor habits with healthy ones. It’s about facilitating changes to my mindset that are in better accordance with my life circumstances and promote my wellbeing. An error that I have typically made in the past was an attempt to dissociate my “old” self from a “new” self, the past from the present. There is no new self and there is no temporal line of demarcation. There is just me and right now, same as it’s ever been. When I was pregnant, this false belief in magical transformations led me to believe that when I had my baby, somehow my bad habits would make way for better ones. How did I imagine this would occur? Maternal hormones? Sheer force of will driven by necessity? I didn’t think too deeply on it. But no. Becoming a mom didn’t imbue a sense of momness in me. I’m still just me, and I have a daughter. And the obstacles that stood in my way before are the same ones facing me now.
The obstacles mainly come from the sum of the beliefs, behaviors and assumptions that underlie my decisions from one moment to the next. I’ve come to recognize many of my typical thought processes as toxic. Part of me has been aware of them, and I have, over the years, evolved in my perspectives and outward treatment of people and situations. But the underlying core of the toxicity has yet to be challenged out in the open. The result is anxiety and stagnation. I’m not here to get into the nitty gritty of all the ways this toxicity manifests. That’s mainly something to sort out with my therapist. I couldn’t put it into words, anyway. It’ll be one of those “I’ll point it out when it happens” sort of thing. I know I must have blind spots, but when they cause me to stall, perhaps a bit of examination will help me realize what the root of that roadblock is.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been building some momentum. They’re just little decisions that serve to tweak or disrupt the routine I had built upon many deleterious habits.
I’ve deleted my Facebook and spend more time writing in my journal. Facebook alone wasn’t the main issue, though. I waste a lot of time on my phone. It just happens that Facebook was the least productive thing I could have possibly been doing on my phone. The time I wasted on Facebook has mostly been replaced by wasting time on YouTube. At least YT is somewhat useful in that it contains informative videos that are useful in my studies, but it still induces a mindless scroll in a quest for the next dopamine hit. I would ultimately like to be liberated from the mindless scroll. And it is possible. Last year, I entered the world of Reddit. Spent a few months in that ditch until I decided, some time after giving birth, that it wasn’t doing me any good. Then Twitter happened. I was casually watching the news on January 6 and witnessing in real time as hilarity ensued. Just absolutely enthralled, I hopped onto the Twitterverse for moment-by-moment updates and random takes. Inevitably, I became mired in the Twitter hellscape. Never in my life had putting my phone down been so impossible. After a couple months of that, I knew I had a problem. Thankfully, Twitter made it easy by banning me. I could have made a new profile (wouldn’t have been the first time), but decided to put it to rest forever. No. More. Twitter. Ever. Again. Point is, I’ve seen my rock bottom, and I’m not going anywhere but up from here.
I’ve cut way down on the amount of fast food I eat. When I do opt for fast food, I make healthier choices. If there’s a decent salad on the menu, that’s what I get (not the 1000 calorie bacon-and-cheese loaded ones). I drink more water than I used to, thanks to the Hydro Cell water bottle I carry around (love that it’s a straw). I’ve been taking an unprecedented amount of walks in the past month.
I’m still not great at picking up after myself, but my room doesn’t get quite as messy as it used to get. On many days, I feel inclined to at least throw loose articles of laundry into the hamper and remove the accumulation of Diet Coke containers.
I’m doing things that get me hyped to build on these baby habits. I made a workout playlist and bought some workout clothes that I’m eager to use. I took some photos of myself thinking that maybe, in six months, I may look quite a bit different.
The past month or so has felt a bit like a trial period for the leveling-up that I’m ready to do. It’s been a pretty minimal effort so far, and already I’ve noticed some cool things happening. I still wear a lot of maternity clothing, but they’re fitting loose. I’m down to my pre-pregnancy weight, such that it was. My energy level has generally gone up. Now I’m imagining what I could accomplish if I raised the bar, go from an effort level of 4/10 to 7/10. Add a few bursts of 10/10.
My only other option is to maintain a perpetual sense of helplessness because of the state of the world we’re living in. Anxiety doesn’t do me any good or my daughter any good. It doesn’t do the world any good. Does calamity and suffering lie ahead? Probably. All the more reason to appreciate the peace that I’m privileged with today, from which I can comfortably build habits that will better serve me when times become tough.
Welcome back. Join me in my glow-up.
Another half a year has gone by.
And life has gone on. Our lives have changed, our world has changed. The new coronavirus has wrought havoc on our healthcare systems. Mass paranoia and delusion has wrought havoc on our public’s health, both mental and physical. Mass protests and riots (which I wholly support) have brought the issue of justice for Black lives to the forefront of global attention. And, on a personal level, a newcomer has turned my life inside-out…
So from my individual perspective, I will start from the beginning. Even before COVID-19 swept the U.S., 2020 got off to an unusual start. Early in January, my grandma’s dog Leah passed away. Almost immediately after, my grandma was rushed to the hospital when her blood pressure dipped to dangerously low levels, and she was admitted for several days.
A few weeks later, my family adopted a new dog who we named Darby. She was skin and bones, but we quickly fattened her up. Now, Leah had been a pain in my ass because she would poop in the middle of the pathway in the backyard. But I would gladly welcome the turds back in exchange for the barking, clingy, cat-chasing, leash-pulling, neighbor-attacking beast that took her place. Darby has no self-awareness, and will have no issue bowling over our poor elderly golden retriever, Abby, or my cousin’s toddler. Needless to say, I am not afraid to admit that I am not at all a dog person. I liked them in theory as a kid, but as an autistic introvert, in practice, their sounds, smells, and personalities are much too big for my tastes. But Darby is not the aforementioned newcomer that has turned my life inside-out, although she is a frequent source of headaches.
A bit later, my grandma got readmitted to the hospital after a fall, again due to low blood pressure. This was during spring break, and a few of my cousins had come to visit her in the hospital. One of them was on her period, which seemed to trigger my own uterus to menstruate a bit earlier than expected. It was also during their visit that my university made the announcement that spring break would be extended another week due to the spread of COVID-19, after which classes would be held online indefinitely. Soon, the entire nation was on lock-down. My cousins went home, and the three-month quarantine ensued. The only people I saw during that period besides my immediate family were my boyfriend and my brother’s fiance.
I was grateful that my genetics class had moved online, because I was able to review the lectures as many times as I needed, which greatly improved my performance. I was even more grateful that my organic chemistry lab was online, because doing those labs in person was pure anxiety. I’d always feel totally lost, and my lab partner was just as clueless as I was. However, my microbiology lab being moved online was a disappointment. That is my major, my special interest. I loved Gram staining and plate streaking and watching my organisms grow. I think I might have been able to get an A in normal circumstances, but it was too easy to procrastinate with it being online, plus my TA compensated by making the quizzes and exams more complex. I ended up getting straight B’s.
As my finals were approaching, I began exhibiting extremely concerning symptoms. I had completely lost my once ravenous appetite. I had a low-grade fever that peaked at 100.4 F. I was nauseated and my body was aching, and I was sleeping one to two hours a night, max. I began to panic about how all this would affect my performance on the finals. Obviously, the first thing in my mind was COVID-19, but some of my symptoms weren’t matching up. Another minor concern in the back of my mind, and not really much of a concern really, was that it had now been over a month since my cousins had visited, and since I had gotten my period. But given that I was slightly manipulating the timing of the insertion of my Nuva Ring to minimize or eliminate periods altogether, it didn’t strike me as out of the ordinary. Since it was early last month, it would probably go back to its regular schedule this time around. But more days passed by, and nothing.
You can probably see where this is going.
Pregnancy scares are nothing new to me. The slightest menstrual delay has triggered a trip to the pharmacy to pick up a test on multiple occasions over the years. Last summer, I had a two-week long headache that prompted such a trip, since headaches aren’t very typical for me. This time, it was the lack of appetite, extreme nausea, and aching gums that prompted me to take another test. One day, my brother’s fiance was hitting up a pharmacy before heading over, so I requested she pick one up. Although it was the late afternoon and morning pees are recommended for taking pregnancy tests, there were two in the box so I figured I’d take one right away. I visit the restroom and go through the same process as before: unwrap the test, pee on the stick, place it on the counter and wait.
Well, I didn’t have to wait long. The urine traveled up the first half of the stick, revealing the initial pink line, nothing new. The urine crept up further up the stick. And immediately, unquestionably, loudly and boldly as anything, that second pink line appeared.
“What in the FUCK”
I didn’t really feel anything. I guess I already knew what I would see. Numb and now cruising on autopilot, I had my sister-in-law and bro take a look to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. They verified that my eyes had not deceived me. So obviously, the next thing I had to do was call my boyfriend and tell him the news. He was stunned, too, but told me he’d support whatever decision I made.
My first gut feeling was that I wanted to keep this baby. But I still spent the next several weeks weighing my options.
I had to tell my parents soon, since I live with them. This was the most harrowing deed, a thing I had dreaded since high school, should the occasion ever arise. A couple years ago, my mom found a pregnancy test box and flipped out. Based on this experience, my expectation was that she would lose her shit, and that my dad would express his silent disapproval. The reality did not go as expected.
My brother and I hatched a plan on how to break the news. I needed him there to support me. One morning, my mom returned from her daily trip to the gas station for her Diet Coke. As she walked through the door, my brother announced some good news concerning his upcoming medical school exam (it was under question whether it would be delayed due to COVID). She congratulated him, her mood perked up as planned. Now it was my turn.
“I have some good news too, Ma,” I announced. “It turns out that I don’t have COVID.”
“How do you know that? Did you take a test?” she asked.
“Well, I took a test, but not a COVID test.”
“So what do you have?”
I tapped my belly and said, “A baby.” And the sky didn’t fall, and hell on Earth didn’t rain upon me. Beyond my wildest expectations, her response was to give me a big, joyful hug.
So then we all waited for my dad’s meeting to end to share the news. When the moment finally came, my mom made the announcement with a wide grin. And HE was the one who flipped. “Why are you all smiling?! This is horrible! There’s no way she’s ready to have a kid! It’s going to be dumped on us!” My mom went to talk to him privately, but I wasn’t really shaken up. Her support was monumental, and he’d eventually come around. I wanted to talk to him myself to alleviate some of his concerns, but he went on a bike ride to clear his head. My mom assured me that he was just shocked, and concerned about finances, and that she and my dad would support me and this baby.
So then we went next door to inform my grandma that I, in fact, did not have the coronavirus, but was pregnant. Considering she was expecting the worst, it was a pleasant surprise. From there, I called all my closest relatives. I was still on autopilot and hadn’t done much processing, mind you. It was also early and miscarriage was still a possibility. But I think in order to process it, I needed the input from my loved ones. Because ultimately, it is the breadth of my support system that would inform my decision on what to do.
Later that night, my dad came in to assure me he would support me and gave me a hug. I figured my mom had pressured him to do that, and he still had some processing to do, but didn’t we all?
Weeks later, I had my first appointment with my ob-gyn. She confirmed my pregnancy and performed my annual exam, but I would have to schedule another appointment for the ultrasound, and the next appointment available would be another couple weeks. This was a bit infuriating to me. I wanted to see with my eyes that there was something growing inside me. It still didn’t feel quite real.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to wait a couple more weeks for that ultrasound.
A few nights after my first appointment, I developed a cramp on the right side of my abdomen. The pain began at around 11 PM. I tried to go to sleep, but it escalated to full-blown agony. A couple hours went by as I contorted my body into all possible positions trying to get comfortable. The only position that felt even slightly okay was on my hands and knees, rocking back and forth. Figuring it was a bout of severe constipation, I tried to poop. At 2 AM, I woke my mom up and told her what was happening. She joined me in my room and watched as I continued to squirm, making fruitless suggestions such as, “Take a hot shower. Eat an apple.”
“THAT WON’T HELP,” I insisted. “I FEEL LIKE I’M IN LABOR.” She watched helplessly as I writhed as if I were possessed. Eventually, the pain caused me to vomit. She dialed the on-call ob-gyn to ask for her advice. We were advised that it could be appendicitis, and we should go to the ER. So at 3:30 AM, we got into the van and she drove me to the hospital. Neither of us mentioned the word “miscarriage,” though it was in the back of my mind, and probably in hers too.
Thankfully, this all occurred during a time before my city became a COVID-19 hotspot. Beds were immediately available, and I was wheeled to one right away. I continued to vomit and was given medication for pain and nausea. After about an hour, the pain hadn’t subsided, so I was given a dose of glorious morphine. That worked for a while, but then I was taken for an ultrasound at around 5:30 AM. The technician had to dig the probe right where it hurt. If my level of pain on the pain scale was a 10/10 before, it had now reached 11/10. I couldn’t even look at the screen. I had no idea what she or my mom was seeing. I just needed her to stop. It felt like she was probing around for about ten minutes, silently taking pictures from multiple angles. Finally, she relented, and said we should be notified of their findings shortly. She left the room, and my mom said, “I saw the heartbeat.”
“So the baby’s fine?” I inquired.
“Looks that way.” She smiled. I got back on my hands and knees until another transporter came to return me to my bed in the ER.
I got another dose of morphine upon my return. The pain subsided to about a level three, and a combination of the drugs and sleep deprivation had me feeling loopy and giddy. I started joking around with my mom and listening to what was happening with the other patients nearby. Finally, the ER doctor came in with his diagnosis.
“We saw a 10-cm hemorrhagic cyst on your right ovary, the size of a newborn baby’s head. Your regular ob-gyn will be on call at 7 AM, so we’ll notify her immediately. We’re going to have you admitted. We also confirmed an intrauterine pregnancy.” That eliminated my concerns of a possible ectopic pregnancy.
The sun had already risen by the time I got wheeled into my new room, a massive maternity suite with a TV, couch, table, fridge, snack bar, and bathroom. My new nurse was a gentle and sweet young lady who reviewed my medical history and checked my vitals. Around mid-morning, my ob-gyn arrived to inform me of the procedure she was planning to remove the cyst. If she’s able to find another ob-gyn to assist, she could perform the surgery laparoscopically. I was given shampoo and a special soap for me to shower with before the procedure, and was instructed to put on a hospital gown after showering.
My doctor was able to find an assistant, and the surgery was set for 2 PM. However, there was a delay because I had to get tested for COVID-19 and await the results.
Wonderful.
But compared to the absolute agony I had experienced over the past several hours, the uncomfortable test was comparable to a mosquito bite. The results returned negative, and I was transported to the OR at around 3 PM. The surgical team prepped me for surgery, and I made sure to inform them about my last experience with anesthesia during my breast reduction, and how I had a horrible reaction to the drugs which had delayed my discharge. So they transferred me to the surgical bed and gassed me with an alternative anesthetic, which hopefully wouldn’t cause the same reaction.
Two seconds later, or so it seemed, my eyes fluttered open. For a brief time I was confused and surprised about my own existence, and remembered I had just gone in for surgery. Now I was in a bed in a large room with other recovering patients. The nurse noticed I was awake and asked how I felt. I gave him a thumbs up. I started tapping my fingers to reintegrate myself with the rest of my body, and to let the personnel know I was doing fine. They took me back up to the maternity suite where I was reunited with my mom. We were told that the cyst had been removed, along with my right ovary and Fallopian tube.
I made arrangements with my boyfriend for him to take my mother’s place that evening, since I was only allowed one guest. She left in the late afternoon, and I slept until he arrived at around 8 PM. We tried to hook up our Firestick to the TV, but it was a weird hospital TV that didn’t give us that option. Fortunately, we were able to find Star Trek: Deep Space Nine on one of the channels. We cuddled and watched together on my hospital bed, and then he went to sleep on the couch.
The next day, after a nice French toast breakfast and my night nurse showing me how to take a vaginal progesterone pill, my doctor returned to check on me. She inspected the three incisions, one on each side of the abdomen, and one in my belly button. She showed me images they had taken of the enormous teratoma, as well as the torsion of the ovary it had resulted in, the source of my pain. They had found hair growing inside the cyst, which had been present on my ovary probably since my own birth. Then she went to obtain an ultrasound machine to see how my baby had fared during the procedure. This was the moment my boyfriend and I had been waiting for!
She turned the screen towards us and probed my belly, commenting on my full bladder. Then she located our little bundle of joy, who seemed to be wriggling around. We listened to the heartbeat, and she measured the crown-rump length. “You’re at about 11 weeks, 3 days.” So there really is a little creature in there!
I’ve recovered from the surgery smoothly, though another medical issue did occur when half of my face swelled up a few weeks later. I had the dentist check it out with an X-ray, but it didn’t seem to be tooth related. I was prescribed antibiotics, which seemed to do the trick. I suspect that my sub-mandibular gland had become infected, somehow.
I’ve had my second prenatal check-up during which we listened to the heartbeat, after which I had my blood drawn to do genetic testing which would indicate any chromosomal abnormalities as well as the sex. I received the results the day after my birthday… but I’ll share that with you in my next post.
So. This has been a rather matter-of-fact update of the absolute chaos that has been my 2020 thus far. I am now about 17 weeks pregnant, 28 years old, and am due December 16. Perhaps in my next post, I will deconstruct my emotional state-of-mind and dare to share my plans for the future.
Until next time,
K
I Blinked and it was Over
Well, 2019 has certainly been a year. The last time I updated this blog was on this exact date, 2018. And then I just… stepped into another dimension.
A year ago, I was writing in my journal about how 2019 doesn’t seem like a real year. 19 itself has never seemed like a real number. Even my 19th year, age-wise, was certainly a year. It’s not that 19 is an unlucky number for me… it’s barely a number at all. 19 is a dimensional shift. It’s a state of temporal flux. Age 19, 2019, both were surreal. Even as a child, each age meant something different to me, except for 19. 15 was quinceñera. 16 was driving. 17 was graduating high school. 18 was adulthood (psht, barely). 20 was decade numero dos. 21 was getting wasted. Everything after that was grown-up nonsense. But 19? It was shrouded with mystery, a dark gray void swirling with cosmic gases. It’s not a real fucking number.
So what has happened to me in this past year that made it feel surreal? A change of occupation is one thing. There was already some fuckery going on as we rang in the new year, but shit started to hit the fan in March. On Sunday, the CEO made a frivolous decision based on her own pig-headed ignorance about how things worked that completely changed the nature of my job description. On Monday, the education director was fired for standing up for her team. On Tuesday, my supervisor was fired for standing up for us. That’s when I really just checked out and stopped giving a fuck about what was happening there. I didn’t enjoy or take pride in my work anymore, and it was clear the organization that I once believed in had become a dumpster fire. I was there strictly for the paycheck and health insurance. But because everyone and their mom was either quitting or getting fired, I had to pick up the slack. Thus, I got swept away in the drama and the stress it brought along with it.
I became more dysfunctional. It became difficult to take my medications, and things REALLY started to unravel. My mind was consumed with obsessing over things I had no control over, both in the workplace and on the planet itself. The panic and anxiety I had kept at bay for several years returned with a vengeance. I ended my romantic partnership in a most unceremonious and insensitive fashion, because my brain could not even comprehend the added responsibilities of that interpersonal dimension. I went into a sort of survival mode where I had to take life one day at a time, and not look too far ahead into the future.
Yet I did look a little ahead, because I knew I had to get out of that place. I considered following my brother’s footsteps and heading to medical school. However, after I determined what my GPA actually was, I realized it wasn’t a likely possibility. So maybe I’d do nursing. I re-applied to my university as a post-bac to obtain the credits I’d need to apply to an accelerated nursing program. But whatever it was I decided on, going back to school seemed the right thing to do… especially because of the health insurance. It’s expensive, but it at least meant I could safely quit my job (I have too many medical needs to go without).
I quit the day before school started, the day after submitting my two-week notice. I submitted the notice, but decided, “Fuck them.” I had expressed over a month prior about wanting to quit before school started, but graciously waited for them to hire a replacement. Well, they lagged on hiring that replacement, and now school was about to start. Fuck them! They had all the time in the world to hire someone and have me train them, but they gave so few shits about what my team did there that it wasn’t anywhere on their priority list. I also requested a 30-hour workweek, and that was rejected. They really expected, knowing that I’m autistic and mentally ill, that I would work 40 hours while doing school at the same time. There’s just no way. Every single fuck I had was gone, so I went in on Sunday, packed up all my stuff, turned in my key and ID, and fucked on out of there forevermore. I received many entertaining updates the days thereafter from an inside source about how shit hit the fan when they realized I wasn’t coming back, that there was no replacement for my duties which, because they hadn’t hired replacements for my other former colleague or myself, literally nobody else knew how to do. ZERO. FUCKS. GIVEN. I have a lot of love for many of the people I worked with, but the place as a whole, especially the administrative part, was incredibly toxic. I had to break free. I have zero regrets.
Nevertheless, I am autistic, and change doesn’t come easily. I got incredibly ill that first week of school. I regressed to a state of anxiety and fear that I’d had as a small child, and went several days without a wink of sleep. The only thing that worked, but only for a couple hours, was my mom sleeping next to me. I was legitimately afraid of dying in my sleep. My blood pressure was through the roof. I thought I’d have a heart attack. The build-up of stress was just too intense, and now that I had at least some space to express it (not having to be at work 40 hours a week), I sure as fuck expressed it.
But I survived, and the anxiety eased up. My body finally realized NONE of the bullshit that had been stressing me out was relevant anymore. I could give all of my attention to school. I had already fallen behind, but managed to catch up. I was taking three classes that were required for the accelerated nursing program: microbiology, nutrition, and an online sociology course. Sociology was a breeze, but microbiology was taking a significant amount of resources. Nutrition ended up requiring more effort than I had considered putting into it, but I was so caught up with microbiology that it fell by the wayside. In the end, I received an A in both sociology and microbiology, and a C in nutrition.
And in the course of taking those courses, I realized, once and for all, what my path shall be: not nursing, but biology. The initial dream which I had to give up on at age 19, because at the time I did not have the mental capacity, study skills or concentration to study that level of science. Getting a degree in psychology was exactly what I needed to accumulate those skills, and now it’s time to put those skills to the purpose they were always destined for. Science and math doesn’t come effortlessly to me like it seems to for some, but I certainly have the motivation now that I didn’t have a decade ago.
Feeling more at ease in life, I re-initiated my previous romantic relationship and have made some efforts at strengthening my social connections. But that’s still the hard part, which I will certainly work on in 2020 and beyond.
Ultimately, what I have going into 2020 that I didn’t have going into 2019 is clarity and purpose about what I hope to accomplish in life. One year ago, nothing was certain: I had a psychology degree, but no idea what to do with it. I had a job, but it was unrelated to my career goals, which were non-existent. I had my left politics, but unsure how I could be of service to humanity. Therefore, I had no resolutions, no goals other than to coast and hope I survive. Now I know: I’m going to be a biologist, and I’m going to study the effect of our resident microbiota on our mental health. I’m going to be a writer and help to radicalize others by clarifying revolutionary ideas that have been muddled by capitalist propaganda. And primary, above all else, I’m going to become the person I need to become: more patient, more open to human connection, and hella gay. 2020, the year of my Golden birthday, is my Golden year.
Hopefully you’ll hear from me many more times before this time next year.
Until next time,
K
Spoons, In My Own Words
To begin with, this is my first post in about six months. Whoops. I assume the website has been withdrawing $2 from my bank account every month, regardless. My primary excuse for not keeping up with this blog is that I haven’t had the spoons to do so. Psychological blockages, writer’s block, lack of energy, and other distractions have hindered my motivation to express myself. I figure New Years’ Eve is a good time to hop back on this wagon. I also figure that I should begin by articulating a concept that I would like to communicate to my friends and coworkers: namely, what the heck I mean when I say I don’t have spoons.
I don’t mean that I need anybody sending me boxes of plastic utensils. Rather, I’m talking about the Spoon Theory of chronic illness and disability, initially illustrated by Christine Miserandino. It isn’t a theory in the scientific sense; it’s an analogy with a catchy name. In her narrative, Miserandino describes sitting in a restaurant with a friend who asks what it feels like to live with a chronic illness; in this case, Lupus. She hands her friend a bunch of spoons, tells her to count them, and explains that each spoon represents a decision that a chronically ill person must make throughout their day about how to allocate their limited energy. Such an individual needs to know how many spoons they start out with when they wake up to a new day, and carefully plan how to use those spoons. Certain activities use up more spoons than others, and one should keep a “spoon reserve” for the unpredictable but inevitable emergencies.
The Spoon Theory has become an important part of the vernacular among those living with disabilities and chronic illnesses of a wide variety. In any space in which “Spoonies” congregate – Facebook groups or message boards, for instance – you will hear much of the same: “I don’t have the spoons for this,” “I woke up with a bunch of spoons, but then x happened and now I have none,” “I’m trying to preserve my spoons.”
Of course, everybody’s experience with disability is unique; yet, at the same time, similar. So many factors could affect how somebody experiences it, such as what kind of disability it is, the environment they’re in, what medications they’re taking, if any. That’s why it isn’t enough for me to simply link you to Miserandino’s description if the goal is to help people understand me.
I have multiple invisible disabilities: I am bipolar, I am autistic, I have hypothyroidism, social anxiety, panic disorder and mild agoraphobia. My body hurts a lot, but I haven’t been diagnosed with anything in particular on that front (I suspect osteoarthritis). Over time, I have learned how to allocate my spoons more efficiently, especially after being prescribed the appropriate medication to moderate my mood. Although I am capable of a lot more than I was before, it still takes a lot of planning to do what I gotta do and a lot of rest to prepare for what’s coming.
Working a full-time job, my days are almost always the same: work, then rest. Preparing, mentally and physically, for the next day. Or awaiting a weekend of deciding which errands to prioritize. Cleaning my room is something that’s always on my to-do list, but never gets done. You see, it’s not just physical activity that exhausts me: merely THINKING about engaging in physical activities costs me spoons. Sitting on my couch and observing the mess around me, weighing the enormity of the task before me, is enough to cause me to crawl into my bed and sleep instead. And then maybe, after a nap, I’ll clean about 10% of it before deciding, “Good enough.” It certainly doesn’t help that merely existing in a messy environment depletes my spoons for other activities.
I have the easiest job in the world. After a year, I’m quite skilled at getting things done in the most efficient manner, and am known as a jack of all trades. But there definitely seems to have been a shift in my job performance when my 30-hour work weeks were increased to 40 hours. Those extra two hours a day have a serious consequence on how I function for the entire day. On six-hour days, I didn’t have to worry too much about getting a lunch. I could get by on snacks, and by the time I was ready for a meal, my shift was over. Now, I have to plan for both breakfast and lunch. Take away two spoons. I have to go without my mid-to-late afternoon nap. Take away three spoons. I have to interrupt my mind-flow when it’s time for a mandatory break. Take away one spoon. I have to re-enter a mind-flow when the break is over. Take away one spoon. By the time I get home, there’s no way in hell I’m doing anything besides potatoing on the couch, watching Netflix.
Six hours was more than enough time to enter charts, run reports, and file away case notes in an uninterrupted work flow. Now there are more spaces, more in-between moments. In-between moments are very costly, spoon-wise. I’m basically sitting there, idling, wasting precious energy just by existing. The more in-between moments I have to endure – that is, the time it takes to transition between two activities – the sleepier I become and the less my mind is able to process.
This is the cost: for the first several months of my job, I was quite impressive to my colleagues and to myself. But now I feel more forgetful, more sluggish, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I make mistakes and come across as lazy. I become flustered when talking to clients, in person or on the phone. It feels like a definite regression to the days of grade school, when the long, exhausting days led to minimal effort and poor marks.
Needless to say, having a limited spoon reserve affects my self-efficacy and productiveness. (And I mean productiveness in activities that are worthwhile to my personal development, not by accumulating profit for capitalists.) The good news is that I’m aware of why I’m so exhausted by the end of the day, and that it’s not my fault. There are techniques I can use to help complete activities. It helps to visualize myself doing a thing before actually doing it, so that when I’m doing it, I’m not wasting too much time trying to figure out what the next step is. To-do lists and planners, as inconsistent as I am at using them, are crucial to not forgetting absolutely everything. Even if I can’t reach everything, I’m still aware there are still things to do.
Hopefully, I will be able to find accommodations at my work place that take my Spoonie-ness into account. I have a few ideas: arriving at work earlier and leaving later so that I can take a longer break (30 minutes is nothing but disruptive – an hour or two would be more worthwhile, and I could spend that time re-charging), breaking my day up by activities so that I’m not spending as much time multi-tasking, and making my colleagues aware that I can’t just jump from one activity to another on command without losing a bunch of spoons. Thus, one of my New Years’ resolutions is to not only be aware of my own limits, but to not be afraid of making others aware so that we could work together to get the job done as efficiently as possible.
Happy New Years!
I Can Hear Music
How do I even write about music? How do I do it justice? How do I comprehend and describe the transcendent realm in which music exists? Because it certainly comes from somewhere magical. A gift from the gods. The voices of angels. Or just the melodies flowing out from ridiculously creative human brains.
Not my brain. All my mental faculties come to a halt when I’m holding an instrument in my hands. I was last chair among violinists in my middle school orchestra for three years in a row. I’ve taken bass guitar lessons and gave up after a couple months. I’ve been trying to teach myself the piano for damn near 15 years. I’ve been told I’m not a bad singer, but what good is that when any kind of audience shuts me down? I purposely sing badly in front of people, like it’s all a joke. Nope, music is a mysterious language to me, and although it speaks to my soul, I cannot translate it directly.
I think being autistic makes my music listening patterns a bit weird. My music tastes have evolved over the years, but it’s usually the same pattern: I have the one favorite band that I spend 80% of my time listening to, a smattering of individual tracks of no one particular artist the other 10% of the time, easy listening probably at 8%, and nostalgic music as the last 2%.
In high school that sounded like this: a shitload of Queen, every possible track and B-side track and solo track I knew existed; random indie, emo and 80’s hits; ambient space music; and songs from the good old days, namely the 90’s and early 2000’s.
Nowadays, I still like listening to 80’s playlists when I’m in an energetic mood, or when I want to sing privately. I know most of them. As for easy listening (basically background music), I rely primarily on KRTU 91.7, Trinity University’s jazz station. Nostalgia music now also includes Queen and the aforementioned random indie/emo music from the mid-2000s.
But now my favorite band is Mew. I’m not nearly as obsessed with them as I was with Queen. With Queen, I wanted to know every little detail about the band members, the meanings and inspirations behind the songs, the intimate details of their private lives, every bloody possible thing. When it comes to Mew, I don’t know shit about them, other than that they’re from Denmark and the main singer’s name is Jonas (and he’s cute af). But their music… I cannot get enough. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. It’s otherworldly. I think it exists beyond our locale in space-time. It transports me to another plane of consciousness.
I discovered them on some French indie radio station, back in the days when iTunes had an incredible list of international radio stations. Not sure what they did with that, but I have absolutely no use for iTunes anymore (and if that thing still exists and I just don’t know how to get to it, halp plz). The first song I heard was “Cartoons and Macrame Wounds.” Truly an incredible introduction to Mew. I downloaded the song instantly. The station would also play “Beach,” which is a fun song to listen to while driving on a bright, sunshiny day. Or always, but especially then. I went ahead and downloaded all the albums that were out at the time.
One of the amazing things about Mew is that I enjoy pretty much every goddamn song they’ve made. Even with Queen, there were some songs that I would skip. But I couldn’t tell you what my favorite Mew song is. I can say that my favorite album is “And the Glass-Handed Kites.” Almost every song flows seamlessly into the next… unless you’re listening to it on a crappy music player that separates them half a second.
Yet there’s an experience beyond the usual transcendence of great music that Mew has revealed to me: having a crush on a song. Or just part of a song. I’ve had crushes on many a musician. But never before on a song. I’m talking about songs that fill me with a sort of romantic-sexual giddy feeling. More specifically, I have a crush on his voice when it does The Thing that it does. I can’t even explain it. It happens at the end of “Sometimes Life Isn’t Easy.”
Safety net, I regret
I am shaking
We move along
I am shaking
Then again, during the last two minutes of “Clinging to a Bad Dream.”
I was held to be
For no one
No one lasting
*cue angelic choir*
I think, I thought
Maybe you can change me
I know you and I are
Clinging to a bad dream
And in between the shades on your screen
They come and go
Sometimes they never show…
And there’s a part during “The Night Believers” where his voice does The Thing and then That Other Thing.
The thing: Outside, and it occurs to me we’ve lost the light.
(That other thing: We’ve lost the light!)
We shared a box in someone’s dream
‘Till the ponies arrive
We’re only wasting time
Which I know, I know something about
I imagine Mew being played at my funeral. Call me morbid, but this is how I would want it to go: during the wake, or the reception, there’s a compilation of home videos from my childhood playing on a screen, and playing over it is “Drinking Soda.” I think I would want to personally edit it together to have it prepared for that time, because it’s very specific in my head. As soon as I can figure out how to convert my home videos to whatever format they need to be, if it’s even possible, I will put it together for my funeral, which hopefully won’t occur for at least a few decades. Or maybe it could be for another occasion, like my birthday, but could also be used at my funeral.
Then there’d be a far more dramatic scene: my casket being lowered into the ground, my friends and family gathered around dressed in black, as the song “The Seething Rain Weeps for You” blasts throughout the cemetery. Honestly, I’m not sure how anyone can listen to that song and not imagine singing to somebody in a casket.
Saying goodbye now
Looking at friends
A lump comes in my throat
Hearing them all speak of you
Looking at friends
A lump comes in my throat
Hearing them all speak of you
And that’s it, really. Just copy/paste this post to my Last Will and Testament. I don’t care how the funeral goes beyond that. But please, no flags or religious symbols.
Sometimes, I need to take a break from music. I love it too much to let myself burn out on it. During these periods, the extent of my musical consumption is just listening to jazz on my work commute. I hadn’t listened to Mew for over a month until the other day, and it’s as magical as ever. I’m not entirely sure why I need music breaks, but it might have something to do with the fact that when I want to be productive, it’s best not to listen to music that captivates my whole attention. No Mew-level transcendent experiences, no 80’s dance parties. Sometimes, I just ain’t got the time for it. I’ve been pretty darn focused on my cross-stitching for the past couple months, and my preferred background stimulation is some show I’ve watched a million times (The Office, Parks and Rec, the various Star Trek series, etc.).
Music is too deep, too distracting. I want to listen to it with my noise-canceling headphones, close my eyes, and let the melody embrace my entire being and carry me to that magical realm.
Writing Louder 