Fat and Acid


It has been a long time since I’ve been in the house on my own to write this.  It is such a subtle thing, just a difference of degrees of actual isolation, but it makes worlds in my mind.  A belt unhinged, a knot loosened, a shoulder dropped.

I seem to have…broken through this  somehow.  Perhaps it was the tacos. I still feel worn, and my throat burns, and the skin of my lips puckered, but…I can breathe.

And as a result of having this sense, however short-lived it may be, of breath and energy, I went to my parents.  The insurance sign-up, as everyone should know, is 3 days away.  Unless it isn’t.  The rules seem to be different on every page of the site and they might even be different for you if this is something you out there are reckoning with.  But I need to take care of the fact that I don’t have health insurance.  I wasn’t necessarily going to ask them for money – mostly because it completely deflates and implodes my sense of self to do it and it freaks me out that I’m not just, okay, on my own.  I can handle my life if I just pretend the red flags are only maroon or crimson.  Going there, being handed a check for being alive along with two bags of groceries from their pantry, it is…the doughnut to be taken.  It’s just light coming out of the darkness, a window letting a cool breeze in, it’s just…take it.  Meanwhile, in my head, the mill churns that at this stage: people are having children, children are dying, foreign elements are diddling our elections, and life is just not all you were pressed into believing it might be as a girl.  So how about that?! Here you are getting paid for being alive while your parents stay home and watch the disquieting news and collect stamps (this is what makes them happiest).  Fraudulence and failure and yet…also, I guess, being loved?  I guess vulnerability?  I guess?

I also said again, I wanted to quit.  They did not hesitate to say you should quit.  It is odd to spend time in that space where I could leave and it would be okay, even if I don’t know how to get myself into a physical version of that…the mental one was nice.

I think what I want is to have this massive wine bottle conversation with someone and reach back into the sands of time and clutch this moment I’ve been hung on and loose the rope from the hook.  I want it to be validated.  I want it to be purged, whatever it is, and let go of.  My parents see me whimper and now, somehow, they say they can do this and this will improve your life.  And it will, it will, I just want to give a why.  I want to say thanks and have the full breadth of why I am thankful be understood.  Instead, I just accept the check and do the heroic act of driving to the bank some way I never go and put it in there.

This does mean, potentially, that I will get to go back to my therapist.  Maybe.  Maybe.  In a few months, anyway, when I can get into her rotation again. It also means I have to figure out how to make sure I have the money to keep it all going.  I just…

I will not be daunted!

I do feel better. I do feel hopeful.  For myself, if not for everyone and everything in the way that I’d like.  I know that I have promises to keep, choices to make,