On Surviving
We can do more
If you find yourself opening this newsletter whenever you receive it, and enjoy it, please consider becoming a paying subscriber. You will reduce the amount of interest on my school loans by doing so.
The world is a mess and has always been a mess.
Sometimes I wonder if the collective, meaning the entirety of humanity, is in a trauma loop. Everything threatens us now, and everything has always threatened us, according to history. This is true for most humans. There is always a threat, and we choose (or don’t choose) how to cope with the threat (or threats).
I moved to Tallahassee a week ago to begin my PhD in creative writing at Florida State. I’ve moved so many times in my life that I wouldn’t be able to count them for you. I’ve moved since I was a little child living with my single mom. This move was the worst one, it felt like. Even worse than coming to the U.S. from Europe in March 2020? Maybe not that bad.
Last Wednesday morning I woke up at 4am so I could pack the rest of my things and take them to the curb, plus throw out any trash or recycling left in my place. I’d stayed up till midnight the night before, and it felt like I’d been packing nonstop, mailing things and giving things away and selling things, all while trying to work and trying not to re-injure my back. I am now twelve weeks out from spinal surgery.
In the past, I barreled through my moves. I’ve always been a physically strong person, and I used this to my advantage. I carried the heaviest things and speedily unpacked and repacked boxes. This time, I was much more limited in what I could physically handle. Even going through boxes of old papers required a level of bending at the waist I’d never before noticed.
I woke up at 4am, and my 10:30am, I wasn’t finished. My room was a mess. I didn’t have the strength left to carry my bags and boxes to the curb. My flight was in three hours. My cat needed to be sedated. My apartment was sweltering because I’d sold my air conditioner. My friend, who had said she would come pick up a bunch of books and sell them, hadn’t shown. Ditto for the neighbor who said they wanted my bed frame.
I had to go.
So I went.
The apartment was at least mostly clean, and my things were, at least, in bags and boxes rather than scattered around. I sedated my cat and she yowled as I gently deposited her into her carrier. I called an Uber. I lugged my overpacked and heavy suitcases down the stairs, praying I didn’t hurt myself.
I closed the front door. I locked it. I put my keys through the slot. I said goodbye.
I didn’t do it right; the move. I could have done it so much differently. I could have asked for help. I could have taken this, and left that. I could have hired someone to help. I could have started sending things a month earlier, when I had my car.
I didn’t do it right, and that has to be okay.
My landlord’s daughter texted me while I waited for my connection in Charlotte, NC. I’d just sedated Edna for the second time. I apologized profusely and explained my situation. I’d moved out early, giving them several days before the next tenants moved in. I’d done my best. I returned the deposit. Still, she texted me, telling me I should be ashamed of myself.
I was filled with shame. Then I thought about her, and how she had treated me since I’d moved in. My shame dissipated.
I thought of how I would handle things, if a good tenant, who always paid rent on time, and found a new tenant for them, and promptly returned the deposit, told me that they had done their best. How would I treat them, knowing they’d had surgery a few months ago? I would have been kind.
I let go of my shame. I breathed it out in the airport, sitting with my sedated cat. I breathed it out, letting my exhaustion settle in.
I did my best.
And that’s what we can do.
The world is a mess and has always been a mess.
Sometimes I wonder if the collective, meaning the entirety of humanity, is in a trauma loop.
I know what a trauma loop feels like, and I know how to catch one end of the loop, open my mouth, and swallow the entire thing. I used to try to purge my trauma, my pain, my shame. But now I eat it. I breathe it and metabolize it. I don’t need to make anybody my enemy. I don’t need to make myself anybody’s enemy.
I breathe, and I feel, and when I feel, it hurts. But when I feel, the pain processes and changes shape and then, somehow, it is gone forever.
Sometimes I wonder if the collective, meaning the entirety of humanity, has forgotten how to feel. Instead, we look for things that will help us not feel, and we think those things will make our feelings go away. We do that forever.
When we do that, we can’t really see ourselves, or each other, because we’re too scared of feeling our feelings.
Is it really that simple?
I don’t know.
Here’s what I know right now: I am doing my best. It’s not the best. It’s flawed. I can’t give any more than I am giving. I must pause and take care of myself. I must pause and feel the feelings.
Even when I have to prioritize my material needs above feeling my feelings, I can acknowledge it, and come back later. I must not let myself forget: there are stories and sensations that need unearthing, and I must be the one to unearth them, because if I don’t do it consciously, they will unearth themselves in invisible, harmful ways.
I am happy to be in Florida. I never thought I’d live in Florida, but here I am. I have a book revision to finish, and I will do my best trying to get it in on time. I keep doing my best. That’s all I can do.
Stuff:
Fools Crow by James Welch is a beautiful novel, and I am only halfway through it. The audiobook accompanies me on my morning walks.
My friend Jess Poli made this playlist for me, and I love it.
The Rehearsal is bizarre in a really good way.
This story fell into my lap, and it’s very moving.
“Leave it up to the states,” you say? Well, okay then, fuckers.