I used to -- in a very fist-pounding way -- insist that Adam was my only love, that no one else ever touched my heart the way he did, and does. But I have to admit that while he's the one I married and the one who has most wholly accepted me for who and what I am, he is not the only person I think of with love.
I'm finding that it's better to open and accept than to slap away and reject out of hand, from anger. There is room for everyone, for everything.
Love falls atop itself. It builds a base, a structure. It comes over time. It strengthens. It teaches. It expands. It grows angry and resolves. It simply is.
couldn’t tell if she was going to hug me or not. There was that awkward moment,
the move forward, and then she smiled and stepped back. Had I given off that don’t-touch-me vibe? I hadn’t meant to,
but sometimes that didn’t matter. Sometimes your skin does the talking for you.
It puts off the vibes that your mouth can’t find the words to express.
What the fuck
happened the other night? What happened?
once read a book by Stephen King where he talked about calling the mind police
and having a particular thought led away in handcuffs. I didn’t feel capable of
getting in touch with Mental 911, though. Whether it was because I was too weak
or too strong, though, I couldn’t have told you.
Starting the morning on Park Street. I haven't done this in more than a decade, since Adam lived here before we moved in together. He worked the early shift then, which meant getting up before dawn and trundling down to Ole's Waffle House, parking on the side streets to avoid sweeping tickets.
The Kerry House bar where he bought and finished my drinks, then a bench outside a gift shop. The shop was called Surprise! and sure enough it was. He paced back and forth before it happened. "I can't help it," he said. "The energy."
I told him to come sit next to me. He kissed me so hard my lips ached.
If you told me we'd wind up married with a child and two crazy dogs, I'd say yes. God, yes.
My Washington Post article is up to 531 comments. While I have spared myself the wrath of the great majority, one glance at them tells me that I am:
- The worst type of product of my generation
- Headed for divorce
- A feminazi
- Typical Berkeley (yes, that's it for sure)
- A lesbian (like that's an insult?)
I've bounced back and forth as to how to handle this. I've been angry. I've been meditative. I've wanted to crawl under the covers and shake. But more than anything, I just feel brutalized.
I can take criticism. Sort of. But this ... this is something entirely different. Someone tweeted that they feel sorry for my son for having me as a mother. That is entirely too fucking far.
I've got some words for you, trolls: crawl out of your mother's basement and show your own fucking face. Write your own shit and get it published in a major outlet. Then have the nerve to come to me and tell me who I am.
I was just telling Adam that the way I'm dealing with this crazy comments thing is to think of it in a very Buddhist way (cue eye rolls, but bear with me). My worst cruelties have come from my own pain. I have to assume the same of the people who are commenting. Kindness is the way.
I have an essay in the Washington Post today. Some people liked it. Many others didn't. The only thing I can say, think or feel is that I got people talking, and that I reached people. That's pretty much what I take away from this.
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.