i haven’t posted anything here in years, but it’s wild to think how important this space used to be for me, how much shit we all shared here in the early 2010s! anyway, not sure why i’m doing this, but i weirdly felt the desire to tuck in some thoughts from my mid-late 20s. maybe i’ll delete this tomorrow?
august 2022
i think sometimes about how alzheimer’s runs in my family, about the terrifying moment my mom or dad may forget who i am, and it’s so scary and heartbreaking that i make myself stop thinking about it.
i think of me forgetting my partner or my partner forgetting me (because alzheimer’s also runs in their family) and it’s the scariest fucking thing. because who are we without our memories? who are we without all the things that made us who we are?
i had a thought just now that even when people with alzheimer’s forget the people they love and a huge chunk of their memories, they still remember the words and melodies to their favorite songs.
maybe i should listen over and over and over again ad nauseum to the song my partner wrote for me until it’s dug into my bones. maybe i should make them write more songs, so that when i forget who they are, i still remember their words, and they are still a part of me, and i can still sing them back. maybe i should make my partner listen to the song over and over again too, make it a beacon in our brains that we can return to whenever we hear the chords or melody. maybe if they lose their memories before me, i’ll learn to play it and sing it and they’ll sing along with me and even if they don’t know who i am, they’ll still be talking to me. there will still be a part of me in them, embedded into the core of their brain that stores this information. in this way, we will still remember each other, even when all the other pieces are missing.
they’ll write the sheet music so whoever’s taking care of either (or both) of us can play it and we’ll immediately know. we won’t remember each other, but we’ll remember the song, which sneakily leads back into the loop that we do remember each other. (did i just hack alzheimer’s?)
i don’t want to forget everything. i’ll have these blogs to look back on, maybe, but it won’t be the same, will it? because music is different. music is transcendent, something that extends beyond our understanding.
but also, music is the core of all of us — the first rhythm we know is our heartbeat. music is in our bones. it’s so simple. it’s a nursery rhyme, how we learn our first words. it’s a live concert, it’s worship. maybe music can be the directions when we forget where we’re driving, because music is also singing along to songs in the car.
i guess — in the end — music is just driving home.
july 2022
guess i’ve always been interested in this idea/trope/whatever, but i’ve been really into all the different timelines our lives are constantly split into; parallel universes; humanity (in general and as a whole and as something beautiful); and love (and finding it throughout all universes, all realities — maybe with the same people, the same friendships, in different forms and intensities, or wondering how i would’ve met the people in my life in another timeline, and notably, the idea that my partner and i choose each other across multiple universes).
these thoughts became especially strong for me in high school, and now they’re here, renewed, full force, and it’s got me reflective and seeking these messages. imagining all situations complexly and in the grey (despite my back and white thoughts).
i’m really into appreciating humanity in all its absurdity and pointlessness and love and joy and community and connectedness. i like the way things matter so much and don’t matter at all. i like feeling like dust in the best possible way.
in my adolescence until now and forever, i’ve always been amazed by the moon. in high school, my friends and i used to stare up at it, watch it rise and set, text each other when it looked especially big and beautiful. we liked how looking up at it made us feel small, but how looking up at it together made it more meaningful. we were small, but are big to each other. we are dust, but solid, grounding, important to one another. unimportant on a grand scale, but irreplaceable in our circle. it’s funny, interesting, profound how we feel so largely when we are so, so, so small.
what would my life be without anxiety? is there a version of myself that doesn’t have a mood disorder and anxiety? who just feels things… normally? less intensely?
but i like my intense emotions. sometimes they’re my favorite thing about me, i think. sometimes i feel like humanity is meant to be experienced this intensely, like i’m the only one who’s right, who feels things the way they should be felt. sometimes i feel like we’re meant to cry and feel like your chest is about to explode from empathy.
but sometimes, my intense emotions feel like the worst part of me. my highs and lows are intense. my anxiety. the extremes. the black and white thinking. why do i need sort my feelings in so many boxes? why do all my emotions need to be split up and expressed in different intensities? i guess that makes sense. boundaries and guarding my heart and whatnot. i can’t express every single one of my feelings to every single person who loves me, even if they’d be willing to listen. that’s too much. sometimes — maybe most times? — i feel like too much.
march 2022
i used to walk into a building full of people and feel my soul crush because i would think, “everyone in this room has cried about something before” and that made me very sad and overwhelmed.
years ago, i stared at a sign in the elevator floating up to the 10th floor. it had a picture of a lighthouse — it said there is hope, and to call a number if i’m feeling depressed. i wondered if anything happened that they felt the need to put up that sign. i wondered if someone like me actually followed through and jumped.
one night — it must have been 2am — the streets were empty except for the people sleeping on benches or resting in alleyways against brick walls. i was dissociating and numb and walking toward the parking garage. earlier that day, i thought of the outfit i’d wear and how i’d wait until i was certain my roommate was asleep before i snuck out. it was cold that night. maybe about 30 degrees, and i wore short sleeves while the people without shelter huddled under thick coats and dirty blankets and wore winter hats. i walked down the path that led to the garage and i thought, “i’m going to do it this time.”
then a woman with matted gray hair stopped me and asked me if i wouldn’t mind holding her bag open for her so she could put something in it. i felt myself snap back into my body. i reluctantly smiled and said, “of course.” i took the straps and spread them and she stuffed a blanket into it. she was carrying many things because i assume she didn’t have a home to keep things. everything she owned was in her hands.
i remember this clearly. she was very gracious. she looked up at me and studied me for a moment. we looked into each others’ eyes, and she looked at me like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. she told me i was beautiful, and then she wished me a good night and walked off, past the church, down the sidewalk.
i looked up at the parking garage looming over the train station, 10 stories high. i turned around and started walking back to my apartment. i shivered. i started gaining sensation. i was back in my body. i truly don’t know if i would be here if that stranger didn’t ask me to help her, if she didn’t tell me i was beautiful. i didn’t believe her, but her voice, her asking for help grounded me. i think that must have been a God thing.
now, i am terrified of dying. i don’t want to leave my partner alone. i don’t want to make my friends and family cry. i love them so much. why would i want to die when people love me so much?
i’m a therapist now. i help people who want to kill themselves hopefully... not want to kill themselves (among other things). i hold space for people’s trauma. i teach them to practice self-awareness and trust their bodies — trust that it wants you to take care of yourself.
it grumbles when you need to eat. it slows down when you need to sleep. it breathes when you need to relax. it shivers when you need warmth. it cries when you need to feel. it’s dying, but it still lives and lives and lives.
i feel. i feel largely while feeling small. i learn to love myself by loving others (yes, it’s okay if it’s the other way around).
at one point, living was an active choice, something i had to choose moment by moment. choosing to live was exhausting, something i had to think about every day.
now, it’s as natural as breathing. i don’t need to consciously tell myself to live. i just live.
and i think that might be a God thing too.
july 2021
apparently the ungodly hours of the morning — in which i wake up from needing to go to the bathroom and then proceed to reading fanfiction for hours — motivates me to write about them. (maybe i should stop reading love stories at 4am.)
i had a little… thing happen after therapy today and my partner just took it and let me rage. they let me flinch away from their touch and deny any comfort as i yelled at them to drink a damn milkshake born out of a desire to be thoughtful.
and then maybe 30 minutes later, they sleepily rolled over and lazed their arm around my waist, pulling me closer. it was like releasing a breath.
i turned toward them and crawled my head into my favorite spot in that crook of their neck and fell asleep. i woke up drooling on their shoulder.
my heart felt content, and that’s all i really wanted to say. it felt like liquid warmth, pouring into me like water into a glass.
i think we’re meant to be touched in these ways — so intimately and innocently, lightly and tightly. i think we’re supposed to be able to seek comfort in the warmth of someone else’s nooks and skin and hold. there are so many ways you can be hurt by someone’s touch. so how lovely is it to be able to share contact with a person you trust to hold you when you’re sad, or bad, or happy, or content?
like holding their hand — a soft form of magic — how two actions can be felt and experienced at once — the sensation of simultaneously holding and being held.
