true friends, true love

one whole year around the sun

My therapist says that when I recall something difficult, I should recognize it, name it, feel it in my body.  I shouldn’t repress it or push it down, but bring it to the surface and see it in the light.  Over time, it will hopefully become less painful.  But when I do hurt, I turn to the page; I keep returning to the page.

My first inclination whenever something bad happens is to write about it.  Even in the midst of that unthinkable nightmare time, I'm wondering how I can create a story out of my current bad situation.  Oftentimes when I'm hearing about the troubles of a friend or witnessing the misfortune of strangers, I find myself questioning if they might be able to craft meaning out of their own drama.    

I recently found myself in a bad situation that writing about, while yes it was my first impulse, seemed cruel.  The situation involves a friend who no longer wants to be my friend.  The situation is a rejection, one that has been really difficult to accept, although I guess I wish that it has seemed easy to accept.  But it's not.  When I write about my experiences, it’s cathartic; I relive it and I can come to terms with my choices and with things that other people have said.    

My husband had a friend over for dinner the other night who asked me if I ever worry about how my family feels about me writing about them. I truly believe that my brother is in some way happy about being immortalized on the page, that he’s become the animated version of himself, the way I see him—idealized, idolized.  My mom has always been supportive of my writing, and although it’s difficult at times for her to read certain things I write, especially about past relationships and struggles, she is proud. My dad’s most recurring phrase to me while growing up was to “read a book,” and I'm pretty sure he’s content that I’ve now written and published two.  But my answer to my husband’s friend was that even if they weren’t so amenable, I’d do it anyway, that these are my stories to tell. 

A year ago, to the day exactly, I started this personal exploration through writing and sharing it with an audience of friends, family, peers, etc.   I regularly see a therapist, but also this sharing of emotions and musings by way of Substack feels like therapy (feels like friendship?).  I have gotten so much out of putting my thoughts down somewhere, releasing them from my mind to the page and trying to make sense, or at least make lighter, the load.   

This friend and I met online in a workshop and became pandemic buddies, a thing in an of itself that gives me the same vibes as my Instant Messenger days of meeting people in chat rooms or MySpace and continuing long relationships with them but never meeting face to face, IRL.  We had never met in person but we had Zoomed, of course, talked on the phone, texted, emailed.  We had broken down to each other about various tribulations, we had both cried to each other (more than once on both sides), we had made each other laugh, we had made time and space for each other.  I suppose there are only so many times the scales can flip. Recently, during a rather bleak-seeming moment for me, I expressed stagnancy and struggle via disjointed email.  This was “too much.”  This was “not healthy.”  This was “not working anymore.” 

The thing is, I expect a lot out of my friendships.  And that might not always be fair.  But a friendship isn’t about what’s convenient.  It isn’t always about matching the other person’s energy.  It’s about listening and being there, and if you’re not going to be there, you’re not a friend.

My husband and I went to Palm Springs last week, which, oddly enough, was where I had been a year ago right before I started my newsletter. During our trip, I breezed through Binary Star by Sarah Gerard.  I'm a longtime Sarah Gerard fan, a diehard lover of her writing, and this book, her first, was no different.  I like to describe it as a “fever dream of motel hell and space-time,” a book that breaks all the rules, a book that defies the notion that a protagonist must be redeeming, that the arc goes here and climax there.  It’s a book that is “too much,” a book I love for it’s too much-ness.

I am nothing but a shadow one thousand miles away.  I am nothing but light’s interruption of matter.- Binary Star

I recall that the last time I was in Palm Springs, I was also reading Sarah Gerard.  I had brought her newly released novel True Love with me on my solo trip and had inhaled it while spending my afternoons reading at the pool.  True Love, essentially an exploration of relationships that are “too much,” was a book I valued for its darkness, its ugliness, its brutally honest portrayal of love.  I admire Sarah Gerard as a writer (and person) because she writes the hard things; she writes books the way she wants to write them. 

A trance is an ‘inwardly directed, selectively focused attention.’  It’s a story in which you become so absorbed you can’t see anything else.- True Love

I see my friendships, my relationships, as trances. I don’t judge my friends for saying the hard things.  I am so focused and honed in on the love that all I want to do is be there for them, to let them be as they are, to arrive at whatever moment they are arriving at in whatever way they see fit.  It’s hard when you care about someone and they are upset with you.  It’s difficult to know if you are really wrong, if you are truly burdening them, or if it’s friendship that simply didn’t end up reciprocating, leaving you high and dry.  

I mean, do we ask the books to quiet down?  Do I wish that the author had written a sweet little book that I can look to for peace?  Or do I want the book to ruffle feathers, to be a showcase of pain and humanity and truth?

A piece I had written a few months ago, "It Looked Like Love,” was published, a piece I modeled after Sarah Gerard’s BFF. I sent the piece to Sarah, thanking her for the inspiration, and of the work she said, “it feels so close.”  A compliment that shot my soul soaring into space, but also a resounding truth for what I hope my writing to be, what I hope the friendship I have to offer is—closeness. 

My therapist asks me what I seek from my relationships, what it is I’m looking for when I send a text or make a call to a friend.  I tell her first, (and honestly it’s hard to admit), “validation.”  She nods on the other end of our Zoom chat.  Then I say, “deep, meaningful conversation.  But also, fun, laughter, joy.”  I think some more as she jots down notes and I take a big breath, “belonging.”  Her eyes widen like I’ve hit the nail on the head.  I’m looking to belong.

I am tired of feeling like too much, like there’s no space for me at the metaphorical table.  It doesn’t feel good and it leaves me in chaos.  And we all need therapy.  We all have problems that we infinitely burden on other people, that we burden ourselves with—that’s life.  I feel the pain of all this in my chest, and right now, it really freaking hurts.

I call my best friend who lives in DC.  I only see her about once a year now, but she’s still my very best friend.  I tell her what happened and she asks if I want to FaceTime with her three-month old baby, that he’s just woken up from a nap and maybe it’ll help lift my mood.  I take a screenshot while he smiles at me, milk drunk and happy, full of life and love and joy.

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Happy one-year anniversary to my Substack!  If you’re enjoying, tell a friend, repost, you know the deal :)

Check out my NPR debut on Gulf Coast Life Book Club for WGCU with Cary Barbor.

I also did an interview for The Desk Set about Race, Place, and Coming of Age with Britta Barrett.

Also, also, I did a podcast interview for Debutiful with the inimitable Adam Vitcavage.

I’ll be doing a one-day workshop for HerStry this fall (Saturday, November 13th)!! Peep the description and info to register.