Spring is never a good time for me. The week after Daylight Savings, mid-March, insomnia hits. I always forget this trend but, now, Facebook reminds me. Day four of no sleep and time hop pings me with a post from that same day in 2007: “Sleep deprivation will kill me.” March, the long days, had me aching for early February, for the season’s last snow.
My insomnia was further aggravated this year by the fact that it rained for a month straight and then, days after springing forward, we had a painfully sunny day. I hid under my desk that afternoon. I had to take deep breaths.
Spring has never been kind to me but this spring has been all right. I think the rain helps. The news says this has been the coldest, wettest winter on record in Seattle and the cloud cover has pushed deep into April. It’s a relief. It’s a dream. Why am I so lucky that with every place I live it’s hard to fathom that it’s my home because of its beauty? That I live here. Here. I’ve been lucky with everywhere, this silly blog is a testament to that.
I live in a place where five minutes on foot leads me to a forest. And in that forest are tree houses, and huts made of twigs and branches and logs so that I can crawl over rivers, and platforms in the highest trees. It took me three months to find these forest gem. Three months to see past the mossy evergreens and rain and hail and all the lush green.
I live three hours from Forks, WA. Fourteen-year-old me would be so amused. And, now, naturally, whenever I have visitors a trip up the peninsula is essential. Less for Forks and more for the Hoh Rainforest, for La Push, and Ruby Beach. I’m admittedly going through something of a fangirl resurgence–triggered surely from a personal event that I can’t go into, triggered inevitably from my basically living on the border of the Olympic National Peninsula, triggered probably from meeting new friends who are loud and unashamed in their past fangirl ways. It’s refreshing. And it feels good to embrace nostalgia, to laugh at the passion of younger me but also seriously acknowledge the impact that events and friendships in conjecture to Twilight had on me. I’d be a fool not to be grateful.
The best of news: I’m moving my dog up from California to live with me in June. A three-day drive with my baby. Living with my beloved. I’ll believe it when she’s here, or maybe when we’re on the road, but oh my heart. It’s been a hard few months in terms of health and pain levels, so I’m holding onto this truth with the tightest grip: my dog with me always.
I keep thinking about what I want to do with this space. My blog. I’ve gone through and privatized a bunch of old posts–those that felt too revealing, those in which I showed my teenage naivety, or were simply too painful to read. There are still many vulnerable ramblings public, though I could argue that every last post is just that, including this: exposed, transparent. Where’s my privacy? I’ve been here, open and loud and clear, for so long that I don’t know how to set new boundaries. Since the beginning, I questioned my having a blog on a yearly basis, often shutting it down for months or years at a time, and lately, more and more, I lean toward replacing it with an “updates” page that will offer more book related updates. ~Professional~ Ha? Finally? Maybe. We’ll see.
Hi. I moved. I mentioned I was moving, right? Only an hour south but that hour south has made all the difference. My backyard is a forest, and that forest has trails that lead to a beach or lead to more trees. It’s quiet. It’s so quiet, and it rains ever so slightly more. A hush exists. Strangers smile. My neighbor offered me an ice pack when I fell down my spiral stairs, when she heard my thuds and cry, and that was the strangest warmth. And, oh, driving home means taking the 101 north, and life is always something special when home entails the 101 north (hi, Humboldt). And from the 101, my exit is dark. I have to use my brights and squint and drive real slow as I weave through trees, it’s something like a maze that I learned within a day but it feels safe, protected, beautiful. And yes, I’m so dramatic, but when I enjoy the immediate commute to and from home, I know I’m lucky. This element reminds me of Colorado Springs, when I took the long way home through Garden of the Gods; when I lived in Chipita Park, curving up the mountain pass about Manitou every day. It was a balm. After the exhaustive six months in Renton, to have my home be a balm feels so strange and lovely.
But, oh my, February was weird. Is February ever not weird? A rapid attempt of settling, of organizing, of finding a new work rhythm–all cut off by a quick trip to Utah. And then, the last full week, last week, an utter slam: strep throat, hip woes, falling down my stairs, my Mini (finally) breaking down, and a stomach bug. Last week nearly did me in. But I saw my family this month, I fell more in love with where I live, I saw a concept for Nothing Left to Burn’s book cover (!!!!), and–on many days when it felt improbable–I got myself up from the floor. I want to better focus on the good. I have a home, a workspace, a forest, health and support. And while, yes, simultaneously I feel like I’m in the thick of something–life heavy in ways that are both private and hard to articulate–it’s okay. The future of my life in Olympia isn’t stable when I so desperately want it to be. I’m living month to month, living on hope and dumb luck. And that’s fine. It’s only temporary. And I’m here now.
I am lucky. So I’ll hope and push for that luck to continue.
What I’m working on in March: the next round of NLTB edits, a meaty freelance project (I hope!), two proposals and WIP drafting, lovely Indiana visitors, the onslaught of longer days that March always thrusts onto me (I take it personally), and the continued intention of taking care of myself before anything else.
I hope you find your way outside this month. I’ll be right here.
Things are strange and wonky and as I enter the new year and try to lift up from the last six months, I need to remember the ways in which 2016 was kind–
So, the good that happened in 2016, accompanied by photos from November and December:
I started blogging again. I switched my domain back to heatherezell.com–coming out hiding–making a blog that goes back to my 2008 tangents public. Perhaps a silly, horrifying choice but hey. Here I am. Thank you for reading. Go back and see how I was at seventeen if you so desire.
Nothing Left to Burn was acquired by Razorbill at Penguin Random House. After ten years of work and trial and rejections, my lifelong dream came true, is coming true.
I finished another graduate semester at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. I knew it’d be my last semester at the start of it, but I went in strong and finished strong. Thanks UAF (and Fairbanks) for the strange and exhilarating and painful and glorious experiences.
I taught a course of my own design: Academic Writing About Literature: Growing Up During the Apocalypse–a study of YA trauma and resilience. This course, aside from the book deal, was the highlight of my spring, and perhaps the whole year. It reaffirmed my absolute love of teaching. I worked with incredible students who challenged me and inspired me and I think I challenged them, too. I miss teaching in a classroom. I miss my students.
Finally, finally, after a decade of floundering, I was diagnosed that led to proper treatment, the right medication, and feeling hope, clarity, and safety in my mind. Bipolar II and PTSD. It still feels strange to accept those diagnoses, to work with these tools of labels. But I am working, trying–with a psychiatrist, with a therapist–I’m working to find some level of calm.
The Rumpus (one of my longtime beloved online journals) published my personal essay on my above mentioned lifelong struggle with mental illness, and particularly the two years leading up to my being diagnosed bipolar II. I’m rather proud of the essay. I wrote the first draft when I was hitting rock bottom in Alaska and was finally acknowledging that I needed help. You can read it here.
In May, I drove from Fairbanks, Alaska to Trabuco Canyon, California in a packed to the brim Mini Cooper. Down the Alaska Highway–through the enchanting Yukon and the outrageously beautiful British Columbia.
All the snow the fell in 2016 was a balm, in both Alaska and Washington. The rain, too.
From June to August, I drafted an entirely new book. This was and is a Big Deal. While I occasionally wrote short stories and creative essays (all for school), I’d been solely revising and rewriting Nothing Left to Burn since… 2011 (with some one or two year long breaks). I often regret not drafting other books–my tunnel vision, my obsession, my losing the sense of flowing into a first draft. But NLTB revisions and rewrites were all I could mentally manage with my time, with my frequent moves, with my completing my undergrad in two absurd years. So, last spring, last spring when I drafted a new novel, it was an absolute release.
And that new book: I’m proud of it, now working on further developing it, making a revision plan. It is a challenging and weird and sometimes painful book, and I don’t know if it’ll be the “next” book or if it’ll ever sell but I’m in love and proud.
Oh, and in 2016, I finally learned to outline. In December, when I took a break from my NLTB revision, I started a blueprint for an Alaska-set novel and ahhhhh! That’s all I will say.
Pitch Wars! I mentored in Pitch Wars and it was both rewarding and fun. It reminded me of passion for teaching, mentorship, editing, and working on projects outside my own. And I made new friends and have had the pleasure of watching them gain success and growth as authors.
And following that, in late November, I was hired as an author coach at Author Accelerator. I am utterly thrilled and may have cried when I learned I was joining the team.
In September, I came out. Hi, I’m bisexual. This was something I denied and ignored and refused to accept as a teen. And something I dismissed during undergrad, telling myself that it didn’t matter, I was taking those years to be solo and learn how to depend only on me, why make a fuss, etc. And something, over the last two years, desperately wanted to acknowledge and not keep hidden but didn’t know if I could and should, as it still often felt it was irrelevant because of my being in a relationship with a male. But it does matter. It was painful to keep that part of me hush. I let it impact my writing, my characters. I let it impact my identity, myself. It was damaging to lie and say I was straight. And it felt and feels so good to be out and honest with who I am, my whole self.
I moved to Washington State–something I’ve been attempting and planning and getting distracted from doing (hey Colorado, how are you?) for YEARS. And while I’m moving out of the Seattle area next week (goodbye city life, hello quieter and cheaper and closer to forest trails land), I’m so so so happy that I pushed to move the PNW.
All of the wonderful moments with pup, Bellatrix, and the glimmer of hope of moving her up to Washington to live with me. My previous blog goes a tad too into that but, my gosh, as she gets older, our bond only deepens.
I took risks. I quit jobs that were damaging to my physical and mental health. I chose to pursue freelance and editing (interested? email!) and tutoring, and–while I’ll probably have to supplement with some out of the house part-time work soon–it finally feels like I’m on the right track work wise. My health is far more stable. Retail schedules will never be a good choice for me.
I finished my first for-publication revision and signed my Penguin Random House contract and received my first paycheck as an author. It was strange. It is strange. It is exhilarating.
When I was at the lowest of lows, I asked for help–more than once. I aggressively pursued recovery for things I’ve refused to acknowledge for since I was teen. In 2016, I started taking care of my whole self. I also learned to take days off, to accept down days, to take longer baths, and not hate myself for relaxing. What a concept.
I spent weeks with my family and strengthened those relationships and didn’t go crazy for the two months my boyfriend and I spent living in my parents’ house (!).
And so much more. But these were the highlights, the moments and events that stick out in warmest ways. And I have hope and optimism and thrilling intentions for 2017. It’ll be okay.
Wishing you warmth.
I was asked what I’d wish I’d known before my black lab entered my life. She arrived only three months old in August 2007. I was fifteen and now I’m twenty-five. Easy math: she’ll be turning ten this spring.
The number one thing I wish I’d known: how fast ten years can pass.
This question is surprisingly emotional. Only a few logistics and dangers come to mind, the puppy proofing, the big dog proofing, the mistakes: those matter so little. My family has always been rather lax with rules, since my childhood Golden Retriever–a dog that fled the house whenever the door opened and was fed donuts daily by constructor workers. We’re admittedly not the best with the training–easily swayed by our dogs’ happiness; those moments of glee win over rules. We are a dog trainer’s nightmare.
Of course there are safety things I wish my family had known: the danger of ocean waves; her allure to anything edible, including dog-treat-like pain killers (she survived an entire bottle–it’s still a mystery how she got into the high cabinet); how she won’t simply chew a bone but eat it down to its marrow, making herself sick.
But what has been most surprising, most important, is my black lab’s impact on my life.
The timing of this question–what I wish I’d known–is spot on. Once again, I’m separated from my beloved Bellatrix. She’s in California, at my parents’ house, and I’m in Washington state. My biggest want is to spend her final years with her, which is implausible and selfish. We also have a relaxed Bichon Schitzu mut in our home, one year her elder. Leonardo will surely outlive Bella. And they’re pals, despite their different temperaments. What would I be doing to these dogs if I separated them, if I took Bella from the house–a house that is large, open, with a yard that looks out to valleys, mountains, a national forest? The home she knows.
I’m convinced she won’t mind too long: I’m her mom, I take her on hikes, I give her constant love. But this isn’t the topic of this post–my desperation for more time with her–so I’ll save that tangent for another time.
Regardless, thank you Puppy Spot for asking me to participate in this gathering of blogs dedicated to pup times, for initiating my reflection.
NOTE: this is not a paid sponsored post but rather an eager YES I want to contribute volunteer post. I’m not being paid to give a shout out to Puppy Spot but rather wring this blog because I (obviously) love to talk about my dog and I appreciate what Puppy Spot offers. If you would like to discover a new loved one, check out their available puppies, and read up on their fabulous (and important) No Puppy Mill Promise.
Excuse me as I will absolutely get sentimential.
///what I didn’t know when Bella(trix), my black lab, arrived.
Hide the macadamia nuts. When Bella snags a newly opened bottle from the cupboard and devours it, she’ll lose control of her back legs. Your parents will think she’s paralyzed, dying, and will carry her down the stairs using a towel. She’s unable to stand, to sit, to move, to respond. Your parents won’t call you until they find the destroyed macadamia nut container and turn to Google, when the vet deems her okay. You will cry regardless.
In her early days, she will help you recover from anorexia. When she is still being kenneled at night, you will hear her crying as you cry and bring her to your bed. She will nuzzle you to sleep. She will calm you, give you the love you don’t think you deserve. In her early and mid and later days, she will be the force that pulls you out of the dark. A reason to keep trying, move forward.
She will maybe save your life in so many damn subtle and large ways.
One day, when you’re on a walk–she’s one, maybe two–two dogs on extending leashes will bound to her. She’s on your leash and you’ve trained her well on walks. She stays by your side. But the other dogs, fully grown, fast and thrilled, they will jump onto Bella before you can pull her away. She’s already shy. The dogs will hump her, try to play. Bella will whine, whimper, let out a howl, and try to escape, claw to you. You will sob as you try to end it. The owners of the other dogs will laugh it off, apologize, ignore your eyes. You calm Bella down, nuzzle her face, and let the moment pass. Continue the walk. Shake it off.
From that walk on, the only other dog Bella will trust is Leonardo–the shitzu mix she shares a home with. At dog parks and beaches, she keeps her distance. She will always prefer humans. When other dogs enter the house, she’s not aggressive (she will never be aggressive) but dubious, timid, sad–keeping a distance, only stepping in when she feels small Leo is at risk.
This one is hard for you to admit: technically Bella was a birthday gift to your brother and is not technically your dog but his or at the very least the family’s dog. (Shhhhh.) Even at age twenty-five, you will generally refuse to accept this as fact.
Because when you’re home, you and Bella spend every moment together–her following you like a shadow–she will pick up pieces of your personality. Or maybe you will pick up pieces of hers. Your family and friend are dubious about what came from who. You both share an affinity for hanging out on the floor (okay, she often chooses the couch but still), bouts of hyperness followed by exhaustion, you don’t like being left alone but rather be near the chaos to observe from afar, your shy around crowds of new people, both empathetic to a fault and cry too easily, introverts who crave attention and give too much love. You both press your face against the faces of those you love. And, fine, are both a wee bit bratty and entitled when it comes to best sitting spot in the house.
When your younger brother and dad innocently, playfully, toss her into the pool as a puppy, they ruin her the possibility of her every willingly swimming in it again. You will spend years trying to lure her out with treats and patience. She won’t go past the second step.
But days where the temperature peaks past 95 degrees, you’ll look out a window and see her–your pool-fearing dog–relaxing on the top step of the pool. And occasionally, randomly, she’ll prance inside with her belly and legs soaked wet.
Because of your tendency to press your face into her face, she will attempt to do this with every other family member and frequent house visitor. And if someone is sitting on the floor, or really sitting anywhere, she will try to cuddle real close. You will be blamed and you will not care.
As soon as you pull out a suitcase, her mood will plummet. She will nestle in a corner, on a bed or your folded pile of to-be-packed clothes, and stare at you with the saddest eyes. She knows what it means.
She will do anything and everything to obtain food. She will steal an apple from the fruit bowl and raw steak out of the sink. She will find the boxes of expensive holiday toffee in the closet and eat every last piece. Chocolate does not make her sick. It’s a mystery–how she snags food your family now ensures to hide, put up, put away.
Your dad admittedly offers her his breakfast plate for her to lick clean. This will drive you crazy. But after her weeklong stay at the animal clinic after a surgery, when the vet happily proclaims he gave her a McDonald’s egg sandwich every morning, you will be annoyed and amused and you father will be vindicated.
Her guilt is palpable. Especially after food stealing. She will hide, duck her face, hurry outside. She’ll watch your face from afar, your energy, waiting for the punishment to end.
When you return home–because after your first year and half together, you develop an addiction to sporadic moving–she will tackle you and love-nip your face and cry whimper joy. You will live for these moments.
After you have a surgery, or when your simply very sick, she will know. She will be tentative around you, removed from her normal eagerness. She won’t hop onto you bed but wait for your beckoning. She will lick your face so carefully, nudge her head against your chest. She knows. And when you’re having an episode, when you’re in absolute distress, sobbing, unable to breathe, she can be in another part of the house, outside even, and know this too. She’ll find you. Sit with you. Wait it out. Let you sob into her belly.
After you free her from her kennel mid-night when she is still a puppy, she won’t go near that kennel again. When it’s brought into the house, she will stay several feet away, watch it carefully. She will only go inside when you crawl in too and with a treat.
When you are away–in Colorado Springs or Berkeley or Humboldt County or Alaska, at college, an extended vacation, a random move–your heart will break every day because of how much you miss her. You will become a crazy dog lady. Have you ever missed anyone like this? You will pester your mom for photos and videos and you will sob. Knowing you’ll see Bella again will be your calm.
The ocean is not Bella’s friend. When she is brought to the dog beach a fourth time, she will be infatuated with the waves. She will walk out too deep. She is seven years old and her hips and knees are already weakened, damaged even, from a puppyhood of “dog dancing” (we were young and dumb–me and my siblings) and her jumping near back flips for food and simply being alive–and, at that beach, a series of strong waves will slam her, drag her backside to the sand. You will see a video of the exact moment and your stomach will sink. Her legs under her, her hip yanked to the side. After, she doesn’t care that she’s in pain. That she’s injured. She continues her ocean dance and beach frolicking. She will come home with a limp and bounce around the house, still gleeful. You will try to tell yourself it’s okay.
Three months later, you will demand a vet visit despite the cost. Her limp is worse and she’s developed a tremor. The vet first thinks it might be cancer and your heart shatters. But, ultimately, you learn she has torn ligaments, a faulty joint, other horrifying terms. She needs an intensive surgery. Metal in her knees, her hips. She might not survive. Your heart breaks again. You’re told she’ll probably need a second one on her other back leg in a few years. This expensive surgery. This pain.
She has the surgery. She heals. Her nights spent away from the house, at the hospital, are too quiet. As soon as she is brought home, she fights the concept of not walking on her own, not running. Using a sling, you will help her outside to use the bathroom. She will whine like there’s nothing worse in the world when she’s confined to a small room so she doesn’t hurt herself. She will heal. Two months later, you’re walking with her, running with her through the hills and valleys that make your home. Two years later, you’ll notice an occasional small limp and wonder. You and your family are mindful, watching closely.
But you’ll always resent the ocean.
One day, you will write a blog post dedicated to her, and you will cry as you type and gather photos. You are as dramatic as her.
She will become a spoiled queen. Your family can’t resist. Since your first dog, pups have been allowed on beds and couches. And Bella is the worst–believing she’s entitled to sofa space and pillows, and perhaps you enable this by your preference for the floor below her.
When you realize she is nine years old and has outlived your childhood dog, you will start reconciling her limited time. You will consider the span of her life. Of what she has given, taught. You will make plans for her time ahead. You will cry and then get up and remember there is still time.
At some point, you will consider her a part of you. She has developed you, taught you how to grow from a broken teenager to who you are now. This black lab that you initially avoided. Every day away from her hurts. She is your baby. Your patronus, a bone, your best friend–the only one who understands you so completely. She has seen you at your very worst. She has watched you self destruct. She has watched you love. She has taught you how to love.
You never expected her to teach you how to love yourself.
///the history of her arrival, because (DUN DUN DUN) I initially resented Bella’s presence in my home (childhood dog dies, cat appears, bella arrives, anorexia relapse, cat disappears, anorexia recovery, letting bellatrix in) .
In April 2007, when I was fifteen, my childhood Golden Retriever died. It was unexpected. We’d found a tumor two weeks earlier and the vet removed it. His surgery went well and he was at doggy recovery daycare. That’s what we knew. Our family dog, only seven years old, was going to live and was recovering well.
We weren’t alerted when his stitches opened up, when they put him back on the table to fix it. We weren’t asked permission for his going back under anesthesia. My mom received a call on our way to pick him up and take him home: our dog was dying, our dog was on life support. Dying. Dead. The anesthesia had been too much too soon. Should they keep him on the breathing tube and wait for us to come say goodbye?
My family–my dad, me and my mom, my older sister–found our way to the vet hospital. I think my younger sister and brother were there too. No. My young brother was at science camp. He’d come home days later to learn his dog was dead. We surrounded the table. My giant lion, my hero was barely there, if at all. His breathing artificial. A pump. In and out, in and out. I don’t remember much. I remember the sobbing. All of us crying. I remember the vet offering to refund the surgery, offering a free cremation and memory box. All on the house. I remember my dad crying over a bitter chuckle of a no shit.
I was fifteen. I was in an emotionally abusive long distance relationship. I was trying to self-recover from an eating disorder. That dog had been my life support when I was on bedrest because of health issues as a child and a preteen–when I relied on writing fan-fiction and him at my side, in bed with me, to keep me company. His death was a shock I couldn’t digest.
But that same night, on a phone call with my boyfriend, walking walking walking because my dog had just died, walking sobbing walking seeking comfort from a nineteen-year-old boy who couldn’t provide it, a tiny cat jumped out of the bushes. My childhood home is across the street from a national forest. Cats disappear all the time. Cats shouldn’t wander the hills. And that cat, actually a kitten, was skinny, bony, purring as she followed me home down the hill.
My boyfriend said not to touch her and I maybe said fuck you.
I brought the kitten inside, posted lost cat signs, and ultimately named her Shadow. She behaved like a dog. Needy, loving, sensing my mood swings. She slept in my bed and purred relentlessly. I didn’t care that I have a slight cat allergy. I was convinced my Golden Retriever had sent her to me. It was all too connected–her arriving the night he died.
And then that August, when I returned from a trip in Colorado, a new puppy was in the house. She was a Black Labrador and I resented her. It was too soon for another Retriever and this black lab liked to chase my kitten around the house, out of the house, chase her outside where cougars and mountain lions roam free. My brother had named the dog Bella and I resented this too. Twilight was all the rage and Bella has always been a common dog name.
I relapsed hard in the months that followed. Anorexia. My boyfriend started using heroin. My parents announced a separation. I left high school and worked a morning shift at a grocery store thirty minutes west that required a 4 a.m. alarm. I was now sixteen. My cat no longer stayed in my room at night but roamed free in the evenings until the early mornings. I loved her but I was cold, couldn’t love, didn’t want love, only wanted to empty out. She spent the nights outside, and Bella slept in a kennel. As I ate my dry toast before work, Shadow would paw at the back door. It was a morning ritual–me letting her in, me heading to work, me dropping a pound a day.
Why didn’t I keep her inside? I knew cats couldn’t survive outside.
The morning Shadow didn’t paw and purr at the back French door, I stared at the glass. I threw my toast in the sink. I ignored Bella’s whines from the kennel in the garage and drove to work. I never saw Shadow again. I lost thirty-six pounds that same month.
I don’t remember my interaction with Bella in the months that followed. I was skittish, absorbed in my eating disorder. I spent all my time at home in my room, the door locked. I don’t remember much in general. On New Years, I told my boyfriend we both needed to work on ourselves, goodbye for now. I visited my sister in Spain for two weeks and lost more weight. I ate too much guacamole at my family’s Super Bowl party and made myself sick. Why don’t I remember my interactions with Bella? She was a doll of a puppy. She was there. Did I hold her? Did I walk her? I must have. I went on a lot of walks.
That March, I went to treatment for anorexia. I started healing. My parents had ended their separation in December, and my family was healing too. But I was sixteen and it was spring, I was wounded, and too fast, I was out of treatment. Without its support, I was alone. I spent my night’s sobbing in my bed and–because my room was directly over the garage–hearing Bella’s cries from her kennel. I ached. I’d been turned inside out. I missed my childhood dog. The forty-five pounds I’d lost were halfway back and my writing was stalled. Bella’s nightly crying spiraled up through my carpet as I cried.
But finally, one spring night, I left my bedroom and went to the garage. I opened the kennel and cried into Bella’s face. She licked me, nuzzled me. Together, quietly, we treaded upstairs to my bedroom and curled into each other in my bed. She pressed her nose into my cheek and I sobbed. She slept in my bed from that night on. And when insomnia hit, we went on sunrise walks. I held her. She was my baby, my best friend, my therapy, my light. I renamed her Bellatrix.
When she first arrived in August 2007, I was too hurt, on the cusp of relapse, of my life turning in out itself. I didn’t feel deserving of love. I didn’t want a dog to make me feel better, feel warm, beloved. I didn’t want a dog to stay alive for–that dog, my golden, had so recently died. But when I let Bellatrix into my life, when I brought her up to my room, my recovery took a pivotal turn. I healed.
And she reminds me why I stay proactive with my mental health to this day, and she will continue to in memory when her time ends. I’ll say it again and again: I never thought a dog would teach me how to love myself, but that is exactly what Bella did. If I’d known sooner, I would have treasured her early puppy days, would have let her in right away.
This year. That spring. This summer. This fall. We all ache and are fighting and I don’t know what to say. The past week–it’s been similar to when my aunt died. I wake gutted, deep. It hits me every hour and I cry. I get through the day okay, I make it past sunset, only to collapse. Sometimes I don’t think I’ll be able to stand again.
But this is different from my aunt’s death. It’s take so much to reconcile that–how this is harder to move on from than a loved one’s passing. I knew she was going. She had fought and won for a decade. She was in a pain. I knew she was going to die months before, and I’d somehow left Alaska soon enough to say goodbye. And I knew my mom, my family, me–we’d heal, prevail, move on in small ways gradually.
But this. I didn’t expect this. We. New tragedies and damaging news hit every day. People are dying. And me, my family. We are privileged. We are white. While my personal financial situation is in shambles, my parents are well off and stable. I am educated and straight passing and have a safety net: I can return to my childhood home if necessary. But I’m also queer, have an invisible and chronic physical illness, bipolar, losing insurance in eight months, and a woman. And still, I am so so so safe in comparison to so many others.
My heart breaks more every day. I want to make it stop: what’s happening, what’s happened. I can’t begin to understand.
I don’t know how we’ll heal, how we’ll move on beyond raising our voices, refusing compliancy, fighting, making phone calls and writing letters, doing at least one thing each day to refuse to accept that this our new normal. The hate. I don’t know when we’ll get a reprieve, and that’s–that’s horrifying.
Too many have spoken far more eloquently, powerfully, bravely, inspirationally on this election than me. Too many are fighting stronger, louder. I have so much respect, so much love. I try to let those emotions overpower the fear and anger. I’m fighting too. I’m making plans. I’m listening. I’m trying. I am. And I’m tending to my heart. And I hope your tending yours too.
This is not to trivialize the events unfolding. This is not to say “it’ll all be okay”–I’m not sure this is a fact these days, at least for so many in this country. This is–this is my way of coping, of saying I love you.
Because I do: I write with love. I write hoping that whoever you are, you are okay. You are not alone.
And yet I don’t know what to say beyond sharing fragments and thoughts that are helping me get up each morning and do my work, take care of myself, keep hope, keep working. it warms me in the tiniest of bits and I hope it warms you, maybe, too.
my heat pad, pressed to my heart.
the puget sound rain, drizzle, relentless, secure.
wood burning in the fireplace, breaking the cold.
me finding calm in watching the flames.
my revision, the highest stakes deadline of my life.
receiving comfort from my editor, a dream come true
–it’s hard to wrap my head around a lifelong goal, dream,
coming to fruition in the admits of all this pain but it’s real–
I must focus on that.
i must allow myself to celebrate.
growing an orchard every day in my Forest app,
losing myself in the words.
cutting off my internet for hours at a time.
thank you Stay Focused, the silence, the silence.
i am wanting to fight, to be active,
but I must also respect the quiet.
the quiet strengthens me.
my new bookshelf:
my one splurge from the first third of my book advance.
imagining moving all of my other books still in California,
filling my apartment with a wall of books–
–and yet, all the while,
my wander lust/moving love kicking in, my ache for the outside.
can you believe I’m looking into moving again?
(yes, if you know me, yes you can).
reading in bed, snuggled warm
the gentle reminder that I’m not a city dweller.
looking at the olympic peninsula, san juan islands,
the coast, the mountains.
cheaper rent and possibilities.
room for my black lab to move to me for her final days–
my baby, my pup–does she even have two more years?
planning to celebrate her days,
her and me, in these wet forests, the mountains, and trees.
chicken and dumplings.
tacos filled with avocado and salsa and sour cream. that warmed tortilla.
mashed potatoes and roasted chicken. pork loins and sage gnocchi.
pizza. chocolate. endless chocolate. buttered toast with sea salt.
feeding myself, even without an appetite.
feeding myself because it’s no time to starve,
no time to self sabotage or relapse
to go into default habits.
it’s time to stay strong. rise up.
hot salt baths.
yoga by the fire.
the lack of beastly wildfires.
reminding myself that there’s no reason
to live in a city if the city isn’t offering you work
and if the city is more than you can afford
and, though you absolutely adore the particular city,
you much rather be lost somewhere you can walk outside and be outside
–the hope and dream of that.
every place I’ve lived has offered immediate access to outside, to quiet:
trabuco canyon, humboldt county,
colorado springs, chipita park, fairbanks.
not so much berkeley when I was seventeen,
but even berkeley had trees in which
i could get lost within walking distance from my studio.
renton–i love it’s proximity to seattle and montains and water–
but I feel severed. i need my open roads,
my immediate walks from home.
the hope of that in my near future: it helps.
i also don’t like the name renton.
books. thank you books.
what I’ve done lists instead of to do lists.
i went to the emergency room in late october,
or maybe mid-october.
my mind wasn’t right and i was scared
–it wasn’t okay,
though I said it was okay after the time.
i still wasn’t being honest.
after my last blog post, I was so far from honest.
leaving my job at b&n within a week of the er visit.
this soothes me: the bravery of that action.
i wasn’t being honest with myself before.
i sound so flakey, but I’m not. i’m not a quitter.
my therapist gave me a talking to and
I walked out of her office and made the call.
taking control of this short life.
hugging the man i love.
i am a fighter.
i have been fighting since the first grade.
i am loud and adamant.
when i get an idea, a dream, I work for it.
i’m stubborn. i don’t quit.
i find the paths that I need to make it work,
listening, learning, growing.
i’m a work in progress. i’m writing.
hearing, pausing. patience and love,
so much love. connection.
with myself, my heart,
with those I love and those I don’t know, with you.
knowing I’ll see my family soon, california, my dog.
showing up. doing the work, the tending.
rising up. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
I love you. take care of you.