So late. Not sorry.
Friends who pitch ideas with actual passion behind them. Friends that see the pain in not moving forward. Friends that push. Friends that dig down deep and say “here it is, the grossest part of me. look at how beautiful.” Friends who offer a better tag. Friends who offer criticism. Friends who high-five truly good ideas. Friends who encourage failure. Friends who see the merit in failure. Friends who encourage getting back up and trying again. Friends who throw you up for another chance and wait with their hands locked for that safe basket catch. Friends who aren’t embarrassed by or for you when you fall on your face, because that face plant is another new start. Friends who kick around that idea until it gets better. Friends who see when there’s no life to live left in that idea. Friends who see when their is so much life left in that idea and aren’t relenting until it breathes again. Friends who say “here is what i know about. how can it help you?” Friends who say “here is what i don’t know about. can you help?”
Can you help? Can I help?
Much like Gilda Catner, Ginevra Johnson is a saint. When we got her I was still living with my parents. I was working from home, so I was the one she was with the most. She very quickly became my dog. She listens to me in ways she doesn’t listen to anyone else. I have always let her out, if I can get away with it, without her collar for the fence. She doesn’t run. When I cry, she licks my tears. When I cry, she sits on my lap. She sleeps with me if I’m there. When I had my shoulder repaired a couple of years ago, she barely left my side. When I had my other shoulder repaired last year, she was devastated she couldn’t be in the room with me all of the time because Gilda was there. When I walk in the door she sits in my chair. She gets out of my chair, and then immediately gets back in my chair after I’ve sat in it. She’s ripped a dozen pairs of tights. She’s the best buddy I could ask for.
I’m not great at it. I’m fine at it. I can accomplish a few things. I know two whole stitches.
I’ve been trying to knit the same hat for over a week. I kept inadvertently knitting mobius strips. Even when I had knit rows and rows. Even when everything was going just fine, I’d suddenly have a calculus problem on my hands. Knitting had always been so calming, and here I was crying over how I barely passed Mr. Merrell’s class, because I never actually bought that TI-84. I’m not saying I was super smart. I’m only reminding you I passed that class without that fancy calculator.
I’d get 5 rows in. I’d have a math problem. I’d rip it out. The yarn would get stuck before it all unraveled, and I’d have to cut the yarn. I’d get 30 rows in. I’d have a math problem. I’d rip it out. The yarn would get stuck before it all unraveled, and I’d have to cut the yarn. I’d get 10 rows in. I’d have a math problem. I’d rip it out. The yarn would get stuck before it all unraveled, and I’d have to cut the yarn. This happened six times, before I bought new yarn. It still happened two more times. I stayed up until 1:30 last night finishing the hat. I hate the hat. But I did it.
Once it was fully underway, I was gone. I had no thoughts. I kept telling myself (and the cat), “one more row, and then we’ll go to bed.” Forty rows later, I was zen. I fell asleep without issue.
I will knit another hat tonight.
Yesterday I ran out of time. I apologize.
Spontaneity terrifies me. I like a plan. I like knowing days in advance what time we’re leaving. I like knowing when we’ll get there. I like knowing if someone who has made my life intentionally harder will be there so I can opt out.
But. I love that it challenges me. I love that some times I can run into friends in a place and run into them again I another place. I love that I can call people without a plan to do a thing.
These are different than Shakespearemachine. These are those monthly readings I’ve been doing since March of last year. We just had our Shakesgiving feast, and it was so good.
A little late.
I weary of having to use it. I’ve been building it for so long. It’s tired. It’s old. But it is mine. It is me. It is walls, and it is tears. It is hidden, and it is loud. It carries me. It carries others. It is a gift, and it is a burden.
I’m so tired. But I am strong.
I’m so grateful for all love, but today in particular, as I am still dealing with a panic attack after three hours. My muscles are slowly starting to release. My sobs are intermittent instead of constant.
I am grateful for the kind of love that responds as intrspond. There’s not a great way to say it without sounds haughty. But there it is. The love that loves back as I have loved. The love that reminds me I would tell someone else to take care of her own body and mind. The love that reminds me I would offer to come over to someone’s home. The love that reminds me it isn’t bratty to care for yourself. It isn’t even selfish.
I need this love. I need these loves. I need love.
This March I auditioned for Comedy of Errors on a whim. It had been a hard month, but I went. It had been a hard night then night before, but I went. And in that room I let go. I knew one other person. I let go. I was free.
I left that audition confident. I left an audition confident for the first time in my life. I celebrated with my favorite person.
The next two months were draining and hard. The next two months were safe as loving. The next two months were silly and rewarding.
This fall I opted not to be in their second production. I opted out to spend more time with my favorite person. Instead, I stayed up late making masks. I stayed up late learning to make masks.
As of December I’ll be attending my first board meeting as a company member.
I am so proud to be a company member. I’ve felt so supported since I met these people. I’ve felt so safe. I’m so proud of the work they do, we do.
Friend, you are powerful. You are beautiful. You are doing powerful things. You are doing beautiful things. I’m so proud of you.
I’m glad you’re here.
Deep breath. Put on your armor again. It is okay to be mindful of your own safety. It is okay to care for yourself. Go out again, ready, and keep fighting. Love. You are a warrior. We need you.
I’m so glad you’re here.
People who let me be weak.
So much of my life is a projection of my strength. I’m glad I have it. I’m so glad I’m strong. I’m so proud to be strong. But the last month and half or so have been heavy and hard. They have weighed on me. They have pushed me. All the while the lives around me seem to crumble.
Every time I start to have emotions (that I very much need to deal with) bubbling to the surface, someone will call. An election occurs. Chaos will reign. It just keeps getting worse. And because it is what I have always done, I stay strong. Some of that is social pressure. It’s what people expect or silently demand from me. But a lot of it is me. I shove things down and power through what’s at hand. Putting aside my own feelings for a later date.
There’s so much I still haven’t begun to deal with. Surgery. Attempted drugging. Walking off my job. Tiny things. Huge things. All have been interrupted by the concerns of other people. I’m happy and proud to be safe for people. But I often neglect myself in that.
I am so grateful for the people who let me break, who don’t think less of me for showing weakness, who still call those weaknesses strengths. Even if they nustcome out in bursts or a slew of sad, sad thoughts in the car. I’m just so thankful.