Hey there, sweet thing.
It’s Sunday. This time last Sunday I was, I think, laying facedown in my unmade bed sobbing my eyes out. You could chalk it up to a chemical imbalance. You could say we ought not to, as people, lay in an unmade bed sobbing our eyes out. You could say, even, that whatever the impetus was for this (re)action, I had no business behaving as such outside of a reaction to an actual human death in the family.
The reality remains that I did that, thought about it, came out the other side determined to accept with love and compassion that the Facedown Bed Crying was a necessary part of accepting where I am now.
Never in all the versions of my life I’ve dreamed up over the course of my cognizant years did I picture living back in my hometown, working at a coffeeshop, sleeping in a version of my childhood bed.
When I say (write) this aloud (or down), I imagine someone (you? or another person) thinking how ungrateful I am, how small and petty I must be to be so safe and well cared for. When the Latest Edition of Shit hit the fan at the beginning of this year, I know lots and lots and lots of people were not so lucky. Were not so cared for, were not so held. I also know that wherever you are, there you are, and I continue to do my level best to not only not endorse the systems that keep so many unsafe and uncared for, but to actively work against them. Sometimes, working against them includes grief.
I grieve the life I had. The life I worked 10 years to create, curate, cultivate (I fucking love alliterations, my friend). It’s gone. In an instant, I was moved away from work, community, the very geography I know like the back of my hand.
I fucking love Ohio.
And I find myself so unaware of what’s around me, I’m starving for the beautiful and the familiar. I know where the art museums are, I know the most beautiful greenspaces to walk, I know the quickest way to the best cup of coffee (to my mind), and how to access the aesthetic I’m craving in a moment (is it dive bar? is it riverboat? is it industrial architecture? is it a 1930’s mansion overlooking the Ohio river? is it contemporary art? girl, i got you).
Here, I don’t know. And all my associations are somewhere between ill fitting insecurities from my childhood and wild aspirations to dry out in the Texas desert sun.
After three days of crying, I went to some trusted folks and told them all the thoughts in my head–the reasonable (grief) and the unreasonable (poisonous anxieties and navel gazing). And after that, I went to my current day job and expressed similar things (in a professional contained way because my charming employer really doesn’t need my confessional on Being Sad and Lonely). And after that, I threw myself headlong into Being Here.
Because, currently, I can’t be anywhere else. I can’t be anywhere else, reasonably, and achieve what I want. And I know what I want, I’ve known it for years. And if I’m going to be here (I am), and am very safe (I am), and know that the spaces I’m moving through are low risk (in a nice way), then I can in a serious way access other goals besides the mad hustle (such a gross word) of my life before this.
And! As this season has shown me (it always strikes me as very Jesus-y to say ‘season’), life will change in an instant.
I will not only not be on this Earth forever (a blessing!), but I will not be in this moment forever. I will not always be so dislocated. I will not always be so sad. Nothing, fucking nothing, has permanence in this lifetime. Including lying facedown in an unmade bed, sobbing. My face, which was swollen and hurt so bad this time last week, isn’t that anymore. My mind isn’t completely shrouded in upset.
And, I made my bed.
Since nothing is forever, let me run wild in the changing. Let’s run wild.