From the category archives:
When my parents divorced after 26 loooong years of marriage, they made the necessary phone calls to me and my brother. I was at graduate school in Westchester County, NY—living in a crap apartment, alone. I remember getting The Call from my dad, and listening politely as he went through his version of the events.
I just listened. I may have eaten some chips.
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Imagine:
A box shows up on your doorstep.
Inside, it contains an old mini-DV camera, batteries and 25 hours of footage of you, exactly ten years ago.
Exactly ten years ago, you were the subject of a documentary project, a film that didn’t happen, after all.
But the tapes exist.
And there they are.
You know if you look [...]
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I honestly don’t know what to do with it, the old, once-trusted voice. On one hand, I feel grateful to it for getting me this far. But mostly, these days, I just want to tear it out of my chest, drag it out back, and shoot it.
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It’s not exactly true, of course.
That everything bad that could happen has already happened.
I have not lost a child. I have not lost the use of my body or mind. I am not struggling to survive through natural disaster or genocide.
But the words are insistent, calming. Gentle.
I don’t mind this kind of white lie.
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I think 2010 and I are going to get along.
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And I was like, if my uterus falls out, I am stuffing it in a USPS box and mailing it to your home.
And she was like, I’ll hang it on my wall right next to my diploma, you tumor-engorged monkey.
***Rated PM: Jenny Is a Potty Mouth in this one.
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You should not concern yourself with mundane
marriage anymore. Seek only the Divine. All other
kinds of bonds cause suffering for Ashlesha.
I know at once that she has not recently wiped the bottom
of a chatty bond with diarrhea, or walked a pair of
aging bonds through the snow, or ordered a gift certificate
online for a devoted maternal bond.
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I’m making all the right phone calls, showing up for the right tests (the next batch begins next week), but what’s lacking here is a physician whom I feel I can trust, whom I feel is taking the pain, the bleeding, the various other troubling symptoms seriously.
They are not in my head—but it doesn’t help to have “bipolar” tagged on my charts, for sure. There is a shame that goes along with that diagnosis that pops up in offices, I have found: medical offices, government offices, law offices. As if I am less, in some way. As if I make too much, too much, of the world, and thus, of myself.
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I have to let her go.
It hit hard today with three words: “Let her go.”
Me, as I’ve known her until now. I have to let her go. I have to say goodbye. There’s no way to live, there’s no way to keep going as that woman, as fond as I am of her.
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