Love

I love that some people hate my blog. I love that some people hate my attitude. I love that some people hate my account of what hurts.

When I say ‘love’, I mean, of course, that I want everyone who hates my muck to back the eff off and go read something else.

Go to the library. I know I’m chump change. So go read William Styron, Virginia Woolf, Mary Gaitskill, Sylvia Plath, C.S. Lewis, Donald Hall, Edna St. Millay.

Too much effort? Go to another blog. There are plenty of terrific ones. Or write your own.

No? Go watch “Dancing with the Stars.” I watch “Project Runway,” and sometimes, that helps.

I have a choice: to tell you what’s really going down, what’s really up, what hurts, what doesn’t. Or, I can lie and tell you that I feel terrific. I can pull funny anecdotes out of my ass all day long. But I choose not to. I do that enough at the supermarket.

You have a choice, too: to read this and get annoyed, or to not read it and stay super-groovy happy about life as you believe it should be.

I will never have the eloquence of C.S. Lewis, but my wisdom lies in recognizing that I still haven’t found my way out of this tangled forest of grief. I still hurt.

And when you bite instead of bless, you bet it hurts more.

No, it’s NOT better yet. Yes, I’m doing all the “right” things. F*ck you if you think it should be better by now. F*ck you if you think I should be writing about something else. F*ck you if you think I’m not doing all I should be doing. F*ck you if you think I shouldn’t dare write what I write.

Take a good look, shop around: it’s usually a pretty gentle climate over here. I’m not pointing fingers or naming or blaming. I’m living, and I’m writing some of it down. I’m wishing people well. I’m wishing I felt well.

As for today’s offhanded comment? F*ck you if you take anything I write personally. You don’t want me to take your words, your art, your preferences, personally? Don’t take mine personally, either. My eff-you? Hey, don’t take it personally. Now we understand each other.

Folks who aren’t afraid of grief can keep dropping by. This is a soft place. It was never meant to be anything else. I parent. I divorce. I owe. I miss. I yearn. I cry. I try. I fail. I try again.

I’m not out to get anyone. I don’t think I’m special, or different, or that my sadness is worth more than yours. You can put your feet up on the coffee table here, unless your own disappointments and losses have convinced you that no one else’s grief can match your own.

If you find prolonged grief irritating—or, rather, my individual weather report of loss and depression and fear, with occasional happy sprinkles—count your blessings and head for greener, sunnier pastures. Go make your own minimum payments. Curse me privately because I have a great mother (and thus, should be just fine, or fine enough). Despise me in your car because I have terrific kids (and thus, should be just fine, or fine enough). Tell your rear-view mirror that I’m overreacting, and fix your lipstick.

I’m skipping comments this time, because I’m tired of you sh*tting on my welcome mat.

This is a safe place for those who can’t figure out how to stop the hurt, but want to. I WANT TO. MANY OF US WANT TO. One way to deal with what hurts—with parenthood, with sadness, with loss, with chronic depression, with mental illness—is to write. Blood-letting, without the blood, without the mess, without the devastation. Trust me when I tell you that my family and friends would very much prefer that I write.

There’s universality in pain that won’t ease. If that statement doesn’t ring true for you, count your own blessings once again. You’re a wonder, and I would give ANYTHING right now to be a wonder just like you.