These days, I always have some amount of pain. But I’ve been feeling good lately. Relatively, anyway.
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I am staunchly in the camp of no Christmas music before Thanksgiving. No Christmas music before Advent. No Christmas music until Spotify Wrapped has come out and we’re in the month of No Man’s Land when your data is still being accumulated but not counted.
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The stories are fundamentally absurd. There’s a certain amount of psychoanalysis we’ve come to expect in our narratives, some inkling of motive from our hero, if not also the villain. These tales are blunt. This happened, then this, and this, and this.
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I remember one grey morning in particular, the pavement wet, the dawn robins chirping. Usually I roamed in the dark, but some girlfriends came over with ice cream and DVDs and by the time the credits on the fourth movie rolled, I was the only one awake. I crept out alone.
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The anger is not vague. It is aimed at many things certainly, but it is not vague.
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I’ve picked up the guitar because it’s easier to cheat my way through some basic chords and there is some muscle memory, buried deep in my fingers. I missed the calluses on the tips of my fingers and I forgot how my small hands had to stretch across the frets.
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With Buffy and Angel, five and two seasons in, one of the questions they ask is: Can something codependent, abusive, and toxic turn into something beautiful, loving, and meaningful? These shows tell me yes. My experience and my faith tell me yes. Even though I’m often told otherwise.
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I never disliked flowers per se, I just didn’t really understand the fuss. Sure they were pretty, maybe colorful, but I could never justify the expense. They don’t satisfy cravings like chocolate, and I find a bouquet of roses impersonal. Their worst offense, however, is that they don’t last.
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Three years later, I think about birth more. I think about rebirth and resurrection. I think about joy. I am surprisingly, insistently hopeful.
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When I was in college and in the peak of my struggles with mental illness, I went to 9PM Sunday Mass every week at the Washington University Catholic Student Center. Some of you were there, participating in this small ritual that got me ready for the rest of the week.
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